Alas, here am I ensconced, nestled in the bowels of Miller's Landing, a veritable poem woven of hundred-year-old spruce trees and a "million dollar ocean view," lush timberland and verdant vistas – terrain of such grace and grandeur that it is hard to believe that we are perched upon millennia of moose excrement. The path to Mother Superior's condo, like the path to so many psychiatrists' offices is well-trodden, as bewildering pathologies are unraveled, and, where appropriate, gingerly mollified. While cavorting through Miller's Landing in the wee hours I am reminded of a postlapsarian treasure island, in a seamy, Gothic sort of way, kinda like recapturing the humble charm of the war-torn back streets of Beirut, Lebanon. Patrolling on foot is so much more viscerally affecting than being trapped in a vehicle, don't you think? More nuances. More grit. The varied terrain underfoot, the ephemeral sounds emanating from the bay, the glittering majesty of the Seward skyline, the surreal head rush from the fish guts fumes – have I ever mentioned the poignant aroma of rotting fish guts, Mother Superior? It is so redolent of … of … you tell me, YOU'RE THE MOTHER SUPERIOR!!! Continuing my concerted trawl through Miller's Landing, I find myself face-to-face with a Tonka Toy on steroids. I don't know where to start climbing, so I don't. A well-fed sea otter leisurely goes about its business with the enthusiasm of a submarine captain with a skunk aboard his vessel. An assembly of pigeons, um, er, I mean, Glaucous-winged Gulls, appears to be asleep. Evidently they had a busy day decorating the landscape, to which the splotchy mosaic beneath my feet attests. As I perambulate the perimeter of Miller's Landing like Napoleon pacing the deck of the Bellerophone, I pause to engage a senile yet empathetic old Bald Eagle in a breezy conversation, whereupon we proceed our separate ways. Mother Superior, your Honor, your Princessness – whoever you are – I've been conversing with animals all of my life. As you know, animals are so much more understanding than the humanoids. Pensively pondering the complexities of the cosmos, I gaze out across Resurrection Bay and behold Mount Alice shrouded in the early morning haze, and beyond, the attendant penumbra sloping gently into the amorphous distance. Then suddenly (and I wish you were here right now, Mother Superior, to see this for yourself), with a flourish of unprecedented grandeur the sun peeks over the horizon, producing a hue of stirring dimensions, trumpeting the glory of yet another day at hand. "The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge. There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard." Let the record reflect that the assembly of Glaucous-winged Gulls, now awakened, is hovering directly overhead, gleefully using me for target practice. As the GOOD BOOK says, "Tribulation worketh patience, and patience, hope, and hope maketh not ashamed," and "The laborer is worthy of his hire." Selah. By now it should be apparent that Miller's Landing is not only a treasure trove for psychiatric investigation, but, with its subtle emotional crosscurrents and surprising mélange of styles, is also a quixotic three-ring circus where wildly disparate worlds overlap, collide, and absurdly merge. But is it the process, Mother Superior, or what we call "the material"? So, Mother Superior, do you understand what I've been up against? And this is the mere "tip of the iceberg" – the tip of the tip of the tip. Mother Superior, my Mother Superior, beloved Mother Superior, you must believe me. The incontrovertible and heartwarming fact is that at the very frontiers of my experiences beckon the great, grand operatic themes of human existence. Who needs dreams, I ask you? Who needs Freud? I have Miller's Landing instead. It all happens while wide awake: the epiphanies and the sudden Archimedean revelations, not to mention the disproportionate and the melodramatic. These are my daily bread. Baking in my roiling brain, percolating in the magical, mystical wonderland between my ears … Mother Superior, you must believe me ……
She was religious though, so while I admire her somewhat I cannot say I loved her Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
