WolfCast

What is WolfCast?

Literary performance, essays, and spoken-word confessions from an author known only as Woolfinius Jackson Whürl. A voice from the Dust Meridian, reading the pages he never meant to send.

When I flew from at the start of December last year (2025), I expected a respite. A break. A sabbatical. To return to it recovered and refreshed—a slightly different man, perhaps—but one back at home in any case, ready to take over the world.

Or at least content to continue existing in it. I realized in leaving that... I had already left emotionally many months earlier.

Home… where a man hangs his hat. Where the heart is. Everyone calls someplace home. Even when we no longer have an address, we have something—some place—we know as home.

A place we are from, if nothing else.

I've been on the road for months. Four, to be precise. I set foot, in whole or part, in ten countries—living for a time in eight: Portugal, Spain, France, Italy, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Germany, and Ireland—before landing back stateside in Florida.

Talk was always about “when we get back home” and “since we left home.” In time, homesickness set in for my wife.

But for me, it never came calling.

For weeks, home was just a shorthand word for comfort and routine. Knowing where my toothbrush was kept. How far it was to the grocery store. Hell—where the grocery store even was. It meant something familiar was left behind.

But it also meant leaving something else behind—something heavier.

A feeling of emptiness. Frustration. Aggravation. Sitting 5,000 miles away alongside friends and family.

Home wasn’t just convenience.

It was negativity. It was frustration. It was a place from which to escape.

And at first, that’s exactly what this exodus was—an escape from the ordinary into the extraordinary. Everything was new. Exciting. Overwhelming.

But by week five, settled into a rhythm in Spain, I realized something unsettling:

the old demons hadn’t been left behind on some dusty shelf.

They had come with me.

Tucked neatly into the shadowed places of my heart and mind.

Family and friends... the familiar... were behind me, yes—but not gone. Through messages, calls, and photos, I found that those I loved most were still with me on the journey.

And stranger still—the new faces I met didn’t replace the old ones.

My heart grew, and my life to include them...
My home grew bigger still.

And as old routines dissolved and new ones took shape—figuring out transit, where to shop, how to live—I began to understand something I hadn’t before:

Home isn’t where I am.

It is intangible and carried:

In my mind and heart.

This was something new. Something else.

Especially for her.

I live a reality of expectations and obligations—but my heart and mind move in another realm. One that is loyal. Passionate. Entirely hers.

Even thousands of miles away, my wanting is with her.

My thoughts—every day.

I wake and sleep with her as the first and final presence in my mind.

So when a stranger asks, “Where are you from?”

I give them a myth... something to chew on and relish in. More description of past than present.

Or future.

It is answering a deeper question:

Where does the soul return to, when there is nowhere left to go?

And for me—

home is no longer a place on a map.

It is a convergence.

Of memory.
Of longing.
Of love.

Of that which I carry,
and refuse to let go.

Home, is hope.