All of these ugly shoes.
And the leaf, that does not open. The candle, that could catch fire.
The electric shirt, that could asfixiate me.

All of these bothers that make me feel home.
The little ugly twists that make life what it is. More than an insta pic.

The tea that is lukewarm.
The sweaters that lay the wrong way.
The plastic bottle of lotion that breaks the magic. Like the glue stick. Or the hair band. All of them interfering with the sense of place I build, when I have it in me.

They also create place. Like the dirt nests I wrote about before.
Like the cables, and the bags, and the manga books. The undone lego or the dying plants.
Like the receipts. And the piles of notebooks. The piles of leaflets. The piles of everything unfinished or transient or untransformed into chez moi (the intended chez moi, which is not the real one, given the real chez moi is this one, hosting both the finished and the unfinished, the transient and the permanent, the instagrammable and the instadeletable).

*

I look at the growing number of ugly shoes. I am wearing them more and more often: I took the ugly boots to traverse the world, since early December. Two months in a row, and counting – feet warm, lots of room for thick socks. I detest them with thanks. I also wear the ugly zapatillas at home, now that the weather is freezing. My toes love them.

This ugly electric shirt kills me. It is the ultimate renunciation. Worn under the ugly robe, alongside the ugly hair knot. I am not sure how I feel about all of these ugly comforts.

*

The rain goes on, relentless, covering the city in a demoralised ashen tone that asks me to forgive the interferences. Sense of place, interfered. Sense of place, questioned. Sense of place, revisited, reimagined.

I have the beautiful blankets, the cozy bougies, the pretty saucers, the majestic signs of the city. (Liver birds, Athenea, Gold flames. Clocks galore, most of them on time. Turrets and towers). A few cushions in place. A few books that inspire. Some static decorations (static. I was accused once of wanting to freeze my senses.into.place). (Yes. True)

The ugliness is never static. It reinvents itself constantly. It is stubborn and creative. It is alive.

I must reconcile myself with all of these ugly things that my home is made of. The ugly (shoes, shirt, sweaters. shhh.), the dangerous (candle, will u stay in place?), the frustrating (leaf, open up!)

I will let go and take them in.
They are home, home, home.