Home: Hell or High Water

You know when you’re young and in love so you hop in an old car that has no business driving 1,000 miles to the California coast, but you’re young and in love so you do, toting an 8mm camera you don’t know how to use and California feels like interplanetary travel because you grew up in a small isolated city with an inferiority complex and no ocean, and the young and in love part of you becomes truly starry eyed by the waterfalls but then your ancient heart is disenchanted when you look out at the plight of the strawberry pickers just beyond Malibu and all of it—all of the poverty topped with champagne, fixing an eye on the hourglass from behind big sunglasses—becomes heavy with light and looks like the inside of your brain when you watch the strangely colored footage of your youth that surpasses California into the desert toward the Grand Canyon’s crack in the world, toward the midwest time machine Forevertron where Dr. Evermor sits beside his ex-wife who shares your first name eating cheese puffs as the summer splinters into shades of fall along the lake and it’s all rising and popping like bubbles in the sky, so you simply choose to hold on to the best thing you’ve ever had, this hand in your hand, and you say I’m not letting go because you’re my only home and eleven years later you never left home and you never will.