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sandra chong

It's funny, we call it 'home', but when you've found your place elsewhere, nowhere else can possibly be your home.

We had been out of home for a year, enjoying the peace and the freedom. On hot summer days, I played videogames in my undies, feet in a bucket of cold water and hairy legs enjoying the warmth. But the house was soon sold and we prepared for another era of life - living at home again.

It was early spring when we moved in, and the heavy rain couldn't be a more accurate foreshadow. The fun and lively woman I knew would soon become overbearing and obnoxious. The sweet little brother would soon become a cocky bastard as he entered his testosterone years. And the commuting father would finish his work in the mines, move back in and spend many afternoons falling asleep on the couch.

The hot summer days came around again, but there were no videogames when every television was being used. No undies and cold water with so many boys in the house. At least I still got away with having hairy legs.

Although there was a roof over my head, flushing toilets and as many square meals as I could want, I spent the year homeless. Just goes to show that it doesn't really matter where you hang your hat, because home can only ever be where your heart is.

in this issue:
lists & learning
poetry by lindsay zier-vogel

no fixed address

musings on home with sandra chong

clare with poetics
summer temptatioin with rhya tamasauskas

globalizatin ain't that bad
music's role in the fight against oppression

photo feature: heidi romano

archives:
summer 2004