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  • We were late getting on the road yesterday.
    It is not a holiday weekend, in our line of work we get forced vacation time to allow other trades to come in and do their work in sequence.
    Right now the plaster crew is finishing their work, in another month it will be the floor finishers who take over.

    We packed and drove.
    The trees have leafed out at our starting point, it has become a normal site.
    But as we drove up North the foliage diminished, was less advanced.
    When we reached the Maine border the maple trees had regained their initial red budding.

    We were going back in time.

    Arriving home after even a short absence is a process.
    We ran off to our studios to look at the projects left off in various stages.
    We have been away several months now and nostalgia is also an act rediscovery.

    New habits scrambled my cupboards and it took a while to locate a frying pan.

    Going out to the garden in spring is a constant act of returning.
    I remembered that I planted tulips last fall because they are blooming now.
    I do enough in the garden that I forget from year to year some of what I have moved or added to the landscape. Every season brings a surprise.

    In early spring the peepers begin singing in the pond across the road.
    They start up at dusk and sing until dawn.
    I fell asleep and woke up to their chorus.



    Excerpt from Plan B: Meriwether’s Return - Chapter 15, p.155


    What was there to do he wondered, for an aging adventurer returned from his travels with his mission accomplished. Where else could he go when his services were no longer required?
    They had set him up with a small cabin in the first, temporary oasis, town, and from here he began to understand his next mission.
    As he sat one morning in the filtered sun that came through the covered porch, he discovered the greatest adventure yet, the portal of last unknown realm.

    Inside his scull was the most amazing of the creations.
    Two pounds of fat, tissue, nerves and chemicals resided inside his thick scull.
    There was stored not only his own memories but also a vestige of archaic unconsciousness that was silted over by impossible stretches of time.

    His most ancient ancestors had eaten of forbidden fruits, and left behind their instinctive selves to start that slow march toward the splitting of atoms.
    They ate the fruit and they stood up and walked, they had learned to make fires. They began to tell stories.

    For Meriwether his future was as simple as a pad of paper and a pencil.
    He watched the great lake filling out up the desert and began writing about the unknowable future.
    He listened to the inner working of his mind. This was an exploration that needed time to guide it and all of history to inform it.

    He began his new voyage with his imagination.
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