Where do we dwell? In our body? In our mind? Do the rooms within our shell spiral away from the entrance into a coil of tiny closets?
What slime trail aids our travel? How do we choose whether to search for space in the overhead bin and boost our luggage up, or to check it for free at the gate?
Crisscrossing time zones how do we figure out which when we are in where? Someone, maybe my daughter-in-law's mother, suggested I read Elisabeth Tova Bailey's The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating. How fitting in this month of remembering my parents' declines to read this memoir of a bedridden patient observing the unbustling, crawling, gliding life of a terrestrial mollusk!
|Oak Point July 3, 2014|
|Oak Point June 15, 2014|
|Heard Museum July 2010|