Home

As I sit here on my bed, I wonder: 'Is this home?' The creole and cajun music blaring from my stereo definitely helps give it a homey feel. Or at least a significant amount of down home feel. I haven't particularly had a permanent home in some time. I'd been staying at my parents house for the past four or five months, but that always had a temporary feel to me. Now I'm in this new apartment, but the walls seem very bare. Just two posters so far. There are several Indian bedspreads in a pile on the floor with an old South American blanket. All of them will go on the walls, but they're not there yet. Things are still strewn aimlessly around in most of the space, although the bed is in place.
The real question is, 'What makes a place home?' There's a book by somebody who I can't remember titled Home Is Where You Hang Your Spikes, but that's not really what I'm getting at. I've always considered the world to be my home. That theory is coming into question now. I have this feeling that where I am right now could be home; it's just missing something. Some element of dedication perhaps. Or maybe it's just lacking in decoration. I've always been very influenced by my surroundings. I need lots of activity and color: things that are pleasant to look at. I have a tendency to stare off at things, which is much more interesting when the subject of the stare is not just bare walls.