Home is where your shell is

Home. It's a strange concept. The place where one feels one belongs? Or simply the place where one lives? I've felt that Devon is my real home for the past I don't know how long. Well, for forever, I guess. Because of family? Not entirely or even mostly. Nor the house... or even the land that we once owned or still own as a family. More that. I think because that's where I felt most free. When I was a kid and could just wander off. home as the place where you are free, then?

Freedom. Another strange concept. They tell us there is no free will. Free speech is curtailed if not (a great deal) by law, then certainly by convention, etiquette, public mores. Freedom of movement? Limited with borders and private land. Freedom of worship? I guess there's that. Unless I wanted, which I don't, obviously, to worship Hitler or Satan. Freedom of thought? That's interesting. Of course, there are the internal restraints imbued by one's cultural and social conditioning. And, I guess if the will is not free, then the thought isn't either. I think though that my thoughts are now as liberated as they have ever been. More so.

But what of the constraints I pose on others? How I might make their homes more unheimlich?

I wondered again about filming and photographing. The capture. The commodification and objectification.

So, more often, I just sit and be. Not watching the tits, who then go about their business very close to me. Not watching the baby robin (Froglet, as the fledgling still has the wide mouth of a baby), who hopped through the branches to inspect me and perched close by in the honeysuckle. Not watching an adult robin maybe chase or maybe check up on the fledgling. Not watching an adult male, I think the one I called "Scarface" in one of my videos, perch on the green box to inspect me, before flying up to one of Bobbit's singing perches to sing. Not watching the squirrels scurry to collect nuts and hang in the lilac staring at me. Not watching the starlings, who then noisily squabble and eat above me when I sit reading. Not watching the starling parents feed specific gaping youngsters. Not watching Mrs B... much...