Here in the presence of all, I wish to confess my love of the river. The river in question is denominated the Wapsipinicon on maps, a river of modest proportions running through the country in which I grew up. I would explain the pronunciation were that important.
I nearly crumpled up in the grip of the temptation to write something in the spirit of . . . say . . . “the river flows through my soul.”
That sort of thing belongs to the likes of George Harrison. That sort of thing belongs in the hymnals. I haven’t a mystical bone in my body, born as I was entirely lacking in the religion gene. I do not hold it against anyone who is of a mystical bent. It’s just that were I to write something like “the river flows through my soul,” I ought then to be drug out, stood up against some wall, and shot for rankly criminal hypocrisy. And anyway, what exactly would such a phrase mean?
I enjoyed Sparrow’s diary kept during his gradual loss of religion. [See page 20 of the September 2014 issue of The Sun.] (By the way who the hell is Sparrow?) Take this entry for example:
At times I feel waves of love pouring down on me from above. I used to be certain that this was the presence of God. Now I think: Maybe I’m just happy.
So it is that I myself am awfully happy whenever I am by this river.
With Trapper Jack on his deck overlooking that stretch of the river.