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Show 210 sagebrush at night. There were a few campers with Winnebagos, but we were the only ones in sight. Before going home in the morning we walked west, with the shore of the lake to our right. It was cold by the water, and it felt fierce because I hadn't felt cold in at least two months. If we angled ourselves to the right, the water looked like it spread over the rest of the world. There were some tracks in the sand that looked like delicate calligraphy, as well as a two names scratched into sand with a stick and surrounded by what was probably once a heart but now had deteriorated into a V. I talk about water and writing using similar language sometimes, and the feelings each create in my body and mind are comparable. I think narrative and the essay in particular move like a river, material swirling on the surface for a while, falling into the depth of the river, resurfacing again some distance later looking slightly different-a new lighting or shading, or a new overall context. The material is permanently present, if not always directly visible. There is a buildup and deluge of images. The most prominent metaphor we use to talk about psychological or emotional complexity-"depth"-indicates this as well. There's a lot under the surface of life, as everyone knows. Anger and malice and guilt and fear and loneliness. I think the movement of water teaches a lot about maintaining mystery, and it's been helpful to me to leam that I don't have to force some theory on a mystery, that I don't have to conclude at all. The essay form allows adaptability. It is sometimes unclear what events or facts happen in- |