Somewhere between the capital letter and the period, I became lost.
The fear I felt before jumping evaporated as I stepped into space, and I became lost in the moment.
Other vignettes opened up as I became lost in the maze of alleyways that often dead-ended at a frothy celadon canal.
In the evenings, I would find a stool at Revoluci r Perfidia, order a Dos Equis and listen to a rock band or flamenco guitarists, then button up my jacket and wander home through the cold, half-lighted lanes, noting new pieces of street art (a praying mantis menacing two businessmen, an "assassin wanted" poster) and not minding one bit if I became lost.
But nestled into a cleft on the riverside rock at the intersection of Canada's roaring Sheep Creek and ferocious Firth River, on the very northernmost tip of the Yukon Territory, I became lost in a sort of northern reverie, taking in the purple and green of the surrounding mountains as the aquamarine Firth frothed at my feet.
While in Tasmania, I became lost amongst the words of another local writer: non-fiction author, James Dryburgh.
My first reconnaissance took place in the searing heat of late June 1982, during which my driver and I became lost in a sandstorm and almost perished.
I ventured forth among these thousands of "mes," recognizing and joyfully reveling in every conversation, energetic and dynamic gestures, innumerable changes in manner, mood and vocal tones and for a moment, I became lost in myself.
In my mind I became lost in my own past, when I was very young and very foolish and due to various all-nighters was unable to get into a car or walk to a grocery to get food.
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