The Same River Twice

There's a hot, humid stream outside my front yard. The bullfrogs keep me up nights and I'm reading Huckleberry Finn. Time to go rafting?

Back 'at home' in Tamale at this point, which is a strange, strange idea. The feeling I had on the bus, seeing familiar landmarks (old rusted roadside taxi! White Volta bridge!) was the same one I've always had coming home. Same neurons firing. I think it's a standard response that we all have when returning to familiar territory.

And so on and so forth. My mom left on Monday, dropped her at the airport. It's the LAST TWO MONTHS now which is different, distinctly different from the amorphous 'just about forever' way that I've been thinking about my remaining time. The unlimited potential has become, well, not. My plans to learn two languages and play flawless Dylan on the harmonica are ... tricky.

It seems like a very empty house, now. But they've hired a new videographer. I spoke to him on the phone. He's coming out in October. The times are, as the man said, a changin'.