… my friend, you are like a little river.  You flow steadily in one direction.  If someone does something to change your course, then you flow steadily in another direction.  If something else happens, then you change again.  Where you go or how you go, all that is determined by things outside you.  Don’t you ever make up your mind for yourself?  You need to say, Yes, I will do this or No, I won’t do that.  You need to take charge of yourself.  (Stephen Dobyns, Cold Dog Soup)

Time passes slowly
Up here in the mountains…
Times passes slowly
When you’re lost in a dream…
Time passes slowly
When you’re searchin’ for love…
Time pases slowly
Up here in the daylight…
Time passes slowly
Then fades away.
- Bob Dylan

possibility

and

reality

there

lies

a

universe

.

.

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold On!”
- Rudyard Kipling

…in a certain sense only the newborn in this world are whole… Physical wholeness is not something we have barring accident; it is itself accidental…
-Annie Dillard

Treasure your children for who they are, not who you want them to be.
-anonymous

I wish

I hadn’t

.

… this ultimate state of anonymous presence.
- Joseph Campbell

In a virtual world, everyone’s a no body.
- Marstead Kvenel

This happens in a small room in an apartment somewhere on the upper west side of Manhattan near the Hudson River in a neighborhood known as Spanish Harlem.  Shut behind closed doors and drawn window shades, I might just as well be anywhere: Camden, Vineland, New Brunswick, Highland Park, Chicago, San Francisco, New Haven, East Haven, in a car, bus, or train… anywhere, because it wouldn’t really matter.  What matters is what happens right here, right now, where I’m at and what I’m doing. Outside it’s cold. Snowflakes are swirling in the air like thoughts in my mind. I’m chasing thoughts like a child chasing snowflakes with his tongue.

I took a shower this morning as I often do before getting ready to implement a resolution.  I brushed my teeth, shaved around my beard, and combed my hair all the while running phrases and sentences through my mind. 

The little electric fan on the dresser behind me is circulating stagnant air and comforting me with its steady hum.  I stop for a moment to watch the snowflakes in my mind.  I’m thinking.  Maybe later today I’ll meet a woman in the laundry room and she’ll take me back to her apartment.  Fantasizing and daydreaming.  These are the things I do best.  I can dream with the best of them.  And I’m also an excellent speculator as in “What if this happens? What if that happens? What if it were possible to turn my dreams into reality?”

I’m writing again.  I wonder is writing the answer? An answer? That’s what I’m here to find out.  I have my pens, pencils, paper, typewriter, tape recorder (I doubt I’ll use it), dictionary, journal, notes, strange substances, and time (approximately four months if the money lasts as long as I’ve calculated).  Let’s begin with a dialogue:

“What the hell is that?”
“What?”
“That thing in the mirror?”
“I don’t know, but we have four months to figure it out.”

Let’s continue with a poem, written in the style of the advertisements posted in the New York subway system:

Find, confine, confront, define
Myself
Like taming a lion
The lion is something
(I don’t know what)
Within me.

Serene semi-silence as the plumbing from someone’s shower suddenly shuts off.  Let’s continue with a question, one of my favorites:

What is a Me? What does it do? That, as I’ve said before, is what I’m here to find out.  So I pour myself a small glass of wine spiked with vodka and an ice cube and I take a sip… not bad for alcohol… and I flip back through the pages of my blue pocket notebook… feeling warmth inside my belly… and copy these words:

To live my ideas, becoming so totally involved and immersed in my life that I enter a state of mind so unlike anything I have known before that I find myself gladly and willing spending all the time and effort needed to live my ideas.

Now I pause for some reason that escapes me.

Current influences: Henry David Thoreau, Jackson Browne, Vincent Van Gogh, Woody Allen.

Dear Me,

New York is fine.  It’s snowing today.  I’ve been to the movies, museums, Central Park, the Village, etc.  I’ve been doing some thinking too and some writing.  Just want to say that whenever I feel myself slipping, tired of trying, getting a little cranky, feeling lazy or weak or frightened or frustrated, I can always remember this: It appears to me it’s easier to be a cow than a human being, but do I really want to be a cow?    

Semi-sincerely,
Me

Dear Me,

Just read my letter to you, and I have to say in all honesty that I am a complete idiot.  I’ve been lazy, weak, and frightened for quite a while.  So far, I’m losing badly.  I’ve been a fortunate loser, but a loser just the same.  An adolescent with temporary inspirations who writes adolescent writing and will continue writing adolescent writing interspersed with an occasional inspiration until… until… until… I don’t know when.    

Way-too-sincerely,
Me

Between the idea
and what
it becomes…
I am at my worst
Between the what if?
And the what is!
I am weakest.

Now is as good a time as any, I guess, to return to visual reality and describe my writing attire which, as usual, is a pair of brown glasses, a pair of well-worn baggy gray corduroy pants, and an extra-large blue and black plaid flannel shirt that, now that I notice it, has a nice pattern.

Time for some additional external inspiration.

So this is what it’s like to be a writer… Not bad but how long can I stay with it? Yesterday I made a list of books I want to read, some of which I have already read: V, Gravity’s Rainbow, Sometimes a Great Notion, the Iceman Cometh, Steppenwolf, Leaves of Grass, Dandelion Wine, Hamlet, King Lear, Henderson the Rain King, Catch 22, Stranger in a Strange Land, something by Ishmael Reed, something by Thomas Berger, something by D.H.  Lawrence, and Letters to Theo by Vincent Van Gogh.

Yesterday I rearranged my little library, putting the “best” books together: Another Roadside Attraction, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Short Stories of Nathaniel Hawthorne (especially, “The Artist of the Beautiful”), Wuthering Heights, The Confidence Man, Short Stories of Herman Melville (especially “Bartleby the Scrivner”), Return of the Native, Waiting for Godot, Poems of Wallace Stevens, Walden, Cat’s Cradle, Narcissus and Goldmund, The Glass Bead Game, The Last Temptation of Christ, Saint Francis, Zorba the Greek, On the Road.

What I need to do with all these books is find passages that impress me or inspire me and type them out word for word, sentence by sentence to get the feel of good writing and keep a collection of these exercises, study them, find out what it is (the essence of each) that attracts me.  Maybe I’ll find the same thing in all of them, a common thread, or maybe I’ll find something different in each, but the only way to find out is to do it.  Do it? Do it!

I just do what I do in life and make the best of whatever comes of it… I don’t think too much about it, I just think enough to chart a course and then I do it.  I can’t be anything without doing something — with intensity. 

“… many nights, when he created his world under the fierce glare of a single 500-watt bulb that dangled naked above his easel.  Fabulous, provocative, demanding months and days: years saturated with ever-deepening strata of cherished memories, utter exhaustion—and new challenges…” (David Douglas Duncan describing Picasso)

Maybe this is it… these next four months… 1977… my year… my last chance… last hope… one last chance… one first year… my life…

What I want to do doesn’t matter unless I do it.  I have to really want it enough to work hard at it and suffer through it and make it mine, feel it, know it.  I have to concentrate and dedicate myself and really listen, really breathe, really taste, really see, really feel.  I have to free my life.  My only hope for life is a free life my only way of life is a free life so I have to bring myself and my writing around and closer together my writing and my life so much to do and say and see and know so much that it sometimes leaves me overwhelmed and paralyzed by the prospects like standing before the ocean with a teaspoon in my hand to empty it but I still have to try… if only I could write well and strongly to express my thoughts and ideas (it seems I talk too much in the hopeful tense) again I say between the idea and what it becomes is where I am weakest (last stop for optimists).  In writing, good ideas are essential, but not enough because writing is a skill, a craft to be mastered through hard work, time, and perseverance.  I must breathe, eat, and sleep writing from January 1, 1977 to May 1, 1977.  That’s my resolution.

.

I may be old and crusty, but I’m still a man, and a man counts for something, doesn’t he? 
- a “bum” lying on a sidewalk

I don’t like people. I like one person at a time. 
- Marstead Kvenel

South 
Why am I here?
To live and die.
That’s all?
Yes, that’s all.

East 
Why am I here?
To live and die.
That’s all?
Yes, that’s all.
What am I supposed to do?
Learn to live and die.

West 
Why am I here?
To live and die.
That’s all?
Yes, that’s all.
What am I supposed to do?
Learn to live and die.
How am I supposed to do that?
With a sense of direction.
….
…
..
.

Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun.
– Douglas Adams

When I wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor in a house which I had built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts, and earned my living by the labor of my hands only.
– Henry Thoreau

You want that.
You desire this.
You have who knows
what?

You used to be
manic depressive and now
you are bipolar,
taking regular doses
of self, you are
self-medicating, spending
your final sense
relieving and reliving life and pain.

If you are not under
the influence, then what
are you? Are you
me?

Who are we?

Be excessive in your commitment to moderation.
- Marstead Kvenel

We can look upon a road from two different points of view. One regards it as dividing us from the object of our desire; in that case we count every step of our journey over it as something attained by force in the face of obstruction. The other sees it as the road which leads us to our destination; and as such it is part of our goal. It is already the beginning of our attainment, and by journeying over it we can only gain that which in itself it offers to us.
- Rabindranath Tagore

Lucy recognized her eighth period Algebra teacher from the poster in the hall. Mrs. Bloodworth, “Teacher of the Year,” leaned over the open attendance book on her desk and drummed her red fingernails.
Reddish-brown hair curved under her jaw. Her lips barely moved as she called roll.

“Adams.”

“Here.”

“Bintz.”

“Present, ma’am.”

The farther Mrs. Bloodworth went into the alphabet, the more Lucy’s stomach churned.

“Underwood.”

“He’s absent,” Josh said from his desk in front of the teacher.

She marked her book, then looked up. “People! We have two new students in our class. The first is Laheyda VookaDEE.”

“It’s LaHAda VooKAdee. The accents are on the middle syllables.” The little girl in the desk behind Lucy had mousy brown hair and a pixie haircut with ragged bangs. Her big round glasses, perched on the tip of her tiny nose, seemed ready to slip off at the slightest movement.

“Vookadee,” Mrs. Bloodworth said, rhyming with chickadee. “What kind of name is that?”

“It’s Vookaaadee.”

“I didn’t ask you how to pronounce it. I asked you what kind of name it was.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s nothing difficult about my question, young lady. Is your name Greek? Yugoslavian? Jewish? What kind of name is Vookadee?” Again, she mispronounced it.

Lahada’s jaw tightened, but before she could reply, the teacher said, “Are you chewing gum?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Bloodworth put her hands on her hips. “I usually don’t tell jokes in my class. But I always make an exception for gum-chewers… People, what’s the difference between a tiny girl chewing gum and a big fat cow chewing its cud?”

She paused. “Give up? The difference between a tiny girl chewing gum and a big fat cow chewing its cud is the intelligent look on the cow’s face.”

“I don’t get it,” Josh said.

“Quiet!” Mrs. Bloodworth snapped, glaring at Lahada. “Take that gum out of your mouth and stick it on your nose!”

Lahada folded her hands on the desktop.
“I’m waiting, Miss Vookadee.”

Lahada’s tiny thumbs twiddled furiously.

“Young lady, if you don’t put that gum on your nose this instant, you will sit in my class with gum on your nose every day for the rest of this year! Do you understand me!”

Josh reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a piece of bubble gum. He unwrapped it and then, pretending to yawn, stuffed it in his mouth. After several forceful chews, he took the gum out, stuck it on his nose, and said, “Like this, Miss Bloodworth?”

“Not funny, Mr. Bintz. Would you like to accompany Miss Vookadee to the principal’s office?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then keep that gum on your nose, and if Miss Vookadee doesn’t do the same, you both can visit Mr. Hightower. Do you understand me, Miss Vookadee?”

“Vookaaaadee,” Lahada said. “Lahada Vookaaaadee.” She took the gum from her mouth and placed it on her nose.

“Willis.”

“Here.”

“And Lucy Youze, our other new student.” Mrs. Bloodworth picked up a wooden pointer and stabbed a poster on the wall. “Miss Vookadee and Miss Youze, these are the rules of conduct in my class. Everybody repeat after me. Rule one. Don’t blurt out.”

“Rule one,” the students droned. “Don’t blurt out.”

“Rule two. Ask a stupid question, don’t expect an answer.”

“Rule two. Ask a stupid question, don’t expect an answer.”

“Rule three. Always be respectful.”

“Rule three. Always be respectful.”

“Now turn in your homework.”

“Now turn in your homework,” Josh echoed.

Mrs. Bloodworth glared.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“Open your books to page thirty-two.”

During the lesson, Lucy doodled cartoon characters in her notebook: a fat snake, a skinny elephant, a hippo with a monocle, a pig in a chef’s hat. She listened to the slow click-click-click of the clock on the wall. Finally, the bell rang and Mrs. Bloodworth, reeking of perfume, stood near the door as her students filed past.

The other new girl joined Lucy in the crowded hallway.

“Uh.” Lucy pointed. “You still have —”

“Oops.” Lahada giggled and plucked the gum from her nose.

“Hey, Lucy!” Kat called. “Have you met Juliann and Mia? Juliann and Mia, this is Lucy.”

Kat ignored Lahada.

Juliann, who was even taller than Kat, had silky blond hair that hung all the way down her back. Mia was Lucy’s height but heavier, and wore tight jeans and a tight black sweater.

“What do you think of Mrs. Bloodynose?” Kat asked.

“She’s kind of intense.”

“How do you like Ramby Middle School so far?”

“It’s okay, I guess.”

“Come on, Lucy. Tell us what you really think.”

Lucy hesitated. “Well, actually, I hate it.”

Kat laughed. “That’s more like it.”

“The schools in New Jersey are way better. The classes aren’t so crowded, they don’t have trailers, and the teachers —”

“Give me a break,” Mia said. “Nobody’s interested in hearing how great it is up north.”

“But all I said was —”

“If it’s so great up north, why don’t you just go back where you came from?”

“But she —”

“God, I hate it when these damn Yankees act like they’re better than us.”

“But I don’t think I’m —”

“From now on, why don’t you just keep your opinions to yourself?”

Lucy bit her lip.
 

Chapter 3
BLOOD, GUM, AND NOSES

Hunched beneath the weight of her backpack, Lucy reached into the mailbox and pulled out a stack of junk mail and bills. Then she trudged up the lawn.

The front door swung open and her mother called, “Hi, Lucy. How was your first day?”

“Don’t ask.”

Mrs. Youze lifted the backpack from Lucy’s shoulders and grunted. “What’s in here, the school library?”

“They gave me all my books and no locker.”

“They probably forgot. First thing tomorrow, remind your homeroom teacher. How about a hug?”

Arms at her sides, Lucy breathed in her mother’s lilac fragrance, so much more pleasant than Mrs. Bloodworth’s overpowering perfume.

“Let’s go to the kitchen, Lucy. I made you a snack.”

Lucy sat on a barstool at the counter and with her right foot pried off her left shoe and listened to the dull thud on the floor.

Mrs. Youze set out a plate of raw vegetables and ranch dressing. “Tell me about your day.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Do you like your classes?”

“Inside or out?”

“What do you mean?”

“My Spanish class is in a trailer in the parking lot. And the school’s so cheap they gave me a list of supplies we have to buy. Pens, pencils, paper, binders, even a box of tissues.”

“Tissues?”

“Yeah, and a special calculator for Algebra.”

“Maybe you can use Holly’s or Duncan’s calculator.”

“This school stinks, Mom. Everybody hates me.”

“How can they hate you when they don’t even know you?”

“They’re obsessed with blood and noses.”

“What?”

Lucy told about the red-haired girl with the bloody nose and the teacher who made kids put gum on their nose. Then she described the scolding from Mia.

“I’m sorry, Lucy. I really am. But things will get better. Just give it a little more time.”

Lucy picked up a pen from the counter and began writing her name on the back of an envelope. In a few minutes, the entire envelope was covered. “Can we move back home?”

“This is home, Lucy. Daddy and I have much better jobs here, we have a nicer house, and we can pay for Holly and Duncan’s college.”

“That’s another thing. Why can’t Holly and Duncan go to college here? Why do they have to be so far away? Last year they came home on weekends. Now I’ll never see them.”

“They’ll be home for winter break.”

“It might as well be forever.”

“It’s less than three months.”

“I’m all alone here, Mom.”

“Come on, Lucy. Cheer up.”

“A puppy would cheer me up.”

“We’ve been through this before, Lucy. A puppy is a lot of work.”

“It’s not like I have anything else to do. I don’t have any friends, so I’d have lots of time to take care of a puppy.”

“The answer is no.”

Lucy folded her arms on the counter and buried her face in the fleece sleeves. She squeezed her eyes shut and saw blackness and swirling blobs of light.

“Come on, Lucy. Tell me one good thing that happened today.”

Lucy could have said something about the kids at the lunch table (they seemed funny) or maybe Kat (she seemed nice). But she didn’t answer. Because no one could ever take the place of her best friend Nikki back home. No one. Ever.

Hi, Nikki. How do you like my new e-mail address? My dad told me to pick something different, but I wanted HOMESICK13. It’s perfect. On the way to school today I decided to play a little game. I decided to notice the first words anybody said to me here. You’d think it would be something like HI or HOW ARE YOU? But these two girls were fighting and then one of them started yelling at me. She said WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM! Like I was the one who punched her in the nose. So the first words anybody said to me were WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM! I should have said YOU! YOU’RE MY PROBLEM! YOU AND EVERYBODY ELSE IN THIS STUPID PLACE! They all hate me. Because I’m a damn Yankee. That’s what they call you if you’re from up north. Like the Civil War never ended. And my parents wonder why I’m upset. First they make me leave my home and my friends and then they make me live in this stupid place. Anyway, don’t forget to send me a letter. It’s the only thing I have to look forward to. Your best friend, Lucy.

Never underestimate your power to change yourself; never overestimate your power to change others.
- H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.  – J. Krishnamurti

“I hate you!” a red-haired girl screamed as Lucy stepped off the school bus.

A girl in black shorts and a white tee shirt laughed, then turned and strutted beneath a banner, an angry ram’s head, draped over the school entrance.

The bus roared away, spewing exhaust fumes. The wind swirled bits of stinging dirt on Lucy’s ankles.

“What’s your problem!” the red-haired girl screamed at Lucy. “What are you staring at?” Blood trickled from her nose.

“Me?”

“No, your grandmother!”

“I’m not staring,” Lucy said, trying to stop the quaver in her voice.

“Well nothing happened, so quit gawking.” The red-haired girl spun on her heels and stomped into the school.

“Don’t worry about the freak,” someone said. “She looks scary, but she’s harmless. Hey, I like your skirt. Your glasses are cool too.” The girl speaking to Lucy had light brown hair and a pretty face. She wore eye shadow that highlighted the baby blue in her eyes.

“Thanks,” Lucy said, adjusting the black frames.

“I’m Katrina Willis. My friends call me Kat.”

“I’m Lucy Youze.”

“Are you new at Ramby?”

Lucy nodded.

“What grade are you in?”

“Eighth.”

“Who’s your homeroom teacher?”

“Miss Coles.”

“Mine too. Come on. I’ll show you the way.”

Kat took long strides, and Lucy had to hurry to keep up. They passed beneath the ram banner, the flared nostrils and the angry red eyes. As the door closed behind them, it groaned.

______________________________

Hi, Nikki. I tried calling, but I got your answering machine. You should change the message. It’s the same one since kindergarten. I wish we could be in kindergarten again. Remember the time I lost my teddy bear and Mrs. Frazier sent out a search party? Mrs. Frazier was the nicest teacher. Anyway, I’m in Georgia now and it’s way worse than I thought it would be, so pleeeeze reply to this e-mail. And call. And don’t forget to send me a letter. You know how much I love getting mail. Your best friend, Lucy.

______________________________

Lucy’s first morning at Ramby Middle School passed in a blur of unfamiliar faces. No one spoke to her, but she overheard bits of conversation. “Did you see the new girl? She looks like Janet from Another Planet.”

Lucy’s face burned red as she entered the cafeteria. The lunch monitor, a small gray-haired lady with large, gnarled hands, led Lucy to her assigned table.

“Children! We have another new student today. Say hello to Lucy Youze.”

“Hello to Lucy Youze,” said a boy with brown hair and a broad, freckled face.

“Don’t be a wise guy, Josh.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” A wet kernel of corn whistled from his mouth and stuck to the table.

“Gross!”

“Mr. Bintz, don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” He snapped his mouth shut and smiled.

The lunch monitor ordered three girls sitting on one side of the bench-style table to slide over and make room for Lucy.

“Mmmm,” Josh said, grabbing his fork. “I love the smell of meat loaf in the morning.”

“This is the weirdest lunch period ever,” another boy remarked. “It’s 11:05 and we’re already having lunch. Instead of lunch period, they should call it brunch period.” A blue flannel shirt hung over his slight frame, and curly blond hair covered his ears. He glanced at Lucy, and looked down.

“Two new kids in one day,” Josh said. “Where’d you move from, Lahada?”

Lucy started to answer, and then realized that the question was meant for a girl at the other end of the table. Laughter drowned out her reply.

“What!” Josh boomed.

“Cincinnati.”

“Cincinnati, Ohio. Home of the Reds. What about you, Lucy?”

“New Jersey.”

“Ray’s from New Jersey too. Across the river from New York, right Stretch?”

The lanky boy nodded.

“I’m from South Jersey,” Lucy said. “Near Philadelphia.”

“Oh, baby! Philadelphia cheese steaks! I could eat those suckers all day!”

“You’ll eat anything that won’t eat you,” the blond-haired boy said.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Benjy. I love alligator. And an alligator would eat me.” He shoveled a forkful of food into his mouth. “Are you gonna eat those veggies?” Without waiting for a reply, he scraped the food from Benjy’s plate, and then turned to the girl at the other end of the table. “Hey, Lahada. What’s in the container?”

“Artichoke hearts.”

“What the heck is an artichoke—and why on earth are you eating its heart?”

Benjy shook his head. “Could you be any more of an idiot?”

“I’m pretty sure I could.”

“Artichokes are a vegetable,” Lahada said.

“Can I try one?”

“Sure.” A tiny hand pushed the plastic container towards Josh.

“Not bad. There’s nothing like artichoke hearts in the morning.”

“You know what’s weird?” Benjy said.

“Besides you?”

“The word weird doesn’t follow the spelling rule of i before e except after c. It’s like it’s trying to be weird.”

Josh squinted at Benjy. “Man, it’s hot in here.” He stood and peeled off his sweatshirt to reveal a tight red tee shirt with an ugly bulldog above the letters UGA. A thin belt dug into his waist, puffing out his chest. He sat down and said, “Now I can do some serious eating.”

“Eating is about the only thing you ever do seriously.”

Lucy stared at her sandwich and then at the yellow cinder block walls reflected the glare of fluorescent lights. The lunch monitor paced like a prison guard near the doorway.

“Hey,” Benjy said. “I just thought of something. This table used to have three kids from Georgia — Emily, Nolan, and Josh — and three kids from other places — Sondra, Ray, and me. Now, we have five kids from other places and only three kids from Georgia. We got you outnumbered.”

“You lousy northern carpetbaggers.”

“Except Sondra. She’s from South Africa.”

“South Africa?” Lahada echoed. “Why did you move to Atlanta?”

“Because my father’s an ahsol,” Sondra replied in a thick accent.

“What’s an ahsol?” Josh asked. “Like a fossil collector or something?”

“No. An ahsol. A butt-hole. He made me leave all my friends. He’s an ahsol.”

“Oh,” Josh shouted. “I love it! Benjy’s an ah— Ouch!”

A gnarled hand clutched the back of Josh’s neck. “Enough, Mr. Bintz,” the lunch monitor hissed.

Josh hunched his thick shoulders. “Ouch, ma’am.”

“One more outburst from you and the whole table can stay for detention. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When the lunch monitor was gone, Josh said, “Ahsol.” Smiling, he turned to Benjy. “And you’re an ahsol too. A no good Yankee ahsol.”

“I’m not a Yankee,” Benjy replied. “I’m a Twin. A Minnesota Twin.”

Just to be is a blessing.  Just to live is holy. 
- Abraham Joshua Heschel

what you can do is feel
the form inside you, chisel
the extraneous and carve
the essential to reveal
the self hidden inside.