“In the beginning . . .” died when I saw its roots buried in the fantasy of history. If Jesus was real, it had to be now not then. I was open, now that I was outside of a small prison of thought and stretching my legs inside a larger cage. But space is space. My own fantasy of cosmic history ballooned into a 300 page scripture that intermingled with the story of my personal life, just to support the growing suspicion that none of that mattered. During the day the sun shone, for a few nights a comet came through, my harp sold, and my wife worked in the food coop. She did her part. She was heroic being with me who was scarcely there. Flying every morning, touching down during the day on the town tarmac to fuel my personal existence. I continued to meditate. That was good but no longer the main event. It would drop away years later when I had no choice. Things were normal on the ground except the why. Not like the Midwest town where everyone had meditation thoughts slung over one shoulder, thoughts you could carry out into the world . . . after you tied one end of the rope to the town square. Here in the desert there was no town square. Wife was suffering but she made it work for me even if neither knew what that was. The illusions of the Midwest lingered but with different thoughts. It was getting harder to decide what thoughts were mine and what came from others, whether in the sun-drenched world of the desert or the little town with big thoughts, or the early morning world at the keyboard where it always rained cosmic dreams.