Sitting here in an early Sunday morning verdure of Spring on Harris Creek, the word "leaving" forms on my mind's lips. It has a double meaning, as in departing from and remaining in a place. When I take my leave, I will leave something here. I am remembering a book titled The City of the Dead, in which the dead occupy a place on the border of the wilderness so long as there is someone alive who remembers them. The living keep the dead in limbo until Judgement Day. That is the day when everyone leaves and none is left behind; that is the day the bubble bursts.

It is not easy to be rid of Oedipus. There is within the body of experience a desire to be rid of memory; to be rid of the chain. There is desire to escape the city and flee into the wilderness. But that desire finds itself confronted by the fear of that same wilderness and it is not a fear that is subject to "overcoming."

In Anti-Oedipus and a thousand plateaus Deleuze and Guattari speak of "lines of flight," of "becoming-intense, becoming-animal, becoming-imperceptible." In my slow and torturous reading of these books I am getting some new sense of the wilderness and of how one might experiment in re-entry.