Here's a paragraph I like from something I'm working on:
I pull open the sliding glass door and step
out on the terrace. It’s a clear night and surprisingly quiet here in the
middle of the city. There are sounds – the hum of freeway traffic, music
somewhere across the canyon – but sometimes silence is more silent when there
are sounds to emphasize it. I sit on an old aluminum chair with plastic webbing
and look up at the sky. Los Angeles light blots out most of the stars but the grayish
bubble of sky is vast and comforting. Time slows, and I begin to relax. I focus
on what I see – a single light across the canyon – a porch light? street light?
– Gatsby staring at the light on Daisy’s dock – a car coming up the street
below me – who is inside and where is it going? – I could start a novel with
less than the answers to those questions. A door slams somewhere in the
distance – is someone going in or out? – any story would depend on the answer
to that – William Carlos Williams’ red wheelbarrow - and I’m suddenly pierced
by the mystery of everything, the moment to moment contingency of it all, the
achingly human way we want to make sense of existence, our own and others and
every atom in the universe. My gaze goes soft focus and I am full. The fullness bleeds out of me and into the
world even as the world seeps into my every pore. It is mystery and
magnificence, fused together, and I don’t want answers, or to make sense of
anything. For a moment, I understand, and can hold on to my understanding, that
this fullness has come because I’ve let go of my relentless need for answers, for
any thought at all.
