oddly, the last chapter of things that bother me was all strawson's memory of 1967-8, of drugs and music and flower people. and following the rather exhaustive anti-story of the preceding chapters, it is his story, and it's like a clearing. i wonder why he concludes his book on non-memory, non-narrative, non-self with a reminiscent meditation on all three.
uh-oh, it feels like rain.
no word on mister.
maybe it's just heavy fog.
think i'll forgo the library. 
i'm going to be minimal today, even though my foot is ready.
i'm back to the old ways, wherein everything is stories, where even passages on water are recorded, each one adding to the all, like the dreamtime. 
maybe it's not so much about our ego-journey, our individual biography, as about how our life navigates the sea of story. 
crazy the fog passed right on by.