Why do I write the blogs you read? For money? For glory? Because of ego? I don’t think so. Maybe it is practice. I am not quite sure what the practice is for. Maybe it's just a practice in observing, feeling and naming without judgment. Learning to discern whether a chill in a place comes from ghost stories told, or because one is unwelcome or makes the others feel uncomfortable. To be able to tell the difference is part of the survival kit of all nomads and half breeds. So I write to register, to chronicle what others take for granted or can’t believe. I look at the changing landscape of continents and see a human hand forced upon the wilderness, which is disappearing at a fast pace. I listen to the tragedies hinted at in a friend or stranger’s life and know we are all related. Also I know that all of us in our different forms and guises deserve respect. Arrogant Bastards, drunks, the pretty, the down and out and the unfriendly waiter. In Italy some waiters have honed this skill to a point of perfect rudeness that makes me smile. It has become an institution stating that they may be serving guests but are not subservient. The trick is not to be arrogant or snobbish or become annoyed towards them. Just ask: ”What do you suggest today?” … You’ll always be perfectly served since you recognized their skill and knowledge. So I look out, think and write, imagine the wind in the landscape seen from behind the glass of daily life. I imagine the fear, love and hope of others in the split second of eternity that is life. Already the other place is becoming an absence. The desert a thought in my mind. Traveling there seems only to be the silent reality of memory and speechless anticipation. Unless suddenly reality hits you.