The Only Real Reason For

We End Up Stumbling Our Way Through The Forest, Never Seeing All The Unexpected And Wonderful Possibilities And Potentials Because We're Looking For The Idea Of A Tree, Instead Of Appreciating The Actual Trees In Front Of Us.

I Think You're All Mad. But That's Part And Parcel Of Being An Artistic Genius, Isn't It?

Why Did Men Worship In Churches, Locking Themselves Away In The Dark, When The World Lay Beyond Its Doors In All Its Real Glory?

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.

There Were Two Forests For Every One You Entered. There Was The One You Walked In, The Physical Echo, And Then There Was The One That Was Connected To All The Other Forests, With No Consideration Of Distance, Or Time. The Forest Primeval, Remembered Through The Collective Memory Of Every Tree In The Same Way That People Remembered Myth- Through The Collective Subconscious That Jung Mapped, The Shared Mythic Resonance That Lay Buried In Every Human Mind. Legend And Myth, All Tangled In An Alphabet Of Trees Remembered, Not Always With Understanding, But With Wonder. With Awe.