<--BACK THE VISION QUEST On the seat next to me are a couple of books I've picked up at the library, Celine's JOURNEY TO THE END OF NIGHT, then some interviews of poets about their craft published by the New York Quarterly. This is the extent of my planning for the camping trip. I'm heading north up Route Four to Livermore Falls and then on. It's been three days since I've moved out of the house, its memories of married life, raising a daughter and the divorce, and I'm still in mild shock. The veil had lifted exposing a painful reality, and I didn't like what I saw. Friends and acquaintances seemed a million miles from me, still in the old way of being. Everything they said belonged to a past I no longer inhabited. Throughout spring, when I knew I had a sure buyer and steps were being taken, I began to look at maps and drive to different areas of Maine trying to find a likely area to move to. I've been across America but I don't know my own state well. The wilderness up north, the Great Allagash and Baxter State Park are a fantasy land I've always heard of. I found a log cabin in the western mountains; a small, secluded house presently occupied till the end of the month, so I'm camping out till then. I'm not sure what attracted me to it except that there were good vibrations. I consider it a stroke of luck finding it. I stop at Lake Wasookeag and park my red sports car, Felinas at the rest area near some picnic tables. Alone, I strip down, put on my swimsuit and bathe in the lake. Afterward, I make a supper of French bread with radishes, scallions and some cheese. A family comes to the picnic area and chooses a table far from mine. Good. The solitude feels right, even necessary. I've decided to spend the next two weeks exploring Maine. There must have been a million crickets at my campsite off the highway outside of Monson, but peaceful and secluded. When fixing breakfast, I realize I'm poorly equipped to camp out, a last minute decision. I have no sharp knife or utensils and have to use part of a nylon stocking as coffee filter. On to Greenville, the last outpost of civilization, to stock up on equipment. Every other building is a great wilderness outfitter. Two banks refuse to cash my check, but the A & P does so readily. It takes a while to get all the things I need and I leave Greenville at one thirty in the afternoon without coffee filters. The great northern wilderness and Lilly Bay are up ahead. I spend the night at a gorgeous spot across from the water, but I have difficulty falling asleep when it gets dark and there is nothing else to do by 8 PM. I spend hours tossing and turning. On this night something comes to my tent. I can hear its rhythmic panting. By morning, I've gotten into the camping mode, losing my city ways grudgingly. Breakfast consists of scrambled eggs, burnt toast and coffee -- all delicious! Afterward, I head for Kokadjo traveling a private logging road, dirt, wet down to control dust. Felinas gets caked with a half inch of mud clear up to the windows. The road comes to an end at a forest gatehouse where a woman takes down my plate number and asks where I am going, and how long I plan to stay? She wants to know where I am from. We chat for a while and I tell her my plans. I had wanted to head northwest and on to the Gardner-Debouillé public land area, but the old woman tells me most of the trails on my map are privately owned logging roads and I won't be able to gain access to them. I will have to take the northeast route where I can visit Baxter State Park for the day. The old woman writes it down in her log book. That's good; I'm not going to die in the wilderness unknown to the world. Baxter State Park is a long ride through rough country, but beautiful. The southern part is dominated by Katahdin, every turn in the road brings me face to face with that mountain and there are several camping areas. When I head up the narrow dirt trail it becomes wilder, unspoiled. That's when it happens. I'm going along, about fifteen miles an hour when I see a bear scamper across the road in front of me, a black bear. Jesus! I wish there was someone with me to share this experience. Surprisingly, I'm not frightened. Rather, I would like to be a bear too, to go tumbling and running in the woods with it. My Hollywood image was of creatures who stood on hind legs and roared menacingly, not this shaggy black ball scampering on all fours. This is surely an omen. When I first started writing I had terrifying dreams about a bear who came crashing through my safe middle class life wreaking havoc, its powerful claws tearing into walls, destroying all in its path. No sooner have I parted with it when I come round the bend and see a doe and her young one in the middle of the road. The fawn takes off, but mother stays to examine me. It's as if I've stepped into another world. On leaving the park, I speak to the ranger who estimates the bear's age at two or three years, a young buck. "It's rare to spot these bears," he tells me. Come evening, I camp about three miles down an old logging road, a short way from Patten, off Route 11. I have an eerie feeling being there; psychic forces are at work. I take a walk on an overgrown, abandoned road, find some raspberries, eats several handfuls, then run for a half mile. After I've set up camp and had supper, I sit on a rock thinking about the underworld and how hard I work to keep it down, to ignore it. But still it's with me and pierces my reality when I least expect it. I think about psychic energy; I can feel its presence in the rocks. It occurs to me that my mind is obsessed with "relationship," that my life revolves around my relationships, and perhaps this is so because the world is too fearful otherwise. It holds unlimited possibilities -- chaos. It's been a long driving day. I crawl into my tent and fall asleep in short time, but am awakened in the middle of the night, freezing. I try to rearrange my sleeping bag, put on my chamois shirt and wool socks and then the damn tent falls on me. Full of dew. My sleeping bag and even my clothes get wet. I get up and go to sleep in the car. A scary dream awakens me: I'm pursued by people whose faces are wrapped in gauze and I'm asked for identification, my driver's license with a picture, but I can't find a picture of myself without others in it. In the morning, I discover the car has a flat tire and the battery is dead. I think to walk to the highway, but for some reason I'm a bit apprehensive. Once there, I decide if I have no luck after flagging down five cars I'll go back and maybe there'll be enough juice in the battery to get it going. Number four car stops. A man with soft, curly grey hair greets me. We look at each other for a moment; he's OK. "My car's parked a couple of miles down this road," I explain. "I've got a flat tire and my battery is dead." He nods. "I'll go take a look," reaching over to pop open the door on the passenger side of his automobile, he motions for me to get in. Once the tire is changed and the car's running, he hesitates . . . as if not wanting to part with me. I try to explain my trip to him, but my explanation lacks clarity. It doesn't matter, because I can see he has understood the nature of the adventure I've embarked upon and he wants to share a small part of it. This service he's rendered will suffice him before he reenters the every day world of his life in Patten. It's back to Route 11, pouring rain. I head past Eagle Lake toward Fort Kent and Madawaska, to the very tip of the Maine border, then down through French country, Presque Isle, Frenchville, Van Buren. The terrain is very different here, miles and miles of flat land, potato fields and sugar beets. I listen to French songs from the Québec station just over the border. The farmhouses are great two and three story structures. I love the large open porches and half buried potato barns. When my daughter came back from college, there was a strange look on her face when she arrived at the house. "You gotta get out of here, Ma," she told me in an ominous tone. And so I've left my dead house. I'm not well. It started in the morning. I feel dizzy, weak, stomach is sick. I decide to spend the night at a rest area and information station in Houlton. I don't want to be far from help if I need it. I awake the next morning not feeling any better. The camper parked next to me moves back and forth. At first I think it's my dizziness, but no, it's the wind blowing. What a job trying to make coffee with the propane stove! It takes forever getting the water up to boil. I spend the day in the parked car reading some poetry essays, Levertov and Rukeyser. And some of Céline's book, a tragicomic, stream-of-consciousness story from a rough and tumble guy. The Levertov article was written in the sixties. She takes a righteous stand, belittling the rich kids and their experience at the ivy league school where she taught. I was more impressed with Rukeyser. Still, I find very little of substance concerning craft in both interviews. Before I knew very much about poetry I used to read Whitman, Dickenson, Poe, Bly. There was no plan to it, even later when I read every poet I heard of. Had someone asked, Have you learned anything from it? I would have said no. Perhaps there is a subconscious plan. I find that a poem writes itself if it is true. But how to arrive at truth? For me, it is learning to be quiet, learning to listen. During my year of waiting for the house to sell, I realized that from the beginning what most interested me were the words. It was my reason for entering college. I had wanted to learn the words to speak my soul, and more than that to free me from the constraints of the identity imposed on me. I had wanted to master those specific words that are used to imprison and shackle the defenseless, and I've done that. Yet, I realize this isn't enough. I want to be able to touch people with my words. I fix myself a big breakfast the next morning with a pot of coffee, some stir fried carrots, onions and potatoes, and a couple of toasted egg sandwiches with cheese, a sure cure for what ails me. I swear, on my death bed I will be eating five course meals. Afterward, I take out some fruit for my midday snack straightening things out in the car, and go out to wash up in the rest room. Driving down Route 1, I think of spending four days in the woods fasting, as the Indians do. A vision comes to them from the experience and it shows them the path they must follow in life. Usually an animal or bird is part of the vision and is adopted as that Indian's totem. It's incorporated in their name. I want to do this. I've thought about it this winter, lying in bed at night thinking about starting a new life, wanting guidance for a new direction. This fast may not be easy to accomplish. I've got to find a place where I'm not going to meet up with people. And then there's the queasiness, I feel somewhat better today, but still in the bathroom, the room started swimming when I exerted myself. To my left, off the highway, is a winding dirt road which I decide to explore. Rough going, some fresh tire tracks and many old apple trees along the way. I drive for a mile through woods and when I come to a clearing, I park the car and continue on foot. The area is fresh mown grass, flowers, and vegetable gardens. Oops! I can see an old man working among the pole beans. I'm in someone's backyard. But another inlet leading to the gardens opens and I go back. Mr. Shey introduces himself, tells me he is a retired railroad man. He wears one of those striped engineer hats and looks like Santa except he hasn't got the beard. "This is a beautiful area, Mr. Shey. The vegetable and the flower gardens are gorgeous. You must have worked a long time to accomplish this." "I have time. This is my private corner," he tells me with a wink. And it is that. No one traveling Route One would suspect there's an Eden behind the woods. We chat for a while and we are silent too. I'm a bit uncomfortable, but I trust him. We lean on the hood of his truck and I notice he is inching close to me. I don't know what to think of it, but I don't have an urge to move away. "How would you feel about my camping in the woods back there?" "I wouldn't mind at all." "I'd like to stay for four days." "That's fine. Come," he motions, "I'll get you some vegetables for your evening meal." He gets me corn and tomatoes, some cucumbers and beans. Then he takes me for a walk beyond the clearing to the woods in the back. "You can get your water from that stream," he points down beneath a stone bridge where cool, dark water runs through a winding path of rocks. "There are three miles of woods beyond this, and then a couple of lakes -- all of it uninhabited, and miles and miles of woods beyond that." He leaves then, his house being way back on Route 1. I immediately set out for the woods. There are many trails and I walk quite a while looking for just the right spot to set up my tent. I take my clothes off along the way. Back at the clearing, I lie naked for a couple of hours, sunning myself and reading another essay. Erica Jong speaks about getting published and what it meant to her, that talent isn't enough you need perseverence too. How she knew good writers in college who never followed through and weren't writing anymore. Later I have my last meal, clean out the ice chest and get rid of the perishable food. I pack the things I will need for my four days in the woods and set out. It starts raining during the night and by morning it is pouring. The tent leaks badly. Everything is soaked, my sleeping bag and all my clothes. Then all of a sudden a loud roaring noise; sounds like a motorcycle. It's Mr. Shey coming up the road in an all terrain vehicle. So much for four days of fasting, solitude and peace. "I got worried that you got lost in the woods." Reasonable assumption; there is some responsibility about my camping in his woods, and he doesn't know me. After he leaves, I put up a clothes' line and hang out the sleeping bag, my extra pairs of socks and my hat. But it's no good because it continues to rain on and off all day. I'm miserable, no place to stand or sit, rain, rain everywhere. I'm cold and there is nothing to be done about it, everything is wet. So I sit inside the tent on the plastic air mattress with the rain coming down on me and all I can think of is home, but there is no home left, and of food. Food, food, food, vegetables, eggs, thick sauces, fresh fruit with cream, cakes and pies. I give up at five PM, bring in my wet sleeping bag and turn in. I'm beginning to get sick and have a bad headache. * Cloudy, overcast second day. I hang the sleeping bag on the line with little hope of it drying, then I cut some pine boughs and fix myself a place to sit down. Later I take a walk, but it's hard going. I'm weak and tiring easily. Besides, my sneakers are getting soaked, so I sit around most of the day. The food cravings seem to be gone, but the headache continues. I notice when I close my eyes that the imagery is vivid. I see wild, crazy pictures, wilder than dreams. I try to see if they make up a story. They don't seem to. Do they reflect momentary feelings? I don't know, they're so outrageous it's hard to figure them out. Mr. Shey drives up in the afternoon. "It's gonna be a cold night, about 30 degrees," he tells me. Oh gosh, that's discouraging! Well, I'm going to have to do something about it. He tells me his daughter is coming up from Connecticut this evening which he's looking forward to. After he leaves I get to work preparing for the cold night by cutting some pine boughs to put underneath my air mattress, figuring it will put me that much higher off the ground and maybe I can put some on top of me too. Five o'clock and I'm exhausted. I check the sleeping bag, a few wet spots otherwise it's fairly dry. But the real luxury is that my woolen socks are dry. There is a towel and a pair of shorts in my pack. I wrap one around each foot then lie down. It takes several hours till I fall asleep. All of a sudden, I'm awakened by the sound of the all terrain vehicle. Jesus! What is it now? "Hello! Hello!" Comes the impatient voice outside. While I'm in the process of opening the zippered screen, then the zippered flap the voice, irritated now, says, "Hey! Hello!" I get things unzipped and there's a young man with red hair sitting on the vehicle. "You must be Mr. Shey's son," I greet him. "No, I'm the grandson." He asks what I'm doing way the hell up here. "I don't know." "You don't know!" At this point, I close the flap to my tent. He can't start his all terrain vehicle and mumbles something about it. His penis has wilted. Good! I hope he gets stranded in the woods overnight. And now I'm ill, violently ill. My stomach is going crazy. I keep wanting to throw up; surely it can't be food. I spend a long miserable night. * * Fairly warm third day, but windy. After I awaken, I force myself to go outside. The sound of that wind is oppressive. Weakness is causing me to totter. I walk to my spot in the sun and am warmed. The tiniest field mouse, no more than a biteful, comes to check me out. Then many birds park themselves in surrounding trees, sparrows mostly. They're starting to trust my presence. I hang out my sleeping bag to finish drying and see Mr. Shey driving up the path for a visit. "I'm really impressed with what you're doing," he tells me. Marvel and affection are written all over his face. I nod, "I feel the same way about you. You're a kind, gentle man with a trusting heart. I enjoy these visits." "I do too." It isn't that we talk so much, but rather we seem attuned to each other. I feel at peace when I'm with him. Before leaving he gives me the weather report, "It's gonna be a cold night, but warm day tomorrow," then he starts his machine and heads out. My energy runs out at three PM. I try to stick it out till four but at three thirty I decide to turn in. I put on my two pairs of socks and sneakers. Tonight, everything is dry. The minute I lie down the vision begins. I see a man dressed in a phosphorescent robe. On his chest is a scroll with calligraphic writing on it. It's a map. From each side of the man's throat grows a young tree, both reach up to form the antlers of a deer. This man is a sorcerer who gives off a cool, glowing light in the dark. His identity, worn on his chest, are the words, beautifully written. It serves as a map to guide others. Indians have visions of animals, I have one of a sorcerer. I understand the vision is guiding me to the world I know but dare not acknowledge or speak of. It's the underworld, the world of chaos, without boundaries that I glimpsed on the logging road. The vision continues and I see jaws, the open jaws and teeth of what appears to be a fish or alligator. A Batman with his mask, several Batmen snapping their long fangs. Then it is eyes, a face with an eyeball wet and slimy. A hand reaches in to pull it out, it turns into a little fish. And next it's a face that looks like a mask, the right eye is missing. This part of the vision is the other side of the coin; the life without identity, wearing a mask, rapaciously hungry, without sight or wisdom. * * * I awaken at nine AM on the fourth day. A coyote came close to my tent during the night and sang me a lullaby. It isn't my puny energy it crooned to but that great feminine power in the sky. Tomorrow morning I'll be making my way down to the clearing and the gardens. I'm concerned about my ability to make that trip with full pack, the tent and my sleeping bag. The day is warm, full sun. I sit quietly for a while and write in my journal. Afterward I take my clothes off and sunbathe but I can only stay for a while, I'm exhausted. At noontime I crawl into my tent. My mood is peaceful, the forest has an order that induces this. I find that I don't think very much, it's more intuitive. In the city my mind spins and spins until at times I wish I could remove my head to get a rest. This morning when pissing on the ground I noticed a rock with a small natural puckering hole in it that looks like an inverted belly button. Turns out it's an old Indian adze used to scrape hides and such; fits perfectly in the hand. Whoever made it shaped it in such a way that it looks like a fish with the belly button pucker as its eye. When I leave here I'll be driving through Indian territory, the Micmacs. I had wanted to buy myself something, the adze is much better, made when Indians roamed America, Children of the Earth that nourished them and this simple tool a part of it. I think about that first day in the gardens with Mr. Shey. I could see that although my work is there, I don't want to go back to the city for a long while. It saps my energy just to maintain balance in all that craziness. My daily visitor comes over at three thirty. I crawl out of my tent and stand for a while but find I can't sustain it and go to sit by his side on the red machine he disdains so. "It's my son's," he always points out. We have a long visit and talk about simple things, about nature and animals, the habits of certain birds. It's ending and both feel sad. I confide in him about my fast and vision quest. "I suspected you were doing that. I could see there were no cooking utensils here. I wanted to bring you a sandwich several times." I smile at this offer. "I'm truly amazed you've done this and stuck it out." I don't know why I'm not afraid in the woods only that it's a fact. I tell him about the coyote who came to my tent in the night. "I hear them in the evening from my house. They travel in packs. That's how they hunt." He doesn't warn me or try to coax me out of the woods because he knows I'm free and treats me with respect. "Will I see you tomorrow?" I ask, pointing out that I'll leave around noontime. "I won't be able to come in the morning. My daughter's visiting and we'll be going to church. But why don't you stop at the house when you leave?" I can tell it's important to him, he wants his wife to meet me. But I don't want to do that. What with the grandson's visit I figure I'm being thought of as a curiosity at his house. At night the visions are of women. I see a sorceress in a long white gown. The woman wears a crown that springs off her head and is structured into a triangle, richly decorated and with lights all around it. Then come a series of pictures of one woman. It's a friend back home, a woman who's lost her power in the world. She appears soft, feminine, happy, not this woman's way for many years now. She is hardened and emulates men's ways in the cities. In the first scene, she wears a wedding gown but hides her face. When she does show it, there are small tree fungi all over it, and also on her gown. She wears another wedding gown in the next scene. It has a bluish tinge and the crown of her veil is encrusted with large bluish pearls. She is walking at the edge of a cornfield. The last scene depicts the bride sitting at her vanity, radiant. She arranges her face and hair. There follows a series of pictures of women, all beautiful; one is a painting of a woman holding a yellow flower, a living, moving painting with red, red lips. The flower is presented, it is live. The sorceress with triangular headpiece brings unity and light, warm light to me. She shows me the way to become whole through the example of my friend who is transformed and given a new identity by becoming part of the woods, the cultivated soil, through solitude and refinement of the soul. And I understand, the beauty of woman ultimately is the flower she presents to us, not the way she appears. * * * * This is the morning! I crawl out of my tent, make my way to the blackberries across the path that I've been eyeing for the past four days. Their tartness grab at my throat and I retch. I drink some water and sit in the sun for a bit and rest. Then I start packing for my trip down, making everything as compact as possible. The plastic water jug is emptied and I latch it to my pack. Bedroll is tied so I can carry it like a suitcase. Only the tent is cumbersome. Although it folds up compactly and slips in a pouch, the pouch has no handle. I gather the pine boughs I had cut and use them to repair part of the path that is gutted and collects water. Slowly and rhythmically I make my way down never stopping once all the way. I can see the clearing ahead. I start to cry -- because I am glad? -- No, confounding human nature, I am sad to leave the woods. Felinas waits faithfully. My breakfast consists of herb tea with honey and I have an orange to eat. Throughout food preparation I scurry back and forth through the gardens and fill my cooler with vegetables as Mr. Shey has advised. The sun overwhelms me and I sit in the car to rest. I pull out a crisp, clean sheet of paper and write a poem to Mr. Shey. I include a note and pick some goldenrod and black-eyed Susans that I stick in the scarecrow's hat. Back on the road, tooting wildly as I pass Mr. Shey's house, I drive by the Indian reservation and am overwhelmed with sadness. They have now become the Children of Government. They live in identical brick houses all in a row, all facing the highway. I turn the radio on, want to get acclimated by degrees, but find I cannot listen to hard news. A plane crash has occurred in California killing fifty people; and over in South Africa thirty Blacks have been murdered for refusing to leave homes after being given eviction notices. This information is given in a rhythmic, singsongy way. No feelings, hard. Click! I shut the thing off. Around five o'clock I decide to stop at a store and get some supplies, then find a place to bed down for the night. Oh god, what a shock I encounter when I step into the store! I've lost my way of being in the world. Stimuli bombards me from all sides. Words! Letters! Signs! Exhortations! I feel like an African bush woman suddenly transplanted to the Grand Central Terminal. Against the back wall is an ice box with butter, I get two sticks and make my way to the counter. I want to protect myself from all the stimuli. Furtively, I look at the counter girl as she slowly counts out my nickels and dimes and then I run out. Once outdoors I make a quick assessment of my physical appearance. Wild hair which I stick beneath a straw hat to no avail. My body looks emaciated. A normally slender woman, this weight loss makes me look anorexic. I can finally say without equivocation that I have a flat abdomen. And my inner thighs so long a source of concern at the gym, the skin just hangs from them now. What's more I haven't bathed in five days. I stop at another store, make my way to the ice box; there's that Wine Cooler I like. As I reach in to get it a young man comes over and says "No Ma'am, you can't take that." "What have I done?" I jump back. Seems they don't sell wine on Sunday in this town. I'm completely unnerved and mutter something about getting ice. "Yes," he tells me. "You can get ice." I quickly make my way out of there too. Eventually stopping at two other stores, each time gaining more composure. My walk becomes slower, sexier. People's looks are less strange when they see me. I keep driving and driving but can't seem to find a place to bed down for the night. Finally around seven PM in desperation I make my way to a boat access and launching area in Searsport. A big lot, tarred with marked lines for parking cars, big overhead lights, potted flowers and a picnic area with corrugated metal tables, grills and a tiny lawn. But the view is stupendous, ocean all around, about twenty five boats moored in the water, some with sailing rig, a long, large wharf where people are coming back from boat trips. There's much activity in the lot, cars pulling in and out. Some just come for the view, others are going home with their catch. Two women and a young boy in a beat up car pull up next to mine. Mama and her girlfriend, sitting to my right with the window open, are discussing LOVE. The kid's got an enormous ice cream cone in one hand and a large drink in the other. I watch him playing for a while. He finishes his ice cream then throws rocks at the sea gulls. I have to fight an urge to push him over the rock edge he skirts and send him hurtling into the ocean. At bedtime, I park under the big light next to the camper trailer making sure all doors are locked. Morning sun streams down on me; people are bustling through the parking lot. I sit up, again the outstanding view. I notice people are less frantic than the ones I saw in the stores yesterday. About fifteen of them are fishing off the sides. I make my way to the corrugated metal tables and start coffee. An old woman comes to greet me and offers chitchat. I acknowledge her and reply briefly, trying to protect myself, to control incoming messages. Something happened to me in the woods -- I don't want to lose it, don't want to go back to being crazy in the world again. I sit with my coffee and begin to write. The old woman and her husband take the table next to mine. They are having lobster. He unfolds a lawn chair facing the sea and cracks open a book, A pampered man, handsome, lean, full white beard. His wife faces corrugated metal and begins her attack on the lobsters. She works steadily and quietly save for an occasional query about her husband's well being. She speaks with an accent too faint for me to distinguish. The morning passes like so. The man removes his tee shirt, nice, well proportioned chest. He sees me watching and struts a bit. I'm amazed at the amount of meat the old woman has managed to extract from the lobsters. Everything's been pulverized. I notice she didn't save the tomalley -- an out-of-stater. It's time to head home. I chart my route and head inland. The closer I get the more anxious I become, not wanting this time to end and bracing myself for the ride into town. I would like to go immediately to my cabin, but doubt that it is ready yet. I decide to go the Silver Gym, take a shower and afterward get supper, hoping staff is not present so I won't have to chitchat. Again the violent shock as I enter; hard black iron strewn in long rows on the floor, heavy black iron machines everywhere, and the whole of it set off by mirrors all around reflecting it twice and three times over. I pass a body builder and his girlfriend on my way to the locker rooms. Both give me the once-over and disdain me. Three weeks ago I was a peacock strutting this floor. I still remember the combination to my locker and the door opens to reveal an electric blue body suit with stripes, smoke colored tights and salmon pink leg warmers hanging there. I pack everything up except the toiletries I will need for my bath. The shower lasts thirty five blissful minutes and afterward I blow dry my hair, put on a dress and heels examining myself in the mirror. I look good, my face is strong. Chinese dinner at the Jade Fountain. I see hardship in the faces of people around me and I remember the glib comment made by a visiting celebrity. "A depressed mill town," is how he phrased it. Two fortune cookies inform me that my outstanding trait is versatility and the way of the heart is the most profound way to speak. I head for the cabin, stopping along the way to pick up a bottle of champagne. What an incredible sight it is when I get there! A big bouquet of wild flowers with oak leaves sits on the picnic table, several smaller ones in the house. The place has been all spruced up and polished. I sit quietly outdoors for about fifteen minutes taking in the white tipped, blue mountains, the lake, the tall pines. I light the outdoor fireplace that's been prepared with newspaper and kindling. Then I become frenzied like the lobster woman and bring in the things I had stored in the pump house, hang all the bedding, area rugs and pillows to air out, put all the food supplies on shelves, in cabinets. I decide to leave my office furniture and equipment for another day. I am too weak to move the filing cabinet and desk. I proceed to the car, uncork the champagne bottle and pop it against the front door. Then I completely unload the car by firelight, bringing in the vegetables from Mr. Shey's gardens. I wash them up and cook the beet greens so as not to lose them. It's four o'clock in the morning, everything's straightened out and I hop in bed. In the still and quiet I am aware I have entered the chaotic darkness of my life, my new home. I begin to cry, deep heart wrenching sobs, and I do not stop for a long time.