Outside Sparta

I am always trying to "get away." It is like visiting Vermont and discovering Vermont is trying to hold onto you for reasons of its own. But always, words are convention-dependent assignments of meaning and thus evidence of that-which-is-not-us. I mean, who shall I praise if not you? We are now that juncture where we make better bread, pizza, muffins, fudge, stew with dumplings et cetera than one could buy anywhere, and so we are no longer safe for the market economy that is our Lord and Master. Remember the ruins of your great-grandparent's camp in the olive grove outside Sparta which we hiked back up to after everyone went to bed so we could see it again in starlight? Something happened, something else happened, and so on. Or are we someone else entirely over and over. One walks through the forest visiting graves of dogs and brooks where the dogs splashed and muses on the way one uses landscape to assert identity. Beginnings are helpful in calculating probabilities, regardless of the ontological status of "beginning." Curtailments are what narrative is. Poor monkey, somebody stole your typewriter and won't say where it is.