More statues of me appear every day. One would be an honor, perhaps two or three would show even more honor. But now there are dozens, with a deteriorating level of craftsmanship as each new one appears. I suspect a joke, a silent protest.
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The place our shadows went, the old legend says – is the shadows’ new country. They won’t ever admit there were people, that they are not their own originals.
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If all the noise suddenly stops, what would we hear? What sounds have been masked all these centuries by the hurry and bustle of our lives? Give us our noise back!
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Year 2002, Niamey, Niger: The desert moves closer, one grain at a time.
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“I am still a victim of my thinking” [Jung] …at least that’s what I think.
<END>
THE SUNDAY PITCH
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