One foot, then another. Imprint in sand, in mud, displacing wet leaves on the forest floor.

What made the portly-mohawk-sporting man throw himself against the wall at Blackhawk Stadium? I was 17 and the Red Wings were on the ice, too, and the organ pipes pointed tinny notes to the ceiling. The crowd really did roar.

After the Uffizi gallery in Florence, I swayed against the sidewalk, collapsing into a bench. Art poisoning. What happens after you stand beside timeless paintings and realize you are a pinprick in a shower of sunbeams.

At camp, in Minong, we used to ascend the crest of the grassy hills, one hand spearing the sky, to keep gnats away from our faces. The waterskiing point was a ten-minute walk through forest that had been there longer than we could imagine.

The book my mother showed me at 7 to teach about sex: claymation figures in a progression of poses, the bee nosing the flower, dogs humping, a woman and a man, in bed with a sheet pulled to shoulder height. Somehow, from that, came a baby. And that, mother said, was sex.

Did I have a favorite story? I can’t remember. I used to play cassette tapes again and again, rewind, play, rewind, play, writing down the words so I could sing along.

My bedroom a spray of pastels and the Bruce Springsteen Born In The USA poster on my wall, satin mobiles dangling from the white-washed ceiling. I was little girl and young woman, coming into me.

The title of Dan Eldon’s journals: The Journey Is The Destination. A skull, a scorpion, a little boy in a sleeveless shirt with his hands bent at the elbows holding I don’t know what. His mother’s testatment to what his life could’ve been. If we record it all, are we by definition distant from the actual happenings?


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