Ideas I want to write about

We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors of death, beauty, violence.... “Seem like we’re just set down here,” a woman said to me recently, “and don’t nobody know why.”

As I walked along the grassy edge of the island, I got better and better at seeing frogs both in and out of the water. I learned to recognize, slowing down, the difference in texture of the light reflected from mud bank, water, grass, or frog.

It’s a good place to live; there’s a lot to think about. The creeks—Tinker and Carvin’s—are an active mystery, fresh every minute.

It ever was, and is, and shall be, ever-living Fire, in measures being kindled and in measures going out. — HERACLITUS

Through the puncture shoot the poisons that dissolve the victim’s muscles and bones and organs—all but the skin—and through it the giant water bug sucks out the vic-tim’s body, reduced to a juice. T

propose to keep here what Thoreau called “a meteorological journal of the mind,” telling some tales and describing some of the sights of this rather tamed valley, and exploring, in fear and trembling, some of the unmapped dim reaches and unholy fastnesses to which those tales and sights so dizzyingly lead

In making the thick darkness a swaddling band for the sea, God “set bars and doors” and said, “Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further.” But have we come even that far? Have we rowed out to the thick darkness, or are we all playing pinochle in the bottom of the boat?

. Presto chango. The audience, if there is an audience at all, is dizzy from head-turning, dazed.

How could so many hide in the tree without my seeing them?