Night makes for such delicious confession. Only the warm insomniacs inside, writing their muses into weary pages, and those few in the cold beyond. Who use the dark to play their own games deep past the witching hour. Inside is music, coffee, and self reflection. This three-year asana is drawing to its close. Existential tendons have already begun to draw into something different. Steeling for the years abroad. I’m headed overseas.
Finding the words is key. Not just any words – the beautiful, blunt ones. Each one imprecise by itself, but when assembled in a constellation suddenly able to carry an emotional texture unmatched in its depth and fine, fine resonance. A little like oven gloves. Clumsy and useless alone, but once paired, capable of so much more.
[Taken from the Ugandan Journals]
In transit at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, I bought a copy of Six Months in Sudan by James Maskalyk. I vacillated over the decision to buy it. Mostly because of not wanting to draw shillings from the ATM just for a book. In the end, of course, I would.