Everything I Tell You is Hearsay

When I wander away from it for a while, I forget how much I love the gym. I tend to be rather various and inconsistent about fitness unless I have a routine, a plan, and a place to go. No matter my access to workout DVD’s, fitness channels, or muscle magazines, I can never seem to get into a rhythm that works for me without the gym. I seem to need the structure of a place to go, the inspiration of an expanse of machines, racks of weights, walls of mirrors. 

I was in a good routine, just starting to plateau, and considering what it would take to increase my intensity when I fell down and dislocated my tail-bone in a “I can’t tell if I was having fun unless I got hurt” episode. After that it was very difficult to get back in the swing, since I took so long to heal. Once I was recovered, I had moved to Eugene where there were, to my shock, no 24 hour fitness locations. This was most distressing, since I had a lifetime membership there. Trying to find a new gym was sort of a pain, and I couldn’t commit until it had been so long I barely remembered what it was like to lift on anything approaching a regular basis.

And this arm is not what it used to be

But with my Christmas bonus, and a bargain membership offered through the Gold’s gym here, I was excited to get back at the rack.

I have a tendency to overdo things after a long absence, so I tried to take it super easy the first day back. Minimal weight, short sets, only 2 of each. I stretched for at least as long as I had lifted, and apart from some chicken wing tightness, I felt pretty good. Second day back, I tried to maintain my plan, but pushed a little harder on the lower body than I had on upper body, just by virtue of the greater capacities of the muscle groups in question. I did some of the harder lifts in my repertoire with minimal weight, but despite my caution, I could still feel the strain even before my second set was over.

Today, I attempted a recovery workout. I tend to alternate days lifting focusing on specific areas: arms & abs one day, legs & ass the next. For a recovery day I do an all over workout focusing on movement, stretching, and simply creating bloodflow to the areas I think might need it. I usually come away from this feeling great and much less stiff and sore than I am if I just rest completely. When I left the gym today I felt pretty good, but by the time I was done with my chores…. mercy.

Now, I know they say “No pain, no gain” but today I feel like I was beat with sticks. It’s pretty clear I haven’t done myself any great injury, which is certainly an improvement over other starts, but every time I stand up, sit down, twist, bend, move or breathe, it hurts. I’m trying to take this as a sign that I activated all the muscles I wanted to and I’m well on my way back to super-buff status, but right now all I know is that I’d give my bad eye for some Ibuprofen, Aspercreme, a hot tub, and a massage. And the thing is, I don’t even need to, I have access to each and all of these things, it just hurts too much to move enough to get them.

Rolling In The Deep

Watch this. Listen with your whole self open. Let it wash you away.

I dare you to resist…

There’s a fire starting in my heart,
Reaching a fever pitch and it’s bring me out the dark.
Finally I can see you crystal clear
Go ahead and sell me out and I’ll lay your ship bare.

See how I’ll leave, with every piece of you
Don’t underestimate the things that I will do.

There’s a fire starting in my heart,
Reaching a fever pitch and it’s bring me out the dark.

The scars of your love, remind me of us.
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all
The scars of your love, they leave me breathless
I can’t help feeling
We could have had it all
Rolling in the deep
You had my heart inside your hand
And you played it
To the beat

Baby I have no story to be told
But I’ve heard one of you and I’m gonna make your head burn,
Think of me in the depths of your despair
Making a home down there as mine sure won’t be shared

The scars of your love, remind you of us.
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all
The scars of your love, they leave me breathless
I can’t help feeling
We could have had it all

Rolling in the deep
You had my heart inside your hand
And you played it
To the beat

We could have had it all
Rolling in the deep
You had my heart inside your hand
But you played it
With a beating

Throw your soul threw every open door
Count your blessings to find what you look for
Turn my sorrow into treasured gold
You pay me back in kind and reap just what you sow

We could have had it all
We could have had it all
We could have had it all
Rolling in the deep
You had my heart inside your hand
And you played it to the beat

We could have had it all
Rolling in the deep
You had my heart inside your hand

But you played it,
You played it,
You played it
You played it to the beat

It’s been a bumpy ride of late, and by the time Friday rolled around, I was starting to feel the strain pretty thoroughly. I haven’t been resting enough, or eating right, and that coupled with events being totally crazy all around me, I was ready for a break.

I had a guest for the weekend in The Boy I like. He came into town and let me play tour guide a bit.  I managed not to fall down at all, though I will admit, he caught me at least once, and maybe, technically, more than once.

We did some chores, had an impromptu lunch date with some folks I like a lot, wandered around town making fun of hipsters, and then went on;

Quintessential Date #1

A Hike In The Gorge: Growing up in Gresham meant that when you were too young to go to bars, and you were also too young to have your own place, you needed somewhere to go and do the sorts of romantic things you can’t do at your own house because your parents would frown on them (and I do mean YOUR parents, my mom was all ABOUT those things) To this end there was the drive in the gorge. You piled in the car with your CD’s and a desirable person of interest and off you went. Scenic make-out locations abound. It’s cozy, and romantic, and prompts good conversation. It was pretty much an ideal getting-to-know-you activity. And it turns out, even though I am old enough to get into bars AND I have my own place, it continues to work about as well as it did when I was a teenager, and it’s still a good time with someone I like a real lot.

Quintessential Date #2

Hug Point & Battery Russell

I am charmed by the fact that my favorite little cove on the beach is called Hug Point. That’s just fucking cute, and there is no getting around it. It was my Uncle James’ favorite place on the coast, and he took me there several times when I was young. I have nothing but sweet memories of this place, and it is both beautiful and important to me.

Battery Russell I like for weirder but no less compelling reasons; it is fun to scramble around on the top, dart and dodge through the mazelike rooms below, play hide and seek if it’s dark. But the real reason I like to go is for the acoustics, which are epic. It’s basically a concrete bunker with nothing in it, so sound just carries and rolls around in the best possible way. I like to stand there in the dimness and let my voice sweep through the structure in waves of sound like I cannot produce anywhere else. I’m showing off, it’s true, but it makes me weak in the knees at the same time.

The weather this weekend ranged from cooperative to amazing, so that was quite nice. We ate well, got lots of rest, and nothing tragic happened to us or anyone we care about.

Going to call this one a win.

Words & Music By Billy Joel

In every heart there is a room
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along

I spoke to you in cautious tones
You answered me with no pretense
And still I feel I said too much
My silence is my self defense

And every time I’ve held a rose
It seems I only felt the thorns
And so it goes, and so it goes
And so will you soon I suppose

But if my silence made you leave
Then that would be my worst mistake
So I will share this room with you
And you can have this heart to break

And this is why my eyes are closed
It’s just as well for all I’ve seen
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you’re the only one who knows

So I would choose to be with you
That’s if the choice were mine to make
But you can make decisions too
And you can have this heart to break

And so it goes, and so it goes
And you’re the only one who knows

I don’t like snow. I don’t like it in town. I don’t like it in my yard or on the street. If I had my way, there wouldn’t even be snow in the PARKING LOT at the mountain. I don’t think it’s romantic or cozy; I think it’s wet and messy and unpleasant in every way except one. I only like snow under my skis.

But oh god, do I like it then.

I’ve only been skiing for about 12 years. I had always wanted to try it when I was younger, but my mother was fundamentally opposed to me doing anything “yuppies” would do (point of fact, my three favorite sports are now skiing, golf, and tennis. ha) When I became an adult and could choose for myself, I made it my new favorite thing to do. I was unemployed one glorious winter, but still drawing a weekly check. I’d often ski 3-4 times a week. God, those were the days. I spent most of my time at Skibowl, but did a fair amount of time at Timberline as well. I was pretty much terrible, but I loved it.

Motherhood put the brakes on my skiing career for a while. One ought not ski while preggers, and convincing anyone to stay with a shrieking infant for the better part of a day so I could go hit the slopes was not as easy as it might sound. Once Hodie was older and spent time apart from me, it was back up the hill for me. Even better, when I started taking college classes it turned out YOU COULD GET CREDITS FOR TAKING A SKIING CLASS!!! This was, and I try not to exaggerate, one of the best things that has ever happened to me.

I showed up for class all excited and ready to tear down the mountain. The instructor had other ideas. He asked me how fond I was of my skis. I was fond of them in the sense that they were mine and they allowed me to go more often than if I had to rent everytime. He asked if I was aware I was wearing skis that were both a) about 4 sizes too big and b) 10 years out of date. I was not, in fact aware of this. He told me it was impressive I had even managed to stay UPRIGHT on these relics, let alone get down the hill at all. I scampered right out and got myself some new skis that fit. Holy Mother Of God, what a difference. I had always LIKED skiing, but this was a whole new ballgame.

I could carve, I could hit turns super hard, I could manage any run at Timberline pretty much at full speed. It was a revelation. Music blasting in my ears, knees bent, body leaning into my skis as hard as I could manage. This was joy. Pure and cold and unadulterated. Joy.

And I rarely feel that. An all-consuming pleasure that brooks no competition. Something so absorbing that I cannot hear me chasing myself around in my head. Something that causes every part of me to be entirely engaged in enjoying the moment.

I am not well-rounded. I am more like one of those weird dice you use for D&D that have big flat sides to fall on that are kinda hard to roll. I don’t have a broad variety of skills, but rather a few things at which I am particularly good.

My mother tells me I could sing before I could talk. That nights when I was 7 or 8 months old, she could hear me making a sighing noise from my crib, little wordless tunes. Nothing else I can do gives me as much pleasure. It lights me up inside and dispels the darkness all around me.

When I am feeling especially in need of something beautiful I will go find a spot with the kind of accoustics you used to only find in church; echoing, ringing, enveloping. I will lift my voice until the sound rolls over and through me raising the hair on the back of my neck and sending shivers through my skin.

Heathen that I am, it’s rather ironic that my voice is best suited for the cathedral. Likewise, I am not much a fan of opera, but I have a Big Voice and a very high range. A vocal coach once marvelled that I could sing several notes higher than the higest not that anyone bothers to write. That capacity to reach those heights has diminished some with age, but a few years ago a friend of mine was making an album and asked me to sing for her. There was a particular sustained note that would overlay parts of the chorus and it was far too high for her range. She had been very generous with her time and helping me record some of my own music, so I was more than happy to oblige. Later, after she had mastered the whole record she presented me with a copy, she told me that all the while she was sequencing the vocals, hers would come through the mixer as a somewhat jagged and uneven line but that when she put my voice through it made a perfect sine wave. This made me giddy.

I sing in the car, I sing at work, I sing at the gym, while I shop, and when I’m riding the bus or walking down the street. Occasionally people look at me with a quizzical or annoyed expression, but for the most part I am happy to say, other people seem to enjoy it when I sing too. Lucky me.

So, where shall we go then?

The Columbia River Gorge Scenic Highway

Apart from the sheer beauty of this drive, it is also a sentimental choice. I spent six years living in Gresham, and one of the only ways to entertain yourself was to get in the car and go for a drive in the gorge. Turn up the radio, flip on your headlights, and pile 3 or 4 friends into the car. We’d get out at Multnomah falls and climb up the path in the dark. Or cruise up to Larch Mountain and mount the stairs up to the viewpoint. Crown Point was also a favorite; all lit up at night it is especially romantic.

The road itself is windy and curvy and demands constant attention. One night I was in the car with a fellow who was trying to impress me by taking the curves at a speed I found terrifying rather than exhilarating. He came around one turn so hard that the car fishtailed and the rear end slammed into the cliff face on the passenger side. I was not amused, but I also wasn’t hurt. He did slow down after that.

There are multitude waterfalls, waysides, and scenic spots along this highway. Oneonta gorge requires you to get out of your car and scramble over a giant logjam, but then you are treated to a lovely waterfall tucked far back into the crag. Horsetail is right next to the road, but lovely and worth pausing for.Multnomah falls is certainly lovely, but having seen it more times than I can possibly count, I mainly get out there for the soft serve.

Highway 26 to Cannon Beach and Highway 30 to Portland

I like to take this drive as a loop. Highway 26 west out of town, 101 north through Astoria, and then back along highway 30. Once past Banks, the rolling pastures become a forest replete with Douglas Fir. The trees sometimes grow thickly enough to shade the road almost entirely. This is another windy one, but it’s a broad expanse of road in most cases so doesn’t feel quite as treacherous.

Once you reach the coast you head north on 101 and get to see a fair example of what coastal towns in Oregon can look like. Cannon Beach has more of a village feel. Its shops and restaurants are cozy and quaint and just slightly more sophisticated than some of the other options. Seaside is bustling, but feels like what it is; a tourist town with a rather depressed economy. Astoria has managed to retain much of its vintage charm. Many of the houses are intact perched there on the cliffside. After you’ve been that long in the car it’s nice to get out and climb the 164 steps to the catwalk of the Astoria Column. The vantage on a clear day is stunning. You see the confluence of the Columbia river and Pacific. Looking south Saddle Mountain is prominent, and north you can spot Cape Disappointment on the Washington shore.

If you’re hungry by this time I cannot recommend Fulio’s strongly enough. It is a tiny and intimate Italian bistro right in the midst of downtown Astoria. Every meal I have had there has been phenomenal and both the atmosphere and service are excellent.

Heading north out of Astoria sets your wheels on highway 30. Winding around Oregon’s thumb, the highway leads back to Portland via Ranier, St. Helens, and Scappoose. It also passes the old site of Trojan. The cooling tower is no longer in place, but I always giggle at the notion that Mr Burns might be lurking up in one of the still extant office buildings.

Skyline Boulevard to Germantown Road

For a shorter jaunt, I like to head up Burnside and swing around onto Skyline. This is definitely a windy drive, and not for the inattentive or those prone to motion sickness. The two lane road wends its way across the summit of the west hills. There are beautiful views to the west and down into the Tualatin valley. There are houses grand and humble all perched on the slopes on either side. Most of the best real estate is taken up by the several cemeteries along the way, which are undeniably lovely, but I feel like the view is wasted on dead people.

This route is also a favorite destination for bike riders so caution is crucial when coming around corners. It is all too easy to take a curve too quickly and suddenly find yourself bearing down on a cyclist. Many drivers tend to be altogether too cavalier about this possibility, and I have seen more near misses than i care to think about.

The Skyline Tavern is along this stretch of road, and I am sorry to say, it doesn’t come close to living up to it’s potential. The building is of old weathered clapboard and looks like a rustic cabin from the street. Inside however, it’s pretty much just a typical dive. It’s unfortunate, because with their location, I feel they could do something really amazing. Some decent food would go a long way toward remedying the situation, but they meet OLCC guidelines for serving edibles by stocking microwave corndogs and bags of Fritos. There is a horseshoe pitch in the back as well as a ping-pong table and a fire pit. I would TOTALLY hang out there if they just put a little more effort into offering some kind of snackables that were even remotely palatable.

Skyline stretches all the way out to Scappoose where it intersects with highway 30, but I rarely go all the way out that far. Typically, I like to turn right at Germantown and follow it down through the canopy of trees. There are several places to pull off and gain entrance to Forest Park from this end, and it’s usually less crowded for a hike than some of the portions closer in to downtown. When you wend your way down off of the hilltop, you are treated to a view of the St John’s bridge.

Of course, there are lots of other drives in the area I love to take, and I am especially fond of road trips, but these are the drives I most frequently take; the ones that cure my restlessness, satisfy my desire to be on the go, and give me the chance to feel the pull of gravity in my body when I take those turns just a little faster than I ought.

I am an unabashed lover of all things car.

 From the time I got my first car when I was 16 up until this very day, driving has always been simply one of my very favorite things to do. Grumpy? Go for a drive! Bored? Same! Date? Drive in the Gorge! Sad? Drive to the beach! It’s the first answer to almost any emotional state I am in. It makes me feel adventurous and free, safe and in control all at the same time. It is almost the perfect venue for listening to music as it keeps me occupied but allows me to really attend to the music in a way I would not if I had other tasks to distract me. Most of my best stories are adventures from when it was time to go for a drive…

My Cars:

I’ve had a few, no lie. In chronological order:

#1 Old Blue 1965 Plymouth Valiant. Hand me down from dad with a slant six. He was super fast, but a total death trap. No reverse and the brakes went out on me while I was driving it. A clear head and the awareness that an automatic transmission shifted into 1st WILL slow you down if all else fails probably saved me.

#2 Godiva 1981 Datsun B210 Coupe

She was brown and shaped kinda like a chocolate chip. Starter went out and had to arc the ignition manually from under the hood with a screwdriver for the better part of the year. Powershifted that bitch through the clutch going out for almost that long. She just kept running, until one day, she stopped.

#3 This Car Had No Name 1983 Mazda GLC

That alone should tell you something. It was a nightmare from start to finish. When Godiva died, I decided to go FINANCE something and went to what was at the time the WORST POSSIBLE CAR LOT in town. Seriously, they got sued and lost HARD. They managed to talk me into this POS for something like $3500 (I had NO idea what I was doing, clearly) at 58% interest! Sweet deal huh?? The heat didn’t work, it wouldnt pass DEQ, 5th gear just sort of disappeared after a few days. At this point I was totally fed up. They started coming after me for payments and I was like, you can come get the thing. They threatened to sue me, I said Bring It On. They came and towed it away and I never heard another word.

#4 Lyrica 1989 Toyota Corolla Coupe

I loved this car. It was the first “nice” car I ever had. It was cute as hell and drove really nicely. It had a sporty stance; very low to the ground, and even though it was only a 4 banger had totally decent pickup. After the disaster with the GLCbeast, the  people at the Toyota dealership were really nice and were giving me a FANTASTIC deal at only 39% interest!! God, I was young and had never had parents with credit of any kind… This one had to go by the wayside after my former spouse crashed it into a curb at about 30mph during an ice storm. I contend to this day he did it on purpose cause he hated that car.

#5 Opal 1989 Honda Accord

The next car I had that was truly mine wasn’t until after aforementioned spouse ceased filling that role. This was another hand-me-down, but in this case it was from the boyfriend at the time. It was in fairly good shape, but he’d just bought a Stealth and had no use for a sedan anymore; he was all set with his flesh-colored PenisMobile. Anyway, it was a very nice car to drive most of the time. Apart from when the moonroof collected about a gallon of rainwater that would pour down my back when I took off after a shower without thinking about it. That wasn’t so great. Nice handling, liked the ride a good deal. This car was mostly great because at the time I lived over in Felony Flats and all the Asian kids drove around in souped up Hondas. This one (when it came into my posession, thank you) had an aftermarket spoiler and windows tinted with what appeared to be roofing tar. I put a giant purple daisy sticker in the rear window to alert the police that I was not in fact, an Asian gang member of any kind, I have never been pulled over so many times in my LIFE as when I owned this car. It happened CONSTANTLY. What’s more, the officer would invariably approach my window with a very stern look only to see me and become immediately kind of crestfallen as though inside they were thinking

“Dammit, that is just a white girl and her baby.”

#6 Datsy 1980 Datsun 510

Oh, Datsy.

Remember how I said I loved my Toyota? It was NOTHING compared to how much I loved Datsy. I OWNED this car. I bought it all by myself for $250 and then drove the CRAP out of it for about 5 years. I personally repaired the brakes, dash pad, replaced the instrument cluster, plugs, wires, distributor cap and rotor, headlights, replaced a broken window, swapped out the battery, and helped put in a new radiator. That’s RIGHT!!!

I was totally irrationally in love with this car. But she was super fun to drive. Nimble and quick. Stopped on a dime and got me everywhere I needed to go. It wasn’t til I betrayed her by moving to the top of Sylvan hill that she began to remind me she was only 3 years younger than I was and wasn’t really all that keen on hiking up that goddamn hill everyday. Having done it once (just once) on my bicycle, I kind of see her point.

#7 Klaus 1998 Volkswagen Passat

Remember how much I loved Datsy? Well, I loved Klaus even more. He was and is my favorite car ever.

I had a serious crush on this car. I got him custom plates. I put a roof rack and gear atop him. I cried then they crahed into me and broke into him (more than once, thanks much) He was the apple of my eye, and I miss him still.

He was beauiful and drove like a dream. Road hugging, agile, comfortable suspension. The interior had nice appointments, he had a moon roof. I took him skiing and up logging roads, camping and surfing. I drove him to Bend and California, around the Olympic Peninsula, and took him to Reno to see Neko on what remains the most amazing adventure I have ever taken.

And then, because I didn’t know anything about having a nice German car, I killed him. I didn’t know the timing belt would just… break. When I was a kid all the cars would start running like crap when they needed attention in the timing department. Klaus ran great right up til he started making a horrid noise. Then, I drove him for a few more days thinking “I should get to that” but unlike Datsy who I had some hope of actually being able to work on Klaus was too fancy and computerized. Even still, when he finally did die, he did it at home. He wouldn’t leave me by the side of the road, not my baby. Sniff. A testament to how much I loved this car is that I kept it, with fantasies of reparing him, for almost THREE YEARS after he died. I only finally gave up and faced reality in September of this year when I had to explain why I still had a car that didn’t run, but not one that did. And even after all that time, i still cried my head off when I had to let him go.

#7 Sven 1984 Volvo 240

This was only meant to be my emergency back up car while Klaus was waiting to get fixed. I kept him for almost 2 years, but hated him pretty much the whole time. The only thing I can say in favor of this car was that it always started and went. Oh and it also had AMAZING cargo capacity. Other than that, plththftht. Drove like crap, handled horribly, Thing was a tank, had no get up and go. Heavy and cumbersome with ungainly stiff suspension. I really really didn’t care for this car one bit. Hodie agreed. I could, and did, work on him, but it lacked the joy of working on Datsy, cause I didn’t feel that way about Sven.

Ironically, as much as I didn’t really like him, he’s a popular model and brand, so when I sold him with non-working windshield wipers, no overdrive, and a clutch that was going out, I got almost as much for him as I spent on my next much nicer and current car.

#8 Colgate 1991 Subaru Legacy Wagon

Unlike most Oregonians, I am not a Subaru fan, per se. I bought this one mostly because it was a REALLY good price on a car in such good condition and with such low miles. That, and the boy I like really likes Subarus. Ahem. He is toothpaste colored,(the car, not the boy) and a little beat up on the outside, and kinda tempermental about starting at times, but he he solid on the road and was a screaming deal for the $800 I spent. I like him well enough. He has personality, and he’s old enough I feel like I can and will enjoy working on him. His brakes are grinding a bit, in fact, so as soon as I find a relatively warm dry spot to work on that I will. I’m actually even sort of looking forward to it.

Driving is so much a favorite thing of mine, that I haven’t yet exhausted it. After all this talk about cars, I have yet to discuss my favorite drives to take in a car. Tune in tomorrow…

Soon My Precious, Soon...

November 10th, 2010Updated 4:30 PM

Overcast

Poor Irulan.

Being an intergalactic pawn must be awful. She is never allowed to have her own destiny, it was hijacked at birth by the Bene Gesserit breeding program. Her husband sees her as a necessary evil and won’t lay a finger on her. Her father never valued her as anything more than a political tool. Really, I pity her. She does little to endear herself to anybody, I’ll admit, but I still think she deserved better than she got.

But I digress…

Frank Herbert created a universe unto itself. There are echoes of Earth, but they are distant indeed. The feudal rule enacted across galaxies is perhaps the most romantic, but the Orange Catholics also hearken back quite clearly. An enthralling admixture of politics, mysticism, social commentary, and psychedelic journey, Dune manages to touch some of the most deeply meaningful aspects of human reality all while offering a thrilling adventure story in the offing.

This book is, however, a challenge. It is dense and byzantine in the truest sense of the word; the political maneuvering and machinations of various clans, houses, factions, and religious orders is dizzying at times. Herbert manages to stay flawlesslyconsistent in his details, and this alone could stand as a mark of his genius. Even the most determined reader might occasionally balk at the laberinthine course of this tale.

For all of that, it is nevertheless compelling enough to make one press on. Reading this book never feels like a chore so much as a complete departure from reality. The details are rich and engage all the senses. The way Herbert describes the arid landscape of Arrakkis, our Dune planet, surpasses anything a human from our gloriously hydrated world could ever truly relate to. It makes one conscious of the tongue sent out to wet the lips; we are parched by proxy. I am profoundly aware of the luxury of submerging my bare flesh in a substance so precious, the Fremen would kill for the portion of it left inside my skin.

This book has fans who are not only devoted, but in some cases, rabid. Just as easily (perhaps even more so) as L. Ron Hubbard turned Dianetics into a cult, so too could have Herbert. His own ethics caused him to dismiss this notion as rightfully absurd (though someone once pointed out that we could easily call them the Bene Jesuits) but it was by no means because there was insufficient passion for the notion, or fodder for the purpose to be gleaned from the novel. 

It’s capacity to do so marks it out as a true classic of literature. Science fiction is often sidelined as trivial and not worthy of status equal to Dickens or Austen. However, in the best examples of the genre, the human imagination is unhampered by the bounds of reality, yet can reveal more truth about the universe we can see as well as what we can only imagine. It is liberating and deserves as much reverence as any other form of truth revealed upon the page.