The Beginning Of The End Can Feel

My Fingers Curl Through The Holes In The Wicker, Through The Wet Grass Beneath It, Trying To Hold Tight To The Sharp Blades Of The Present. Somewhere In My Brain A Sinkhole Is Bubbling Over, And Each Bubble Contains A Scene From A Tiny Sunken World ... I Have Never Been The Prophet Of My Own Past Before. It Makes Me Wonder How The Healthy Dreamers Can Bear To Sleep At All, If Sleep Means That You Have To Peer Into That Sinkhole By Yourself. ... I Had Almost Forgotten This Occipital Sorrow, The Way You Are So Alone With The Things You See In Dreams.

The Folks I Read As A Kid Really Set Me Up. I Owe A Huge Debt To Ray Bradbury And Madeleine L'engle.

My Older Sister Has Entire Kingdoms Inside Of Her, And Some Of Them Are Only Accessible At Certain Seasons, In Certain Kinds Of Weather. One Such Melting Occurs In Summer Rain, At Midnight, During The Vine-green Breathing Time Right Before Sleep. You Have To Ask The Right Question, Throw The Right Rope Bridge, To Get There-and Then Bolt Across The Chasm Between You, Before Your Bridge Collapses.

Growing Up, Catholic Church Really Was Such An Incubator For My Imagination, Because All Of Those Mysteries Felt Embedded In This Insanely Green, Tropical Landscape: The Ocean Nearby, The Giant Banyan Trees. It All Felt Part Of One Seamless Mystery To Me.

Could We Betray Our Parents By Going Back To Them?