Notes on a Train

On the counter of Northwest Coffee in Ladue is a small, rectangular, plaque designated the spot as reserved for the “mayor” of the establishment — John L. Reading this I am accompanied by Billy Joel singing “Piano Man.” 

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Do we find our places or do our places find us? Do places yearn for us so much as we yearn for them not knowing it was there all along? The way we come to know there is a self we always carry and have since the day when we first noticed a change in the way were in this place. One and the same wondering why everyone else continues to change. There is a special light when with friends you gather in a foreign place. All of us uncertain where to be, who to be and whether the twain shall met. I carry large swatches of geography within me; much of it can be seen in the shape of my expressions on my face. Though mostly mystery in the cut of the land. Seldom do plaques dictate us a place to land. It is uncertainty we grope with our toes, our souls, for the place that will have us and for what we will be. Somewhere there are hill you know, and streams you will drink from, a place of sky for your eyes and grass for your lain body. This place has no signposts; no place to arrive at. This place is right here, inside, a self always carried as you carry on the very search undertaken to find it. 

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