Florence, Revisited

Back now among my Florentines, strolling a city with sleeping stones that remember the dreams of the populace, good and bad. They've introduced me to an interesting man, Kenneth, who is a New Zealander, sculptor, jeweler, father, professor, and Maori shaman (no kidding). When we talk, the conversation is relaxed, fluid, no longer shoved into stumbling by my obsessions. If magic comes now, it comes of its own accord. As Kenneth says, she is a coy woman: to pursue her is to see her pull away, but a man can make a fine nest in his heart and she might answer such an invitation.

And to be honest, I'm glad I'll soon be leaving the labyrinth -- this one, anyway -- behind me. I can honorably dismount from this crazed chariot, whereas before I felt like I had to follow it even if it led over the cliff. A weight off my shoulders. Before, I was scared to ask myself the hardest of questions because I worried about digging a hole I couldn't climb out of while still being true to this quest. Now I can push myself even harder, knowing that the quest now is life itself... and I have far more companions along its paths.

I'll be in Louisville on the 12th. Give me that day for rest. I'll be home, with you, on the 13th. It'll be wonderful to walk at your side again.