My favorite colour is green. That's not to say I have anything against any of the other colours, it's just that ever since I first started learning the names of colours these big people called grownups kept asking me what my favorite one was. So, I naturally assumed I was supposed to have one. Looking outside I saw the grass was green, the leaves on trees were green, and decided I liked that, so chose it as an answer. If the truth be told, in most cases, I tend to like most things. Also, I like trees and spiders. It's best you don't question my liking for spiders. I could give you an answer, write a long essay on it, or compose a bad a poem about how meaningful I find them, but then you still won't understand it. So just accept it, and move on.
You may be wondering, why is this guy's first post on his blog about his favorite colour, trees, and spiders? I can look at his "About Me" and learn very quickly pointless facts about him, why clutter his posts with these things? What sense is there in that? Exactly! There is no sense to it, and there's no better way for you to be introduced to me than through non-sense.
I like colours, lots of them. I also like ink, it's black, which is the absence of colour. This is called a contradiction, something you need to get used to when you read anything by me. I might speculate it's not really a contradiction, but then my brain would explode and I don't feel like doing that right now. What I'm trying to do here is tell you a little about myself, so I guess I'll become autobiographical and try to expand on where I've been, what I've done, and how I have no idea where I'm going. Partially because, hey, it's an intro to my blog, and second, I'm meant to be packing right now and this seems like a reasonable means of procratination.
I was born in Congo, former Zaire. My birth certificate, so I've recently realized, has my name spelled wrong, and has the wrong birth month. Shoot. I think I've gotten over it, but it's still odd. I eventually moved all away across the border to Uganda, where I was raised. I moved to the United States of America, this odd place that for most of my life was simply a name printed on the bottom of a thin booklet I had with the title "Passport". It was also some place I was meant to identify with. I wasn't quite Ugandan, and brief visits to the US reminded me of this. Starting college I had to move there, previously the longest I had lived in my "home" country was a year, when I was five. Otherwise there were the brief six month visits every four years, where I learned to realize I liked Uganda a lot, I considered it home. But, it wasn't quite home, I wasn't Ugandan and though it feels like home it's not where I'm from. In the US, I was supposed to be home. But it isn't home. I've realized now that I don't have a concept of home. Where ever I am is home. I move from place to place, drifting between the infinite worlds and thoughts there are to inhabit, and I don't know if I will ever stop. This blog is about my journey to find home, like sitting in a railway station waiting for the train to arrive to take me there, and where I'm sitting is really my home, not the desination. As David Foster Wallace says in his essay (as he attempts to describe how Kafka is actually intended to be halarious, we've just forgotten how to tell) in which he states, "...our endless and impossible journey toward home is in fact our home." I'm probably just repeating myself several times with different words, or the same words in a different order. It's another habit I have, so expect it.
My next stop to discovering my home, this planet earth, is Hungary. But first, I should continue the packing I'm procrastinating from by writing this.
I also like tea.
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