and counting and counting and counting...

I left a message on a friend's phone yesterday (who lives in Oregon) and during the message i think i referenced that fact two or three times. I always do that. I'm always weirded out by that fact. Not the need to clarify on someone's automated device their place of existence, but that I, he, others all live in these obscure lands far from the ever browning hills of the Chino. Ok, maybe Portland and Boston are two cities that can hardly be refered to as obscure, but in my youth and even as I stepped trepidly into adulthood (oh shudder at the thought) I never truly believed I'd ever end up far enough away where a jaunt up the black tar paths of the 5, 15 or even PCH, wouldn't lead me home. Now I understand this notion of home is as fleeting and attainable as my attention span but what a comfort it can be. In my grasp, clinched like a child's first catch playing toss with dad, I had this comfort -- this complacency. However, not unlike the grip I used on the fish I caught last summer, as I tried to practice the odd institution of catch-and-release, a good ol' squeeze can kill. This fish was inadvertently killed by its capturer, his liberator. Oh what a paradox; what contrast.

Anyway, today I celebrate three-hundred and sixty-five days of life and study in Boston. Two-hundred and seventy some-odd days to go. So, as i loosen this grip on my life in relation to this preconceived notion of home, i am sufficiently filled with paradox -- comfort in assimilation and/or the transient life. Are they mutually exclusive?
Cheers!!