Divisus sum in partes.

I haven't been back to Spain since 1996, though between 1989 and that final visit I did not miss a year, and between 1992 and 1994 I barely spent any time at all in the United States. Spain was my spiritual home, I was going native and was hellbent on it. It is behind me now, that wrecking urge. There are pangs: I talk to myself now and then in castellano, my tongue slips against my teeth to form words, disjointed, out of context, the sound and feeling of them quietly alive in me. Susceptible, joder, érase una vez... There is a world asleep inside of me. Covadonga. I went, I saw, I conquered and I came all to pieces. Divisus sum in partes.
Syntax, grammar, the traditional frontiers between languages themselves, all must give way: a scattershot of communication. Punctuate the impossibility of capture. All a slip in the multi-stream of singularity. Reign it in again to provide. The formation of a writer was something to be taken seriously, a poetic license to anything. Flight, dismay, and sound.
Do we believe in cause and effect? Does experience take root in us, fertile soil, and grow? What is the geneaology of an identity? Remember: Socrates was an outlaw.