2 FEB 07
Even before we get on the road for real, we sell three books to Billy and his buddy Tom. Profit sharing, we pass along fifteen of that to Mike when we get to DC. Mike in a wheelchair on the corner. Mike in fatigues, sitting on the cold steps holding out a paper cup--he's everywhere.
Three women waiting for a light in the dark owl box. I read the printed explanation, discover that it lights up for one minute each half hour. "Those slow connections we talked about." A pattern like raindrops on the box's old glass, steadfastness rewarded. The box became lit, a candle-shaped bulb. We turned to look.
"If there were a category for dreams--like Flying Dreams, Tunnel Dreams, Talking-Animal Dreams--where you experienced life, almost your own life but what yours would feel like after a religious conversion--if there were, I'd say I'm having a recurring Converted Dream."
"You shouldn't be telling yourself stories about a better world."
"No, I think of it dark--I liked it better dark. But what stays with me is the way those women were willing to stand there and wait for the light."
. . .
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