I'm One Of Those Perverse

The Open Road Is The School Of Doubt In Which Man Learns Faith In Man.

A Comma . . . Catches The Gentle Drift Of The Mind In Thought, Turning In On Itself And Back On Itself, Reversing, Redoubling, And Returning Along The Course Of Its Own Sweet River Music; While The Semicolon Brings Clauses And Thoughts Together With All The Silent Discretion Of A Hostess Arranging Guests Around Her Dinner Table.

Literally, When You Wake Up At 9 O'clock In The Morning In Havana You Don't Know Where You'll Be At Noon. But It's A Safe Guess That You'll Either Be Married, Arrested, Or In The Midst Of Some Incredible Transaction Where Somebody Is Stealing Your Passport Or Paying You In Dominican Pesos For It, Or Whatever. It's A Wild Place.

Home Is Essentially A Set Of Values You Carry Around With You And, Like A Turtle Or A Snail Or Whatever, Home Has To Be Something That Is Part Of You And Can Be Equally A Part Of You Wherever You Are. I Think That Not Having A Home Is A Good Inducement To Creating A Metaphysical Home And To Being Able To See It In More Invisible Ways.

I'd Spent Thirty Years Visiting The Dalai Lama, And Twenty Years As A Journalist Going To Difficult Places, War Zones And Revolutions From North Korea To Haiti And Beirut To Sri Lanka, And The Question Came Up: What Does This Man Have To Offer To This World Which Seems So Torn Up And So Attached To Conflict?