This Juneteenth (June 19th) dispatch just in regarding the bigbonton roving reporter and field correspondent:
Winding down the first half of the year and we have yet to see much change in his condition. He’s gone native, but native to where? Or what species?
“Home, home again
I like to be here when I can
When I come home cold and tired
It’s good to warm my bones beside the fire.”
can%27t%20go%20home%20again%20.jpg
He repeats, as if it’s his mantra:
“I live in a birdhouse.”
“Je vis dans une Volière.”
“Ich lebe in einer Voliere.”
“Yo vivo en una casa de aves.”
“Moro em uma casa de pássaros.”
Mmm. English, likely it’s British. Then en français, in deutscher Sprache, en español, and then em Português.
Seems well traveled, coherent and articulate, whenever one can break through that protective shell. He fits in everywhere but doesn’t really fit in anywhere. Focused, doesn’t flitter, but the fit into farm, family, or fortune building seems still pending . . .
“Every year is getting shorter
Never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to nought
Or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone
The song is over
Thought I’d something more to say”
– I live in a birdhouse.
Click for more from “The Dark Side of the Moon”


– from Pink Floyd, “Time” (Dark Side of the Moon)
Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way
Tired of lying in the sunshine
Staying home to watch the rain
And you are young and life is long
And there is time to kill today
And then one day you find
Ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run
You missed the starting gun
And you run, and you run to catch up with the sun, but it’s sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in a relative way, but you’re older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death
Every year is getting shorter
Never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to nought
Or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desparation is the English way
The time is gone
The song is over
Thought I’d something more to say
Home, home again
I like to be here when I can
When I come home cold and tired
It’s good to warm my bones beside the fire
Far away across the field
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spells