Death and Life and Amis and Bellow

If you sit in a place long enough as a child with a wandering imagination, you end up recreating the outside, adult world as you with it, believe it, suppose it to be. Perhaps it’s a collection of stories from family who, on those long holidays gathered at a patriarchal residence, are spent reminiscing about life in their time, in their town, through a smudged, worn, looking-glass rearview. Or the world is pulled through the twirling tendrils and thunderous beats of music, or the meandering plots that seed the imagination like dandelions across an open field in movies or television: that plastic-framed bubble of sight and sound that worms its way into your emotions, dispensing caricatures of actual life — more hyperbole than realism: the noble cowboy, the wistful lovers, the romantic adventurer, the tragic hero… All of the characters converge to blend their stories into a reel of hyper-color sharpened through a prism of an immature mind.