Don't Call Me Ishmael

I wanted an anonymous place but I find it difficult to create that space. It seems appropriate. Somehow. Everything is vague. That's what it's like when you've wandered much too far from home.

This is the life I am supposed to be living. It's always been irregular. For years I wondered, "Was I born this way?"

Now, it doesn't matter. It's been going on for far too long.

Are nomads nomadic because of the desert environment, or did they find a desert environment that suited their need to wander? How long did they search, wandering as they sought what they needed? And did they ever understand what they were looking for?

I've been talking about "gaslighting" for years. I used to think the concept arose from the Alfred Hitchcock movie where Grace Kelly's husband is trying to kill her and, while he's at it, he feels the need to first make her believe she's crazy. I can't remember how, quite. But I do think the gaslighting had to do with the death-dealing.

I learned a few weeks ago, while googling something entirely different, that the concept actually came from a Victorian detective novel. Of course. It would. All those Londinium gaslights, flickering in the sickly fog. That would do it.

Funny what happens when you start in one place and just set about the business of moving.

Nights spent under the gaslights.

It's part of the adventure to do what comes, to write what comes, and just put it out into the night. It would be interesting if someone wrote back. But, as always with those who are too far from home, without address, it's not expected.