If you can come and look back at it, having the hardest time going out for a walk around the block, seeing new things, getting away, looking up lonesome at the sky as everything in the sky is absolutely an independent and lonely truth shining way, which is how stars should be, but not us, if you can get away, and the further allow yourself to relax somehow, through some repetitive motion, as I get when I ride the old Fausto Coppi Bianchi on the trainer stand...  then you finally get that different perspective which is absolutely crucial to writing.

Christ.  You've missed enough.  You've been reading far and wide, as far as what you touch upon, whether or not you actually have read it recently, Coomoroswamy, or something else, Chekhov short stories you have internalized, different voices.

You have to set yourself apart.  Far apart.  Far away into some form of quiet individual mass you are hardly aware of.  But you know what you need to listen to, you know what satisfies your lonesome hunger, that deeper hunger.  

I ride the bike, after a lonely awful walk.  Wet grass. Cloudy moon, two days past full.  There's no one around.  Not even any deer.

I have 18 weeks to figure it out, all my years of messing around.  Yes, I have read things, but I am not a scholar by trade.  Nope.  I am not.

But somehow, in this perilous state, I see my mom, more clearly, perhaps, more of the vision, the kind of vision that is helpful and necessary.  She's no different from Holy Mary, a part of it.  She came from on high, so did my father.  Their conceptions were, basically, immaculate.  Now that I think about it, while always knowing.  There's your Vonnegut story, the great theme of a fiction that is science fiction but mundane truth.  The "nothing is a coincidence" element to it.  The soul.

What I write might be nonsense, but it's not far from the river, the Gave, near Lourdes, if you think about it, or, I suppose, the vision of the humble teenage girl who found "the lady."  And she is the character un-addressed in Vonnegut.  Vonnegut addressed the other things, Jesus, and the advancement spiritual in nature of the Tralfamadorians, but he never got to Mary.  (Or perhaps he did.)

I haven't the slightest credential as a teacher.  That's always held me back.  Ha ha ha.