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	<title>A Literal Girl &#187; Technology</title>
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		<title>A Country Evening</title>
		<link>http://www.aliteralgirl.com/2009/04/a-country-evening/</link>
		<comments>http://www.aliteralgirl.com/2009/04/a-country-evening/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 01 Apr 2009 18:00:00 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Miranda Ward</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Childhood]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Technology]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[Just as we finish scrambling along the wet shores of a makeshift lake, my phone rings. We&#8217;re behind a perfectly English stone wall, sheltered from the muddy road running away from the village. Just a 9-year-old boy and myself. We&#8217;ve been exploring the outskirts of the village, the secret swampy places between water and meadow, [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Just as we finish scrambling along the wet shores of a makeshift lake, my phone rings.  We&#8217;re behind a perfectly English stone wall, sheltered from the muddy road running away from the village.  Just a 9-year-old boy and myself.  We&#8217;ve been exploring the outskirts of the village, the secret swampy places between water and meadow, for nearly an hour.  At one point, after I sink in the mud, I tell my companion about the time my Dad and I donned wellies and walked the length of our local creek, following it until it met the sea.  Now he&#8217;s calling me, my Dad.  From Buellton, the truck-stop town of grocery stores and auto-repair shops.  I can&#8217;t see civilization from here (maybe the gleam of a thatched roof beyond the wall) but I can talk to California.  I&#8217;m watching the 9-year-old leaping over a stream in the same way I used to do while I waited for my Dad to finish his work in the garage.  I&#8217;m speaking to that same Dad while I watch the 9-year-old.  There&#8217;s something strangely circular about this, and something dizzyingly <span style="font-style:italic;">meta</span>.  And, more simply, something rather delightful.</p>
<p>(Also, re: the last post, this, from Alain de Botton: &#8220;Journeys are the midwives of thought.&#8221;)</p>
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