*Originally published on my substack 12/30/25

I don’t care so much about where I am going at the moment. 

I have no one place to call home.

So let me be here.

I chose to say goodbye. I chose to be alone. I chose to not do what I was supposed to as a nice lady, a good wife, a professional woman, and instead, try and make it in my own way. And now, after almost five years of all signs, friends and family pointing me in the opposite direction, I am free…and experiencing the life I have always desired.

But as with all things that feel good, to continue to live in accordance with my style, longings, passions, needs, etc. I must take time to recognize where I need to tweak the machine I have built. 

My body, my mind, my beliefs of what I can do and who I am are up for observation and critique.

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My pussy drips, long silken strands from pasture to wooden floor beneath my red patent leather heels. 

I no longer have my home where I had imagined this moment; the one where your fingertips finally trace the contours of my skin, hold my throat tightly and move down…

I said goodbye because it was time to move on.

I had destroyed.

I had rebuilt.

I had taken the time to understand.

I had learned how to love.

I, alone in my living room, sipping on coffee, looking at the mountains, wishing: TO SEE THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MOUNTAINS WITHOUT EVER HAVING TO MOVE.

Nothing is impossible. Some things are less likely than others, that’s all.

Fats Brown, A Game of Pool, the Twilight Zone

I went through starvation, climbed up to the roof and hallucinated. Or maybe I really did talk to God. Maybe I really am seeing the backside of the mountain from where I stand right now.

The black moth, Gaby, visited me. 

So I know that the maybe is the truth.

Is it a crime to believe?

That home is no longer. Just a memory. 

Like the apartment in West Campus I shared with the accountant, the other one a few blocks away where I broke up with my high school sweetheart and fasted on water for a week listening to Hildegard Von Bingen at max volume, where my friend Angela left me water on my doorstep, where I used to sip on lean, smoke spliffs, swallow pills and alcohol, smoke cigarettes, dance, sing and cry. I didn’t want to break his heart but mine was dying to be free. Like the apartment on Manor where I met the poet who was sad too so we drove to Chicago and fucked in the cemetery on the way. We jumped into the lake in November and got that damn good old fashioned in the cocktail bar that got smaller and smaller to the point where all our bodies pressed against each other the further back you went. We fucked on his friend’s floor. And then the garage apartment that was my nest, alone. I wanted to be alone. I went to Brooklyn. I lived in the apartment on Lexington and Throop. The guys took me in. We smoked our blunts, drank our drink, played dice and I lived. I was vice ridden, happy and free. But he followed me to New York City. I didn’t want to break his heart. I kept going because I didn’t want to hurt him. Out of love and pretending. What a destructive and heartless way to be. I didn’t want to hurt you. We moved into the apartment near the construction site of the Barclays Center. Bedbugs, your brother’s records. I listened to Miles Davis, watched the cherry blossoms come and go, and typed at my typewriter. You were the poet. I didn’t know about me just yet. And then the other apartment on Union and Van Brunt. Depressed. Alcoholic. I didn’t want to hurt you. Cabinet making during the day. Drinking at night as to not go home. Avoidant bitch. Until finally, I said it and hurt you. I now know what I did wrong. And I am sorry. Then off to the house in upstate New York where I lived in the attic and took care of the goats, chickens, pigs, ducks. I milked the goats. I helped them give birth. I moved back to Texas where I married a man and we made a home in a town I swore I’d never return to. The squirrels in the backyard while I sipped on my coffee. The day I looked into the mirror and realized I hated myself and cried when I forced the words I LOVE YOU out of my mouth to my reflection. The wooden floors held my weight as a sober self came to life. But I was alone in holy matrimony. We moved when things were finally getting better. Into my mother-in-law’s house. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want to break your heart. Thank you for the serenata you brought me. Thank you for all the time we did pass together in love. Thank you for letting me leave without you putting up a fight. And finally, I landed in el Barrio de la Soledad, Solitude Neighborhood, which led me to rediscover my soul through yet another four years of alcoholic destruction and reconstruction in sobriety, but this time, in La Noria, The Water Well, in company with my greatest loves in life, my soul friends. I learned about love. I learned about myself. I changed, transformed, I was Gaby the black moth. Those whisps of clouds, those nights of laughter, the way tears fell and were caught by the hands of those who cared enough to hold them for me.

All of those homes.

A memory.

Today, I am without a home of my own. But I am free.

This is my choice.

This year, home is where my pussy drips: on a train, in the hills, amidst the creosote, deep in the city, anywhere, anywhere, anywhere that calls me to come, come, come.