I knew that I did. I didn't like that either but it
was better than sitting slump-shouldered and spineless on a stool while
the inexorable waters advanced.
So, in a way, I was going to them.
I could have said I was getting away, but I was seeking something
rather than fleeing. In my mind, at least.
I hated them because I was stuck to them, was of them, yet there was
nothing admirable or enviable about them. It was not so much that they
were not memorable, in the sense that the world craved news of them or
to wear the same type of shoes or deoderant that they did, it was that I
did not respect them. There was nothing in them, in the statements of
their lives, which I respected. I had ignored this; it had saddened me;
now it enraged me.
Many things did.
I often thought of Jackson at times like this.
At times like this he was usually the first one I thought of. Sometimes it
was Lyman, but usually it was Jackson.
Before me, in a broad dip in the road, just before a curve, there was the
tree. A great old split-trunked wild oak all scraggly and dark. Its beauty,
built of age, strength, form, position, made me catch my breath and it
caught my attention and held it away from the turquoise truck.
(Cella) I don't know how long
I had sat upon my stool staring at my ravaged boots.