My dog, Sandy and Me, 1956

The Outhouse

It may have been hot; I don’t remember because I never noticed the desert heat. It was evening, the sun had set, and I awoke in the back seat of the car, truly, for the first time becoming aware. This was my moment of consciousness, the instant my sapience became active, the point where my memories begin in earnest. I know I was four, at the time, probably newly so, though seasons were something hard to discern in Southern California. I knew the people in the front…



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Gilbert Corliss

Novelist, self-studied in many sciences, theology, music, and art.