vision on the tundra
here in the far north darkness comes early in november, swirling in with the polar air masses that will soon turn the spare rain to snow and ice. this is a climate that breeds shamans, berserkers, and lutherans. i am increasingly possessed bu visions of the tropical and indolent city of my youth. it began one afternoon in august as i was sitting in my car in my driveway, waiting for my son to come out of the house to be taken somewhere, an entirely ordinary day in an exceptionally ordinary city. the cord that holds the black voodoo figurine beads that decorate my rearview mirror broke, spilling the black and gold beads and purple horned and hooded figures, onto the floor. it was as if some invisible hand had sept through and, finding this bit of the city, had smashed it. at about the same time on this last monday in august, the water was sweeping through the backswamp, taking the city i remember and thousands of its people in its cold embrace. here a few dozens of miles from the headwaters of the mississippi, 20 years and 1,200 miles from home, it was as if the spirits of the city had swept accross the landscape in a wild hunt, searching for those profoundly and indelibly marked by the city, calling out for them, telling them to come quick, come quick.