At that time, after being robbed of everything, I was a wanderer in
a foreign
country, waiting for a check from my own. I had no job, no position,
no guitar
to make music, no bed or seat of my own to rest on. At first I was grateful
nobody noticed me, grateful to get through the mosquitoes, grateful I hadn’t
fallen out of my own composition, though I’d lost the frame. Poor
people down
by the river lived in shacks. Theirs were fixed positions, no
upward mobility.
