Funny how trips within trips exaggerate the elasticity of time. I've been gone for almost a month now and coming back to George's house tonight from Yosemite feels as close to home since we drove down my dusty Toma Road. Party because it is a place I know well and feel welcome, but also because it marks a return. It is a complex equation: a parenthetical operation embedded inside another.
And our route, particularly this short cut on Priest something road with its sinuous twists through dried out hills, provokes another level of "path" awareness. As in life itself, the view ahead is sometimes clear, you can actually see it, anticipate your place. Other times the way disappears, seemingly connected, but you can never really know. Is it segments or is it a line?
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