I Will Tell You Something About Stories

Then They Grow Away From The Earth Then They Grow Away From The Sun Then They Grow Away From The Plants And The Animals. They See No Life. When They Look They See Only Objects. The World Is A Dead Thing For Them The Trees And The Rivers Are Not Alive. The Mountains And Stones Are Not Alive. The Deer And Bear Are Objects. They See No Life. They Fear. They Fear The World. They Destroy What They Fear. They Fear Themselves.

I Will Tell You Something About Stories . . . They Aren't Just Entertainment. Don't Be Fooled. They Are All We Have, You See, All We Have To Fight Off Illness And Death.

He Made A Story For All Of Them, A Story To Give Them Strength. The Words Of The Story Poured Out Of His Mouth As If They Had Substance, Pebbles And Stone Extending To Hold The Corporal Up...knees From Buckling...hands From Letting Go Of The Blanket.

I Write In Order To Find Out What I Truly Know And How I Really Feel About Certain Things. Writing Requires Me To Go Much Deeper Into My Thoughts And Memories Than Conversation Does. Writing Provides The Solitude Necessary To Reflect On Being In This World.

The Snow ... Came In Thick Tufts Like New Wool - Washed Before The Weaver Spins It.