Listen, I haven't said: if you're in Tucson I want to see you. But I meant to. Please write me, and I'll send you a phone number. My cell doesn't work so well here, so if you've left messages for me there, I might've missed them. I know there are messages waiting, but my bars are too low to retrieve them.
***
"This is my home": a complicated claim. Towards origin and tendency, towards a knowledge so often mistaken--out of comfort perhaps--for identity, though so thoroughly removed from its designation. "This is who I am." Or to view the claim as we actually intend it hour to hour, "whom," rather: "I am whom this is," where the question of who--ostensibly grounded in an object position, "whom," against an existential verb suggesting otherwise--provides the illusion that "I" answers "who" in matters of existence: who are you? I am who. With whom am I speaking? With me, the I whom speaks. And where are you? I am here. This is my home. By which point the complex of grammatical designations needed simply to point to intentionality, an intentionality--a speaking self--an I whom am me--point also towards the inherency of place, location, space, temporality, other, in the telling of "am" before ever arriving at "my," where, in a matter of speaking, "home" becomes obsolete, an emphatic redundancy laying claim to all that fails to clear my wake. The emphasis, you ask? The more you I am, the more me that is, with two diverging possibilities: The Less You, or The More Us.
***
