Eight years or so ago I met Archibald Macleish’s youngest daughter, the youngest of twelve children as I recall. She would have come of age when his life had pretty much become an accomplished thing and a done deal. It happens. In her conversations and descriptions I noted a dynamic, something unique, that can get played out between an old man and his youngest daughter child, especially when the child comes to him later in life. Maybe you know the story involving Mignon, a fictional character Goethe invented, and that pretty much sets the type of just such a dynamic. It is what your essay brings to mind, which is my way of saying the piece resonates.

And maybe you know the story about how Faulkner finally went back home to write about things most familiar to him. Sherwood Anderson persuaded a younger Failkner to eschew his stupid ambitions involving New York and Paris, go back home, write about something he knew in his bones. Another way of saying this is good writing.

Terreson

When I was a kid, I wasn’t allowed to watch Twin Peaks for the most part. But the way our living room was structured, I could stick my Hello Kitty mirror around the corner from my bedroom door, and secretly watch the tv on the opposite wall. I recently told dad about this. He said he knew I was doing that but never said anything because my Mother was the one who would have freaked out. He thought giants and ladies who talked to logs and women walking through fire were healthy for my imagination. He was probably right.

Amazing our social consensus doesn’t perceive chronic, widespread homelessness as a massive systemic failure. Homelessness has a high link to mortality, and every year homeless people are murdered in random hate crimes. No excusing the man’s death threat against you, though, Amber — I’m very sorry to hear about that.