As I’m translating myself into this South American context, I’m finding myself at a loss for a -- well, just at a loss, I suppose. I can’t find the right word, in any language, to describe what is ‘yo.’ When I lose track of my direction in life [and I’m losing track of my direction in life], it gets more and more difficult to clutch a firm sense of who I am [I am beyond the clutches of my mismo]. It’s unnerving, this limbonic state. I wouldn’t worry about it too much (ah, and I don’t, really…this is all purely for show)--except that I’m not fond of floundering about, mutely observing bits of my self all muddled and perilously strewn here and there. I just want some semblance of security, some point of reference; and I’ll blunder merrily along. But, without direction or intentionality in my pursuits, the core of me gets shifty and morally evasive. (Well, with no direction, morality has no aims, and who am I to talk authoritatively about morality anyways?)
All that mumbo-jumbo to say: It’s getting awfully cold. My extremities are beginning to numb, and all I can feel is the winter setting in. When I push myself to think about things, I think about Seattle and all the comforts of home, until I am bored out of my mind and feel the compulsion to move again, just to spite myself for having considered it. And then I think about where I am, and--although I can find myself on GoogleEarth--I really have no idea where I am. So then I think about where I’d like to find myself, and
Ah! My toes are freezing!
¿Conoces Le Ballon Rouge por Albert Lamorisse?
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