Of course, now that I’m away, memories of home keep bubbling up.

Mostly they’re childhood memories, things I rarely think consciously about, but that inform the way I see and react to the world.

The bottom line is, I’m writing a fair bit, but not always on the book that is the purpose of this trip. It’s as if I have to make sense of how I got here before I can write about the deeper past and imagine the daily lives of the people who helped to make me.

It’s also because I’m writing someone else’s youth, so I keep thinking about my own.

So self-absorbed. Geez.

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