2. Courage to drive from California to Madison, Wisconsin and from there to Vermont and back home.
4. The feeling my 17 year- old body used to get when it listened to Jethro Tull’s Aqualung.
5. The Van Morrison cassette I played over and over on my walkman when I was going to San Francisco for the first time. I had eight 20-dollar bills neatly folded in my shoe, a ham and cheese sandwich in a paper bag and songs that filled my heart with possibilities. Hark, now hear the sailors cry. Smell the sea and feel the sky.
6. All the unimportant little details of the night I met V. –even the ones under the chairs and tables.
7. The brown, hippie-looking mug Paul gave me. It made coffee taste like anthropology, history and religion. It was big enough for Western civilization to fit in it and I still had a little room for creamer.
8. My peasant skirt dreams.
9. The days, minutes, and seconds I wasted loving Mr. H. Philosophy didn't love me back.
10. The pink, ugly bed I once had because I floated on the Mississippi every night.