The Chronicle of Georgia

Day two hundred and eighty, Georgia. When I lived in Germany I was proud of knowing how the world works. The rich exploit the poor. Things used to be better. What I am told is presumably correct.

It is correct, isn't it.

The truth is I know nothing about life. The further I travel, inside and out, the less of the world I understand, and I have come to think that is the right direction. Not knowing leaves the door open. I learn what things are instead of what they are supposed to be, and I keep finding qualities in myself that I had no idea were in stock.

So I turn my attention inward, because the world out there is contradictory, peculiar and off its head.

At least the world I believe I am seeing is. Which might have something to do with me.

Take the Chronicle of Georgia. Wikipedia says a mad artist called Zurab Tsereteli built it in a single year. Sixteen bronze columns, thirty-five metres high, in front of which a human being feels like an ant.

In a year. More or less on his own.

I stand at the bottom of them and notice that my first reaction is to look for who is lying.