The Family Tree Is Handsomer

This is a book about my retirement after my writing career is over. My hair is black. I am thin and appear elegant, tenacious, and well taken care of. My face is filamentary: has absorbed rivulets, good chords, strategies. Also I’ve managed to avoid seasickness! One night I am lifted up, head first, into the sky. It’s not quite like flying but the sensation of being plunged upward and greeted by eight giant legs. At first, I struggle to get home so I can find my garden and water it. Only every time I have a complete thought, I float higher. Additionally, everything I think becomes true. I think, There is a concrete dragon for me to chase → so there is a concrete dragon for me to chase. If all thought becomes active, then I must change tactical arrangements. I switch to, What kind of world do you want: the tussle pell-mell kind, or let everything be. The seagulls hundreds of feet below me repeat my words. At this height, the cold could stop time. I do not panic when ice rims the roof of my head like rust. Instead of having thoughts, I sound out individual words. I say ceil-ing over and over. Eventually, though, a ceiling forms. It’s like a wide glass thread, I mean grass stem. Wide enough how, I mean now. I hit the glass and the sound of a clap as I find myself hugging an average-sized azalea bush, erupting with growth. When I became nothing but walking sound, all action.