83.

And it’s about time people told the truth about beautiful women. They do not shimmer down staircases. They do not descend from on high attached to nothing other than wings. She was from somewhere. She had roots.

-Zadie Smith, White Teeth

[on roots. on believing.]

coming from somewhere seems to mean that you always think about that somewhere. too naturally, the memories detach themselves from the reality of historical truths and experiences, and eventually, on down the line, memory and imagination with hands clasped tightly together, fingers interwoven with the symmetry of a Southern sunset, begin to shift and sculpt the recollections (collections of fictions infused with fact?) into brilliant fantasies of what never was. convinced, we call them memories, nod, tip our hat, and step forward, boot prints in the soil, striving to do justice to what never was before and believing whole-heartedly that we are heading home.

this isn't what i intended to write this evening, but it happened to come out this way and truthfully i'm glad to be writing anything. i've been with Twain for weeks now. i've been with critics of Twain for weeks too. today i was with Morrison on Twain...there ain't much better than that. maybe Townes on Cash. there are few authors that i've read who are as connected to place as Twain. his fictions illuminate the best and worst truths of the south; reminding us to forget about what we have learned and urging us to be reminded of that which we have forgotten in our fellow human beings, the beauty of the natural world, and they mysteries of God.

i'm thankful for men like him and fictions that breath new life into fact.

---

Huck and all his wisdom, saying goodbye to his reader...

But I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally, she's going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there before.