William D. Waltz
Third House from the Corner,
across from the Coconut Grove
Like all my neighbors, I’m building a world from scratch. There’s the city, the roads, the conveyances, the sea of grass to the west, the granite hills, the ocean, the night sky, pumpkin moon, sacred woods, the gods, family, and friends. It’s one vast collage. We’re using fact and fiction, physics and poetry, quarks and quetzalcoatls. We’re pasting bits of language onto ferrous meteors, onto strangers and street corners, and onto great expanses of the unknowable. We have one choice—to build, to construct a reality imbued with meaning, whose randomness resembles not chaos but wet rocks along the shoreline or a village huddled on the limestone bluffs overlooking a river. This world, this myth, is of our own making.