The Assessor Runs Out of Material

Day twenty-nine, Albania. Driving from Durrës to Lake Ohrid took something out of me again, because most of the work I had lined up for the road has evaporated. One client can't pay. One has stepped out for private reasons. One is waiting for a launch he planned long before I existed.

That is part of it. I started this to grow past myself and to learn to trust. On the drive I say it to myself over and over, like a man learning a language: I am in trust. Life is carrying me.

And somewhere along the way I notice, with a certain satisfaction, that the running commentary in the back of my head has stopped.

I had first noticed those thoughts in Durrës — by their absence. I have given them a name. The Assessor.

The Assessor is normally busy annotating everything I see, hear and do. In his working days it sounded like this: Look at that one. What sort of glasses are those? — Did you notice how arrogant she was? — Do you really think you were nice enough? — What is going to become of you?

Now he stammers. He raises a finger, starts, and then goes er, ah, hm, and stops.

He has nothing to measure anything against. What did that person just say in Albanian? No idea. Was that rude or friendly? Couldn't tell you.

It turns out he was never that clever. He was only well informed.