Wednesday, January 17, 2018


And when you were a small child growing up on the beach in Florida, you can remember.

The life-giving sun, pouring down endlessly out of a sharp blue sky.

And shells. The texture of them. The heft of one in your hand. Your fingers grasped it and it felt so good.

Do you remember?

Soft white powdery sand that would sometimes squeak when your heel hit it just so, walking through its balm of warmth and softness.

A bee. A solitary bee. And it's on the ground, and something's wrong, it cannot fly, but it keeps trying and you want to help it but you are afraid to touch it. And an ant comes along. A single ant. And it briefly touches the fallen bee, shivers for just a moment, and then races into the dry grass, away from her.

It will be back, and there will be more with it when it returns.

But you cannot touch the bee. It will sting you.

And the sun and the waves keep pouring and pouring and pouring, without beginning, without end.


Wednesday, January 17, 2018


Across the far side of the world, on the dark side of the planet, great hives of people are not sleeping.

Nearby, in wood-paneled rooms, men you will never meet draw plans against you.

You wish it were not so, but it is.

And the sun doesn't seem to care at all. It shows no favor, shows no grace, gives them life as it gives you life.

Why?

And a thousand years go by, and you hardly noticed it.

The warmth. The softness. Neverending.

You look around and you see that everything has changed.

Nothing from your past remains.

But you remember it. You remember it clearly. As if it happened just yesterday.

But it is gone. It is all gone. Gone forever.