I like writing on-the-line. I realized last week that I only ever have one regret at the end of a week, or the end of a day, and that regret is that I did not take the time to sit down and write something about that day. Anything, however mundane, to delude me into thinking that this day had meaning, that it was not a total loss. And for a long time I did that. I wrote things down every day. I still do, in episodes, write down where I am, what I’m doing, what is happening. Last week I wrote a sentence or two while riding up the escalator at the Georgia World Congress Center. I never read it. After they are written the words never pass over my eyes again. Well, that’s an exaggeration. I’ve looked at things I wrote years and years ago; but that is the plan, of course, is that I can put moments into capsules now and rediscover them later. Living far away from everywhere lets you think you have somewhere to go. But in the city you just can’t go out for a spin. You can’t escape to some person’s farm without their consent.
