This room-in-my-heart is one of those Mexican papier mache dioramas, a Kahlo-esque, Dia de los Meurtos shrine in blood red, its primary colors practically dripping with the juice of pulverized blueberries and the thick yellow of rotting papaya; the inner seeds articulated, black and velvety. Vivid it is-- vivid and disturbing-- folk art simple; yet, the orange-red complexity, the midnight depth, the tiny details baffle. You cannot see all of it without inserting your hand deep into its pulsing recesses to be stained indigo and caressed by its engorged, misplaced tongue. Gristly and alive it is open simply for view --and for pleasure --if you can bear to enter it.
Careful, you remove your clothes, for they will be stained, and you stand at the entrance knowing that you must enter this labyrinthine mystery as you were born-- unprotected by anything but your own skin and living flesh.
And as you come, I will proclaim: "This! This is my home. Welcome."
You will smell the lamb roasting in the oven, the bread rising on a board. You will see the glistening wine decanting. You will smell the dusting of spice, of cumin and coriander, the distinct tang of lemon.
In the flickering candlelight, you will step forward to be received.
"Come," I will say, "Come."