If I were going to write a new book
If I were going to write a new book, and we all know I might just do that, I think I would call it The Impossible World of J. Edgar Landry.
In that book, I would write about a species of beings who dream and inspire to be one thing, but who work and scurry like tortured wombats to be something else.
These poor tortured beings would know what love was, but would rarely find it.
They would believe in the awe inspiring power of music, but would rarely sing aloud (too afraid of being overheard and mocked).
They would wish for everyone to hug them and love them and call them friend, but like me, the almost author of this wobbly, half-balanced tale, they would wear headphones in public and drive around with their night blinders on even during the day.
But every now and then J. Edgar Landry, the two-legged hero in this three-legged tale, would remember, or would be struck by an avalanche of SEE ME HEAR ME REMEMBER ME DUST, and then he would rip off all his clothes and run gleefully smiling through the nearest cold-water stream, and when the cool soothing touch of beloved Mother Earth tickled his toes he would remember:
I am alive and in control and can be anything and feel anything and think anything I want, so….
I choose to be a laughing, singing, wobbly, tumbling fool.