Tuesday, September 14, 2004

I Am The Wolf Who Lives By The River

Last night. Me. Soaking in my brother's whirlpool bath. (Well... it'll be my brother's until 10 a.m. tomorrow morning when he gets a check and give sup the keys.)

It was, of course, sublime. I put out a call to Wolf and he came. Whenever I call, he comes.

Our conversation was incredible. Natch. Way too much to go into now. Or ever, perhaps. But I want to telll you all about the best part. Wolf called me by my name.

"You," he said, "are the Wolf Who Lives By The River."

Wolf Who Lives By The River.

That is so it. So totally it.

Clearly, I'm in the Clan of the Wolf. Since I was a little boy, the Wolf has always called to me. Resonated with me. When I was about nine, out on a November night under the full moon, running through fallow fields shimmering with frost with my dog, I became a wolf. I know I did. I have the most vivid recollection of it.

I am Wolf.

And Rivers. I've always lived by a river. I grew up along the Delaware. I went to college on the Schuykill, Philadelphia sits between the Schuykill and the Delaware, and New York City is bounded by the Hudson and the East River. The river is my favorite body of water. (And you thought it was the hot tub, didn't you?) There's something sacred about a river. Something holy. The ancients ascribed a god to every river. T.S. Eliot, writing about what he considered the greatest American novel, "Huckleberry Finn," described the Mississippi River as the 'long brown god moving through the story.'

I am Wolf Who Lives By The River.

I know the shores choked with brambles and saw grass, the sandy beaches, the spit of grey pebbles. I have seen the river hold the moon, and watched the river fill up with dawn. I have given up myself and let the river take me where it will, and trusted the river to carry me where I need to go. I have tasted the waters sweet with spring rain, and sour with fallen leaves in the autumn.

I am Wolf Who Lives By The River.

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