What else can you do but commit to the struggle to make sense, to have a go at writing what is there; wrestling with this strange, lumpy thing we call language; hitting out against ideas and prejudices that come snaking in; falling back under the full force of associations and memories and miscreant thoughts.
The starting point was a half-way-through-wilderness; life had happened in the way that life happens:
A stumbling through darkened quarters, bogs and tussocks, dead ends, wide boulevards, twisting lanes; jostling with the curious and the indifferent, the rich and the poor; visiting the banks and the markets, the churches, the temples and the mosques; so many books to read, so much talking to engage in . . .
Mesmerised and in awe . . . shocked as though beaten black and blue . . .
Impelled by the arising need to make marks on rocks and walls as we pass . . .
And to travel hopefully.