I’m visiting my past in reverse order. Two weeks in New York, a fortnight in London, a stint in Dublin, and then, saints preserve me, Limerick, indefinitely. The palimpsest of faces is a slow version of a drowning man’s flashback: my life strolls before my eyes. After five months in a log cabin with one laconic Canadian for company, I’m already all talked out.
I just counted 35 people that I’ve met with since I got off the ever-chic Greyhound bus ten days ago. (I’m turning into Rainman: first counting books, now listing people.) These were old friends, mostly, seasoned here and there with new words made flesh, like Adam Stein, Michael Barrish, Halley Suitt, and Betsy Devine. I also conjured up the kindred spirits I’d met while travelling last year–all of whom, due to my extreme provincialism, were New Yorkers or near as dammit.
35 people, not counting sprogs or fellow party guests. I have no aptitude for groups, so these were labour-intensive individual jawing sessions. This social limitation explains why it takes me two weeks to visit New York properly, and also why my site updates have been so sporadic. Special apologies to new readers from Feedster or Doc Searls‘ site: I’m usually a more attentive host than this, I promise.