This Is Not A Full Circle. It's

But I Plucked A New, Different, Worldly Soul For Myself -- Maybe A Soul I Found In The Spray Thrown Up By The Surge Of That Distant African River As It Plummets Onto Black Rocks And Sends Up Into The Sun A Permanent Arc Of A Rainbow.

Surely Until All Of Us Own And Honor One Another's Dead, Until We Have Admitted To Our Murders And Forgiven One Another And Ourselves For What We Have Done, There Can Be No Truce, No Dignity And No Peace.

Once, I Discovered The Skulls Of Two Impala Rams, Their Horns Locked Into An Irreversible Figure-of-eight; The Two Animals Had Been Trapped In Combat, Latched To Each Other During The Battle Of The Rut. The Harder They Had Pulled To Escape From Each Other, The More Intractably Stuck They Were, Until They Had Fallen Exhausted, To Their Knees, In An Embrace Of Hatred That Had Killed Them Both.

One Of The Things About Being Raised British In Africa Is That You Get This Double Whammy Of Toughness. The Continent In Place Itself Made You Quite Tough. And Then You've Got This British Mother Whose Entire Being Rejects 'coddling' In Case It Makes You Too Soft. So There's Absolutely Nothing Standing Between You And A Fairly Rough Experience.

I Listen Mostly To Classical Music.