A disembodied array of small yellow lights five across and six down, mounted on a metal framework follow me through a dense fog. Sometimes they are in front of me, sometimes behind. Always too close; always threatening. It was a recurrent nightmare when I a young child. I can't explain how menacing those lights were, only that I woke up drenched in sweat, terrified.
the present moment
Carrerras, Domingo and Pavarotti
Abby Newton (Crossing to Scotland)
Books in the Queue:
A Life Worth Living: A Doctor's Reflections on Illness in a High-Tech Era by Robert Martensen (recommended by a writing mentor and friend)
From Where You Dream: the process of writing fiction by Robert Olen Butler
Writing Fiction: a guide to narrative craft by Janet Burroway and Elizabeth Stuckey-French
The Book of Tea by Kakuzo Okakura
The Methodist Hymnal (from our summers in Rice Cove in the Beaverdam Community, Canton, North Carolina)
Walks the great labyrinthine night by the light of a three-quarter moon, accompanied by owls; lays a path of antique carved wood dominoes end to end. Their purloined, forbidden ivory dots flash a holographic image; a map. Words were the way in. Words are the way out.