Solely because of the increasing disorder

In our cities of class struggle

Some of us have decided

To speak no more of cities by the sea, snow on roofs, women

The smell of ripe apples in cellars, the senses of the flesh, all

That makes someone round and human

But to speak in future only about the disorder

And so become one-sided, reduced, enmeshed in the business

Of politics and the dry, indecorous vocabulary

Of dialectical economics

So that this awful cramped coexistence

Should not delight in

The contradictions of so bloodstained a life

You understand.

As I fell asleep after last night's blog I realised that images from the Museum Of Native American History, images of faces, were merging with that of Linda; of whom I spoke.  I bet my motorcycle she has more than a trace of native american genes.

On which point whilst I was in the Wild Bean Cafe yesterday breakfasting and re-drivering the netbook a man at the next table asked me, in that brash upfront American way, if I wanted to sell my motorcycle which was right outside and he'd seen me fetch something from it.  Perhaps to his surprise I said yes; explaining the circumstances of my trip.  I named a price he agreed.  But I will be in Washington DC I said.  Thats my pick up outside he replied.  I'll come and fetch it.  This is the equivalent of going to South London from Newcastle.  I already have one potential buyer anyway, a friend of the guy who sold it to me.  So this makes   a sale before I leave a real likelyhood.