Removing the Veil

I have been reading Into The Wild again. I feel it is important for me to read about both John Waterman -- who was on the negative end on the spectrum of admirability and sensibility -- in Glenn Randall's Breaking Point, and Everett Reuss -- who wins the most respect and admiration of readers, relative to McCandless and especially to Waterman -- in Wallace Stegner's Mormon Country and W.L. Rusho's Everett Reuss: A Vagabond for Beauty. Now I put forth this information to drive me to do it. It is good practice to place your goals in writing. I also write so I can, in the both near and distant future, discover -- even if only in that present moment -- which literary diet yields the writing style that is most favorable in my sight, on top of the obvious purpose to relive past lives and the bring back the songs which reincarnate them. Of course, I also keep a journal of more personal histories, inspirations from scripture, testimony, and other writings inappropriate for public viewing. I enjoy the format of this Blogger and the concept of being able to look it up from any computer in the world and sharing it with friends, when occasion demands.

Now, in regards to the title of this post, I would like to not explain directly, but indirectly through a few round-about stories. One of these stories I have already posted. It is when I traveled to Sullivan's Island. I now include an excerpt from that post:

As I got into Sullivan's Island, I made no turns, I went straight down the road until it became grass. By this point, I don't remember there being any sound, just light and clouds and green. Biking the boardwalk over brush and bushes to where it ends in sand, I can only say it was surreal. It was the most beautiful thing in the world. It climaxed here, and the other-world beauty of it all held precariously as I bared my feet and walked into the water and continued my gaze at the clouds. 

Another story I relate is from today. I was listening to Alison Krauss + Union Station Live and listening to the first track of the second disc while I was driving this city backroad with simple tree and vine close to the left and department store to the right. It wasn't pretty at all, just ugly with vine-like overgrowth. I just remember at some point those trees and mild brush becoming sharp and filled with a life I haven't experienced in so long. Perhaps it was my eyes taking in more light or momentarily having better vision. Maybe a certain peal of Jerry's resophonic guitar struck me as with lightning a memory from the sunny highlands of carolina. The duration of this moment was less than one second, but it was not unlike when I looked up through the pine trees while taking on a root-covered winding bike trail near the Cooper River. Each needle of each pine tree shone in exquisite detail and deep blue and pure white mingled above. Even the dead needles on the ground luminesced.