 The rain picked up. I followed a line of spruce followed that joined with a grove of leafy aspen. Under canopy of branches, I tried to shield myself from the downpour. Droplets of water dripping off my nylon shell jacket and off the brim of my Houston Astros baseball cap. I worshiped Nolan Ryan, Major League strikeout king. But that world was nowhere near Isaac Lake. I was eight years old and utterly alone. Only rain and the murmur of nature. Alive.
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There's a kind of Ah-ha! Somebody at least for a moment feels about something or sees something the way that I do. It doesn't happen all the time. It's these brief flashes or flames, but I get that sometimes. I feel unalone—intellectually, emotionally, spiritually. I feel human and unalone and that I'm in a deep, significant conversation with another consciousness in fiction and poetry in a way that I don't with other art.  I am not sure that it is of the first importance that you should be happy. Many an unhappy man has been of deep service to himself and to the world.
Woodrow Wilson 
where did the bullet stop & still? does it feel like a part of you? |
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