I'm close to the end of Peter Matthiessen's pilgrimage. I think about dad. It's a funny thing to think of dad as a pilgrim on a pilgrimage. He seemed to have an air about him, some kind of inwardness, but he felt hollow at the same time. A fierce concentration of indirection. Peter Matthiessen's pilgrimage was escape. He always longed for simplicity, and paradise. He was forever seeking something but it turned out what he was seeking was escape, from himself. Is this about dad? Dad and me? We were separate, yet inextricably bound. I think about escape, but what would I be escaping? I'm a spirit in a body, a body of spirit. There's nothing to escape. I'm just here. I'm just talking here. Writing rather. Dad never left the writing he talked about writing. He just disappeared.