Home Sick At Home

Maybe it was the gushing of a Facebook friend en route for a business trips musing about beignets and chicory. Or my open reminiscing during lino-cut class about the French Quarter. It could’ve been the surreptitious peek at architecture books of southern mansions. Perhaps it all started a month ago, at a quasi-reunion, a high school chum pleading with me to ‘come home’.

It all began when a little tale spun alive in my mind. Possessed by an unknown spirit I made the sojourn to New Orleans in ’08 and fell in love the second the plane descended over the swamps towards Louis Armstrong airport. A 300 year old city that nearly drowned in Katrina engulfed my senses and lay claim to my soul. New Orleans has been the lover I can't get out of my mind; so good in bed you simply will yourself never to forget them. The agony I felt returning to Los Angeles is something I have blocked from my mind.

I do love Los Angeles, really. She is my stable stalwart, my careful guardian. Her coarse knots bind me tightly to her bosom. I am just too weak to unravel myself. How do I rationalize abandoning a good job, aging relatives, erstwhile men and two fat cats for a place I’ve only been to once?

I long and long and long for home…at home...such a strange place to be...

This self-imposed exile has to end. This unwanted hiatus must come to a halt. The introspective isolation has launched a melancholy that knows only one cure.

Is there any other way to salve such an ache?