Everywhere I go, there I am

Are humans plagued by some sort of underlying, pathological vanity?

Do we secretly, or even unknowingly, surround ourselves with objects that remind us of ourselves? Is this a healthy ego signal? Or self-deprecating, cautionary symbology?


I love this painting. Given to us by friends who just didn’t have room for it in their home, I placed it, honorifically, above our bed.

It is multi-esque…Grotesque. Rubenesque. Kafkaesque.

Morbidly obese. Just plain morbid. It’s got a sinister beauty to it, much like myself, perhaps.

I just got to thinking tonight. Have I created a home, an environment that nurtures the best of all possible living scenarios for me? Not as in fancy or anything, but do I find comfort here? Do I feel safe here? Can this place heal my pain? Soothe my ills? Is this a refuge, or a petri dish? What is this feng shui, and can it make me the proverbial lemonade when I need it?

What do you surround yourself with? Is your home a showcase for others, or a reflection of a truer self. Is that self you?