Before the creation of the earth
I fell into a crack in creation
falling through the stars
in a cosmic cradle careening
in timeless and empty space.

I landed at last on a wide beach
in waves of blue water and clouds
swirling above my naked head.
I stood, looked about me,  breathed.
I walked up into the headland
to the brow of a cliff and there
below me, the wondrous beach –
the monotony of waves one after another.

I was afraid to explore more
the leafy interior – its sounds
movements in the slithering underbrush
of those also fallen into this place.

I fear I have never left the beach
but, enthralled, watch over the ceaseless waves
letting the clouds pour over my naked head
as if not a thought or care had I.

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Portland, Oregon – June 12, 2018

My inspiration for this comes from a piece in Parabola, Winter issue, 2017-18 entitled “A True Story.”  The author is a teacher of writing who asks students, at the beginning of the year, to  “lie to me” or, to write a “false biography.”  She says that “…it reveals more about its participants than a standard autobiography.” So my writing here is a bit of stream of consciousness, to see what would come, spontaneously, if I tried to write a “false” autobiography. Neither Mr. Freud nor Mr. Jung will I let read this.