Trois Cent

An interesting milestone, as we sit in the shadow of the white hart sign at the fireside, following the first eggplant sandwich in awhile and in between the first 2 tommy's uncles.

21 days, since the return. Settling in well, but there is also the natural funk, the soft desolation of a return to beginnings. Adapting to the office chair for hours on end, in search of motivation that sometimes comes not. And eavesdropping on conversations of travel that are oh so familiar as to be laughable - just different characters and locations but same themes.

Fairly distracting, actually, until that last bit, about a Brooks column interpreting the view that "the goal in life is to find out what is unique about yourself" as a Homeric ideal of heroism, versus the excessive contextualism of today. Good.

Sweet nostalgia. Recalling today marvellous Clifton, and sensing the path that leads from S. to C. to K. And on. Another sign, perhaps, of the wheel. Where you stand outside the path predictable. Maybe the lesson is that it is not on the road, but on your return from it, where you can expect to learn what is true and must be done.

I really don't know what's next, as I sit here with the Paradox Men begun on the table. As I wander toward the ocean with the sun setting through the clouds on another day. As you walk again into Maps and Ducks and see Carnivale staring you down, even as you look for excuses to avoid it.

I do know I like these conversations over Martinis. How hard it is, not to just keep going...