And in that instant something twisted in me as I realized that wasnít an option. Not because of Winnie or Jake or monies paid. Rather, at some point this stupid guidebook had become something more, something I now gradually identified asÖa step. Yes, a step. Like my move to New Orleans, a voyage not so much toward one thing as away from another. And yet perhaps because every step is both, those two aims had become entangled to such a degree that now only the motion could be trusted or understood. But not abandoned. Because as was sometimes the case with my journaling, in indulging myself in the dream of that journey Iíd felt connected, like a conduit for something more useful than me.