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193 f r o m g o u r d s e e d Or much, much better. Flying inside music, inside light. Snorkeling the indescribable reef of the soul, the myriad niches, the pretty fitches. You’ll love it. I’ll love it. Let’s get our signals right before you roll over the side. One pull is, Hey, I’m here. Two is, I love you all. Three is, I’m loose and swimming in the joy of God. Not that I have special information. This is not so much belief as a big-time hope they knew whereof they spoke, those old distributors of these most delicious loves and fishes. e v e r y e v e n i n g I haven’t done much with what’s been given me to do. I wander away and waste whole weeks. Deathbed people scream, DON’T WAIT! But I wait and waffle away from clear warnings. The cabin next door burns down to a melted tire that could just as soon be me. Mike may not make it through Thanksgiving. • • • 194 f r o m g o u r d s e e d I love his fierce indignance. Look at the damn wires. We can hardly see the sunset. He wrote a savage column last year on mall architecture. We haven’t forgotten what beauty is, but we have forgotten to demand it! And manning the Peace Booth downtown: a smug young guy strolls up with supposedly Christian slogans for a bigger Pentagon. Mike scrabbles over the top like a bantamweight going after the money changers. To avoid suit, he had to endure a conference in the fellow’s pastor’s polyester office. Wonder he didn’t chew the rug off the floor. Wonder the minister’s bookcase wasn’t inscribed, Mene, mene, mickel Michael NicholSon , I love your quick goodness fighting at my peace table. Don’t wait to do what you feel here to do. Obey the sudden truth. Love the demanding beauty of a bloodred late November sun. Mike, let’s crackle our imaginary walking faster and brighter toward where that thing burns inside its own and our sky-opened chest, open to what death keeps beyond us every evening. ...

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