all lurking minotaurs: please form an orderly queue

Just look at that column on the left. This blog is collecting some serious archivage. It’s not a travelogue anymore, it’s in a genre crisis, and don’t start with me on the whole narrative structure debacle. I do it, still, because nothing makes me happier. It’s an ariadne thread that keeps me connected to everything that’s happened and everything I’ve been since I walked through a departure gate at age twenty-five with two people’s tears dripping off my chin. In the plane I scrawled a note: ‘Terrible mistake. Don’t want to become the bright, hard person I will need to be.’ Then I took a pill and slept. My memory of arriving at Heathrow is without sound, like my ears were still trapping bubbles of 10 000-feet air. I can’t believe the accumulation of incident between that day and now—but whenever I sit down to write I find the thread still connected: still unspooling out of my hands at this end, still holding fast at the other. And if that isn’t structure, what is?