In the sphere, free-fall.

Funny how one can browse the offerings out there, being amazed all the time, and then one day decide to share one’s voice. Will it contribute, or merely add to the din? We shall see, kharold and I. Our bag is packed with books and yarn and paper with lines and with grids and the plain kind too, even textured, and pens with black and blue and red ink (we can’t forget the red, kharold would be so mad). It’s a big bag, big enough for loose-leaf tea and a good strainer, and maybe an iPod with lots of Escape Pod and NPR Food. It’s like the carpetbag in Mary Poppins, only wool, and felted, I think, by someone in a yurt in Turkey (kharold swears it was her, but I don’t remember paying for the ticket, and she would have taken pictures). Anyway, no matter who made it, certainly it holds a lot of stuff. (In a feminine kind of way.) Which is good. Because on a trip like this, we need somewhere to put each memento, each memory, each hunk of bread. Mmm. Bread.


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