(the seasons have shifted) jim harrison returning to the earth
Dad told me later that he thought the two of them were "sweet" on eachother.
Animals spend a lot of their time being still so when we do too they lose their logical mistrust of us.
The notion of personality holds mostly question marks.
The world isn't perceptually organized for seventh graders. There are big empty places concerning sex and death, alcohol and divorce, war and world political mayhem. Kids overhear their parents' conversations in bits and pieces and try to contruct a reality however clumsy and malformed.
.. but I wasn't quite ready for a car. My mental health depended on the physical exhaustion of the bicycle.
This was upsetting as if a cool breeze were blowing through my brain. I remembered a line of peotry Vernice liked: "The days are stacked against who we think we are."
Whatever I tried to imagine about seeing Vera would doubtless prove inaccurate but that didn't stop my imagination from creating a reality that probably had the flimsiness of Hollywood movies about American Indians.
An old man led a mutt by a green leash and the dog sniffed at my foot and gave me a quizzical look. I said, "good evening, magnificent dog," and the dog looked concerned so I said, "Buenas tardes, perro magnifico" in my pidgin Spanish. The dog felt better and the old man laughed.
I wondered if my expectations about Vera should be made of air, soil, and water instead of my usual somewhat neurotic fandangos where my mind in its perpetual slippage keeps constructing a future to amuse itself.
Clare was twenty-three and past ownership, and I couldn't help her by prusing her.
It had become quite evident that I didn't want to teach in Marquette. All I had to do to redicover this was to flick on the basement light and look down the stairs at the text-books sprawled there like book corpses that had lost their lives in my private war. Literature textbooks resember anthologies where all the finest material is lieft out to arrive at a harmless product. I no longer wanted to be part of a system whose actual intent was to produce reliable employees.
I've read so much fiction that I used to think my perceptions of life were merely a fiction I was writing, espeically after the kids left for college and there was so little noise in the evening.
Our first hour was so basic in terms of grammer I felt as if I had been sitting in a dentist's chair.
The first one didn't last long but we lolled around ont he bed for a while doing everything and the second time around I properly lost my mind.
In addition to all of the pleasure he gave me he had begun using was and were in the right places.
I had put away my Garcia Marquez for a while because it had become unbearably poignant ..
Animals spend a lot of their time being still so when we do too they lose their logical mistrust of us.
The notion of personality holds mostly question marks.
The world isn't perceptually organized for seventh graders. There are big empty places concerning sex and death, alcohol and divorce, war and world political mayhem. Kids overhear their parents' conversations in bits and pieces and try to contruct a reality however clumsy and malformed.
.. but I wasn't quite ready for a car. My mental health depended on the physical exhaustion of the bicycle.
This was upsetting as if a cool breeze were blowing through my brain. I remembered a line of peotry Vernice liked: "The days are stacked against who we think we are."
Whatever I tried to imagine about seeing Vera would doubtless prove inaccurate but that didn't stop my imagination from creating a reality that probably had the flimsiness of Hollywood movies about American Indians.
An old man led a mutt by a green leash and the dog sniffed at my foot and gave me a quizzical look. I said, "good evening, magnificent dog," and the dog looked concerned so I said, "Buenas tardes, perro magnifico" in my pidgin Spanish. The dog felt better and the old man laughed.
I wondered if my expectations about Vera should be made of air, soil, and water instead of my usual somewhat neurotic fandangos where my mind in its perpetual slippage keeps constructing a future to amuse itself.
Clare was twenty-three and past ownership, and I couldn't help her by prusing her.
It had become quite evident that I didn't want to teach in Marquette. All I had to do to redicover this was to flick on the basement light and look down the stairs at the text-books sprawled there like book corpses that had lost their lives in my private war. Literature textbooks resember anthologies where all the finest material is lieft out to arrive at a harmless product. I no longer wanted to be part of a system whose actual intent was to produce reliable employees.
I've read so much fiction that I used to think my perceptions of life were merely a fiction I was writing, espeically after the kids left for college and there was so little noise in the evening.
Our first hour was so basic in terms of grammer I felt as if I had been sitting in a dentist's chair.
The first one didn't last long but we lolled around ont he bed for a while doing everything and the second time around I properly lost my mind.
In addition to all of the pleasure he gave me he had begun using was and were in the right places.
I had put away my Garcia Marquez for a while because it had become unbearably poignant ..