In The Beginning, When I Was Trying

If We're Lucky, Writer And Reader Alike, We'll Finish The Last Line Or Two Of A Short Story And Then Just Sit For A Minute, Quietly. Ideally, We'll Ponder What We've Just Written Or Read; Maybe Our Hearts Or Intellects Will Have Been Moved Off The Peg Just A Little From Where They Were Before. Our Body Temperature Will Have Gone Up, Or Down, By A Degree. Then, Breathing Evenly And Steadily Once More, We'll Collect Ourselves, Writers And Readers Alike, Get Up, "created Of Warm Blood And Nerves" As A Chekhov Character Puts It, And Go On To The Next Thing: Life. Always Life.

A Man Without Hands Came To The Door To Sell Me A Photograph Of My House. Except For The Chrome Hooks, He Was An Ordinary-looking Man Of Fifty Or So.

The Smooth Stones You Pick Up And Examine Under The Moon's Light Have Been Made Blue From The Sea. Next Morning When You Pull Them From Your Trouser Pocket, They Are Still Blue.

There Was This Funny Thing Of Anything Could Happen Now That We Realized Everything Had.

All Of Us, All Of Us, All Of Us Trying To Save Our Immortal Souls, Some Ways Seemingly More Round About And Mysterious Than Others. We Are Having A Good Time Here. But Hope All Will Be Revealed Soon.