Once my good friend the plumber pointed out to me that my material was once a finished item, a tree, which had been cut down and cut into pieces, I reconsidered what I had been doing all my life. Of course I knew that wood came from trees, but suddenly the plumber’s words felt alive and the very act of carpentry seemed frivolous and futile. I took a leave from work and spent time at home, but my own house, with its wooden skeleton, haunted me. Eventually I moved into a living tree. You can’t imagine the dreams I had.
I’m a novelist, poet, and short story writer living in the Desert Southwest.
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