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"If there's a fork in the road, take it." Nine years old and probably, if not certainly, this was one of the strangest, most peculiar phrases I heard. A fork in the road? And what about a spoon? Dirty napkins? Why not, as the man said…pick it up!<br />

The Fork & The Road

Camron Karsten
2007-04-27 22:18:57

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so today, as I prepare to make do on the winding road once again, this phrase read long ago hits me like a recuperated weakling off the bench a little too soon. I now see it in its full light.

Experience is based on our choices, and we can bring
as much or as little personal choice into the matter as we wish (stay off the bench or move your ass?). We can allow ourselves to be the slumped, long-faced mule of the team with heavy weeping eyes stuck outside the huddle, or we can make the choice to stick through and be an additional binding link of this revolving and evolving. In other words, we can choose to begin and allow ourselves to pick up our own forks and lead our own life based, not on the habituated confusion of old wise-tales by generations past as if a watched pot truly never boils (it does, trust me), but instead return to that aged-time of youth when if we felt like watching the flames and their luminescent glow, then we would for the sole reason that it felt good and there was nothing more important to do in one's lifetime then feel good.

Thank you, I Believe This Is Mine

If there's a fork in the road, take it. I arrive back at my fork, both a basic accoutrement to survival in life, as well as a split where the road veers off down the subsequent decisions at each fork.

Months pass. Paris—its ancient European splendor of the aesthetics in all of daily life's routines, often only found on one's lap in the turning pages of the finest of books. Paris and the parisien. Paris and my project to return to the forgotten classrooms of formal education to learn how to use my nose to speak and force air through its passages at deeper and deeper depths like a Bikram sweat-room. Paris—alas! With a true parisienne at that—a woman six generations of the city who would become my parisienne mère.

Five months I signed my signature and gave my word to family, friends, Paris and its language, ...