Exterior, morning.

Lifting a bag of mulch in someone's backyard just off the Kennedy in West Chicago, shoes muddy and feet cold, for a second it was like someone had just edited the film. Cut from March 14, Bangladesh, to May 12, Chicago. Steady white noise of cars with the occasional, gentle swooping sound of one passing close by. Light drizzle. Just like a sequence in the middle of a long movie like Cool Hand Luke or Castaway.

I wouldn't mind just cutting out the last two months, either. Two months where nothing that you'd put in a story happened. Bangladesh to Idaho to Illinois.

Hello again, Chicago.

A few weeks ago, before the move to Chi-town, I had an inkling to pack up the car and go to LA for some time. Not for the movies. For the Christians. Rabid ones. Laura G., LA native, has been hanging out with people who can and have raised the dead. People who point at you and you fall over, your lame leg regenerated into a fresh new one. People who speak and hear prophecy. People who are like the people you read about in Acts in the Bible. I wanted to go and hang out with them too. Because Laura is not full of crap. If it's hoaxy, she won't buy it. I even asked her to ask God on my behalf if I could come. I didn't hear back until after I had packed up and left for Chicago.

God said to Laura, "He is free."

Seems like what I believe means everything at times and nothing at other times.

Raise your hand if you want to be "free."

I don't.

***

I'll have a phone number within a few days. E-mail me yours and I'll call you.