For many years, I have been moved by the blue at the far edge of what can be seen, that color of horizons, of remote mountain ranges, of anything far away. The color of that distance is the color of an emotion, the color of solitude and of desire, the color of there seen from here, the color of where you are not. And the color of where you can never go.

Anarchists believe that we can govern ourselves in the absence of coercive and centralized authority; the underlying premise about human nature (to use an infinitely problematized but necessary term here) is fundamentally positive. And the evidence that in disasters people are really pretty kind, generous, brave, resourceful and creative fed that.

Walking, ideally, is a state in which the mind, the body, and the world are aligned.

Eduardo Galeano notes that America was conquered, but not discovered, that the men who arrived with a religion to impose and dreams of gold never really knew where they were, and that this discovery is still taking place in our time.

The art is not one of forgetting but letting go. And when everything else is gone, you can be rich in loss.

Some things we have only as long as they remain lost, some things are not lost only so long as they are distant.

I roam around a lot in my territory, but what I learn at one end inflects and opens up my understanding at the other.