01 Sep 1985, Posted by Scott An Chora in Travelogue, 0 Comments

09/01 Valencia, Spain


I woke early to the jingling and jangling of the vendors setting up the local market and was up and out in minutes following the caravan of wagons and carts down through the streets to the market.  The strategy was the same, I looked for food and if I could obtain it for free, all the better.  As long as we both got what we wanted out of the conversation, I could play the game.  “You picked them all by hand did ya? Your fingers are too big.  I think this one has been bruised.  (more…)

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01 Sep 1985, Posted by Scott An Chora in Poetry, 0 Comments

Poem 054 The cry rose high


The cry rose high, the dimness of the woods, me, me, me
evidence almost reaches the sky, we know it by, hear say, what a day, what a day

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    Usually behind a cup of coffee waiting for the world around me to wake up I entered today’s thoughts about yesterday’s activities into my travel journal. I’m not a writer, so I’ll apologize in advance if I jump around or seem confused. These are just the thoughts of a young man who left his possessions behind and who believes that getting lost is how one finds oneself.

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