I’m having a hard time articulating why it’s different at home than on the road, perhaps because getting back to work after such a long trip is hard, and I’m in the articulating biz. We went to Mexico full of intentions to journal, catalog, and photograph, but virtually the only thing we managed to do on a regular basis was take a picture of ourselves every day, and even that resolve began to slip and slide. I love being free from the compulsion to record and analyze; a friend once accused me of having a “hoarding disease,” but that was a long time ago, when my main relationship was with my typewriter. Even in the plaint humdrumness of my regular life, I feel guilty for not recording more. One of my history professors, Maurice Isserman, declared to our senior seminar that he, too, had written a lot about his life but then discarded it because he wanted to live, not write. He said it so blithely, more as a judgment on our own commitments than an objective statement of his, that I was shocked and affronted. While I sometimes feel I’m on the verge of such pronouncements, I won’t go so far; the tension is so familiar as to be banal (and here I sit, writing and multiplying the banality) but it’s real and, for all its warts, something I have a relationship with.