I stand outside in the hot heat of a Southern night. The heat penetrates and floods my body, so that the cool light of the moon is only a faint bitter reminder of cooler days. I hear Fourth of July firecracker leftovers. I stand there and I wonder who in my life is unfixably nuts.
One of the things that happens to people in novels is that they have these incredible events of realization of truth. Maybe a lamp gets thrown. Maybe an accident wrecks itself into the lives of the characters. Maybe a teenager gets locked out of the house.
I don't have those moments. The truth sneaks up on me, the truth haunts me. Only by the process of difficult thinking and analysis do I recognize that some of the people in my life aren't who they think they are, have become somebody that they shouldn't have. Momentous events do not reveal the truth to me. Moments don't direct the overly bright headlights of clarity. Only years do that.
Posted by mike at July 9, 2003 12:13 AM