The author, smiling winningly Scott Raymond home


05 Sep 2003

I was alone once, this spring, driving way out in the country in the middle of the night, I hadn’t passed another car for twenty minutes, no streetlights, no stars, no moon, perfect blackness, like a cave, except for my high-beams. It was very cool.

So I stopped. I pulled over and turned off my lights and got out, stumbled up the berm by the roadside and walked out into a field, straight ahead, floating in space, lost at sea, weightless, adrift.

What I thought I should do, what seemed right, was to take the opportunity to reflect a little. Just bask in the place, the beingness, maybe consider the lilies, some crap like that.

Instead what I did was cry out and ask for help. I clenched my fists and breathed in deep through my nostrils and I cried out and asked for some fucking evidence of things fucking unseen. For a star to appear, for a pair of headlights, for a lightning bug, for a hand to hold.

And that’s still my prayer.