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Return to the Desert of the Real

June 23, 2012

I can’t help the cliché: my experience at Dulles seems like a dream to me now. I have been recovering here in the desert air of New Mexico, sitting on a veranda, sipping cool drinks, gazing at the mountains. I am a thousand miles away from Dulles — actually about 1700 miles. There is an aridity to both places, and a frightening beautiful purity, but on the whole they occupy different corners of reality, or unreality. This place is real, I know. But Dulles seems like a fever dream. I look over my notes for clues but they do not seem to reveal anything essential. What was that ecstasy I experienced striding through the airport between three and four in the morning? Maybe it was one of those joys that once gone leave no residue to sustain you through ordinary times. But I think it was close to something fundamental, to the source that keeps me going in what is otherwise a completely unjustifiable existence. I will keep pondering it and post any further insights here, for the whole world to see. If I can tie it in with Ulysses that would be just great, kill two birds with one stone.

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