There Is No Plan, No Future Laid

I Don't Think The World Is The Way We Like To Think It Is. I Don't Think It's One Solid World, But Many, Thousands Upon Thousands Of Them--as Many As There Are People--because Each Person Perceives The World In His Or Her Own Way; Each Lives In His Or Her Own World. Sometimes They Connect, For A Moment, Or More Rarely, For A Lifetime, But Mostly We Are Alone, Each Living In Our Own World, Suffering Our Small Deaths.

Everything Has A Spirit And It's All Connected. If You Think About That, If You Live Your Life By It, Then You're Less Likely To Cause Any Hurt. It's Like How Our Bodies Go Back Into The Ground When We Die, So That Connects Us To The Earth. If You Dump Trash, You're Dumping It On Your And My Ancestors. Or To Bring It Down To Its Simplest Level: Treat Everything And Everybody The Way You Want To Be Treated, Because When You Hurt Someone, You're Only Hurting Yourself.

There's More To Life Than Just Surviving . . . But . . . Sometimes Just Surviving Is All You Get

She Hoped He Was Running To His Red Deer Woman, And That When He Tapped On The Door Of Her Heart, She'd Open It Wide And Let Him In.

Growing Up, I'd Already Decided I Wanted To Be A Beatnik. A Bohemian Poet, I Thought. Or A Musician. Maybe An Artist. I'd Dress In Black Turtlenecks And Smoke Gitanes. I'd Listen To Cool Jazz In Clubs, Getting Up To Read Devastating Truths From My Notebook, Leaning Against The Microphone, Cigarette Dangling From My Hand.