It's Funny To Think About The Uncanny

At The End Of The Block Where I Used To Live In Coconut Grove In Miami, There's A Swampy Area, A No-name Alcove With A Little Mangrove Estuary. It's Beautiful.

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

I'm Probably A Lot Closer Than Perhaps The Contents Of My Early Fiction Suggest To A Jaded Denny's Waitress With Smoker's-lung-black Humor Than A Ghost Hunter.

A Single Note, Held In An Amber Suspension Of Time, Like A Charcoal Drawing Of Icarus Falling. It Was Sad And Fierce All At Once, Alive With A Lonely Purity. It Went On And On, Until My Own Lungs Were Burning. “what Bird Are You Calling?” I Asked Finally, When I Couldn’t Stand It Any Longer. The Bird Man Stopped Whistling. He Grinned, So That I Could See All His Pebbly Teeth. “you.

In A Way, I Think We All Want To Look To That Journalistic Voice As A Kind Of Global Omniscience, A Big Eye To Correct For Our Own Limited Purview: "here's A Realistic Accounting Of The World In Which We Live."