South African archaeologist David Lewis-Williams writes that, when it comes to religion, there is no "heartland" from which the human propensity to develop belief-systems diffused around the planet. No center, but I finally understood all those country songs about the lure of the bright lights of town. I walked everywhere in the balmy days and nights of May, amazed at how many possibilities could be crammed within the radius of those walks and thrilled by the idea that there was already an underground stream of consciousness buoyed by a basket of symbols, as we walked out of Africa, not for the first time, to explore the world.

Picasso manipulated the planes of African masks and ancient Iberian reliefs to fit his fantasy of "wild naked nature with the bold face of truth." Van Gogh went mad painting the stunning hues of his imagination. Living in Santa Fe, Don Fabricant,
a talented painter who died too young, said: "Do you know Giacometti? He was a thinker. You should see his work."

Years later I saw a Giacometti striding figure in Texas, looking indifferent to fame and fortune, as if he wanted "only to reach his goal. But what was he really searching for?"

Empty-handed I entered the world,
Barefooted I leave it.
Arriving, leaving—two events
That got entangled.

Cool breeze this morning sends spiky seed pods rolling down the streets. Now we can trace migrations by stubs of airline tickets, cigarette butts, empty beer cans....more telling than bones and bric-a-brac. Reality subsumes luminosity, holding back the light so that the poet has a journey to perform.