~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ George Schwimmer, Ph.D.
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The Search For David
by George Schwimmer

Preface  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi

  1  The Search in Baja . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

  2  David Remembered . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .33

  3  Struggle in the Storm  . . . . . . . . . . . . .52

  4  Another Dimension Opens  . . . . . . . . . 69

  5  A Different Search  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88

  6  On the Inner Path  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100

  7  Spiritual Frontiers  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119

  8  Dreams and Symbols  . . . . . . . . . . . . .133

  9  Spiritual Credentials  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149

10  Noreen  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .159

11  More Evidence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175

12  Transition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184

13  David's Life Plan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .200

14  The Father Is the Mission . . . . . . . . . . 220

15  Moving On . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 232

16  A New Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243

17  Channeling David's Solo . . . . . . . . . . 259

18  A Ritual Journey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .273

Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .283

Resources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297

Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 299


Judge nothing before the time, until the Lord come, who both will bring to light the hidden things of darkness, and will make manifest the counsels of the hearts.     1 Corinthians 4:5

And ye shall also bear witness, because ye have been with me from the beginning.      John 15:27

     Eighteen years have passed since the phone call that shattered my life so com- pletely that I've had to change not only my views of existence, my life-style, my behavior and my work, but even who I am. The man who I was then has died as surely as did my younger son David.

     The cascade of events that has washed over me since David's death was put into motion on January 8, 1978, when David began an Outward Bound kayaking course in Mexico's Sea of Cortez, paddling with his crew along the eastern shore of the Baja peninsula. On January 27, David's nineteenth birthday, I was called and told that David had been swept out to sea by a violent wind storm. Although a substantial search was eventually mounted, the sea stubbornly refused to yield up my son. David did not appear. His body was never found.

     After the search for David ended in Baja, I was confronted by the first of several seemingly unanswerable questions, questions which pushed me back into the darkest corner of my being and then challenged me, like the sphinx in Oedipus, to come into the light and answer them. The answers were already there, I discovered, because the questions were there; the universe poses no question until it has first created the answer.

     So, in only a few days, David's friend Alice answered my most agonized thought:

Why David? Why take the one who was already aware of Your love on Earth? Why take the one who gave us joy as no one else did, by his emanations of this light and love? Why the scholar, the giver, the one most ready to live life? Because, the answer came back from the faith we both shared, to take away David will force you all to look, some of you very hard, into your own souls to find the light and love that God gives to each. When we find this which we have been made to hunt for, we will each have a part of David for ourselves, the part he would have liked most to give.

     I laid aside Alice's letter--I wasn't ready to search my soul then. Yet the inner quest had already begun, although I didn't know it.

     Two other questions also surged forward, demanding immediate answers: What happened to David in the storm? and What can I do to  keep David's spirit alive?

     The sea had taken David's body, but I refused to let it extinguish his flame. There had to be something I could do for David. Within days the answer to the third question came to me: publish David's writing. During his last seven years David had kept personal journals; I had no idea what the journals contained or whether they had any literary value. But when I read them I discovered that David had conducted an unusual inner--as  well as outer--search for himself and for the meaning of his life during his teenage years. I was fascinated and impressed by the journals and decided they--along with some of his poems, papers, and fragments of two books--had to be published. Over the next few years I edited David's work. I didn't yet consider writing about my own experiences.

     I found the question of what had happened to David in the storm much harder to answer. After the search had ended in Baja, I began another search, this one to find out what had taken place during the last day of David's life. I had to discover what had occurred--I couldn't resume a sane life without knowing. When Outward Bound refused to release any details of the tragedy, I threw myself into this new search with enormous energy, but more than three years had to pass before I could unearth everything that had taken place in Baja during Southwest Outward Bound Kayaking Course S-54.

     Some of my questions could not be answered through ordinary research, so I turned to reputable mediums. They told me facts about David's life and death which they had no way of knowing; at times their accuracy was stunning. They also recounted unexpected, extraordinary things about David, some of which were confirmed by David's journals. I learned about David's prior lives, his personal symbology, his dreams, his astrological chart, and his life plan. David himself--through many of the psychics--communicated with me, while David's friends and family began to report having sensed, felt, heard, or seen David since his death. As I was given more and more such information, I decided this had to be published as well, so I began to record it all, and much of that material is included in this book.

     But as the number and significance of unusual incidents grew, I found I couldn't merely note these--I had to examine them as well, and as I did so I saw a logical pattern emerge. I realized that what was before me was a demonstration of the mechanics of spiritual life on Earth. David's life and death were a striking allegory of what existence is all about--David had lived a textbook of cosmic truths. And I was being led, item by item, person by person, place by place, along a path which had been laid out long ago with great care by some unseen consciousness.

     My search for these hidden facets of spiritual life, however, was hampered by the fact that I was directing my efforts through my intellect only. I saw myself as a researcher of cosmic life, often excited and illuminated by the discovery of how something worked or what something meant, but I was missing the essential point. Although it was continually presented to me, I couldn't understand, couldn't sense, the basic spiritual truth which I was being shown, because I would look only at the outer reality.

     I failed to perceive what lay behind the kindness and patience of the members of the spiritual study group which I had joined around the time of David's death. I wasn't aware of what motivated David's friends to speak with me and write to me when I sought them out. I wasn't sensitive to what radiated through the readings of the psychics whom I visited for help. I didn't hear the inner whispers of all who helped me with my outer search. I didn't realize the importance of David's message to me, and I misunderstood what many others brought into my life.

     What I was unknowingly searching for and had searched for all of my life, I finally realized, had been given to me at the birth of the universe, but I had always walked blindly past this primal gift. A number of years had to pass before I understood what my search was for.

     That search is the search on which we are all embarked, and its destination is one we have always known, since our destina- tion is our starting point--a point which we actually never left. That search is the search for ourselves and who we really are.

     Come join the search!

1 the search in baja

Raleigh, North Carolina                                  Friday, January 27, 1978

     The telephone rang shrilly in the next room, and my head turned toward the sound. I had come to the kitchen after my evening bath and was getting a snack before going to bed. I glanced at the stove clock: it was three minutes after midnight. Wrong number, I thought, although both I and my wife Veronica tended to stay up late, and friends and family knew that. The phone rang again. I went into the small sunroom and picked up the receiver.

     "Mr. Schwimmer?" a male voice inquired.

     "Yes," I replied. 

     The man identified himself as the director of Southwest Outward Bound. For some reason this didn't alarm me—I don't know why. My calm was shattered a second later.

     "Mr. Schwimmer, your son David and two other students have been lost at sea in an accident."

     The impact of his words was more violent than if he had struck me. What he'd said created a complete void in my mind: I could find nothing to say, I couldn't even think.

     After a moment of silence, I asked him what had happened. He couldn't tell me. He said that only a one-sentence message had been left with Southwest Outward Bound’s answering service in Santa Fe shortly before this call and that he himself was in Florida. He continued to talk, but I heard his words only as meaningless sounds. I finally said goodbye and hung up the receiver dazedly.

     Thoughts and images flashed from my mind, as if flung by a cyclotron: a dark sea, waves, David struggling. Questions: What kind of accident could have occurred in the Sea of Cortez? How could David be lost at sea? Where could he be? Was he alive? I struggled to control the storm that raged inside me.

     I went into the living room where Veronica was watching television, turned off the sound as I walked by the set, and sat down beside her on the sofa. Then I told her. She burst into tears, and I could only sit there feeling totally unable to help.

     A few minutes later I called John Rhoades, associate director of Southwest Outward Bound in Santa Fe. He couldn't give any further information since the only telephone was in Loreto, inside a tire store which had closed for the night and wouldn't open again until 9:00 A.M. Baja time (PST). That telephone was thereafter the only link between Baja, Santa Fe, and us. I asked Rhoades if anyone had called the U.S. Coast Guard, since San Diego was just up the coast and a helicopter could be sent to help with the search. Rhoades answered that he did not believe the Coast Guard had been notified. I asked him to contact them immediately and said I would call him at 9:15 A.M. Baja time. That ended our conversation.

     I told Veronica what Rhoades had said, after which we lost ourselves in our own thoughts and prayers. Around 2:00 A.M. Veronica told me to go to bed. I said that was impossible. I couldn't and wouldn't lie in a bed while David was adrift in a dark sea, I thought to myself. All through the night I sat on a small sofa in the dimly lit living room, while Veronica walked tensely around the house.

     I mentally listed the reasons David should survive. Each thought was a prayer bead that I clutched with my mind. I thought: David is so resourceful and intelligent, studied outdoor survival so carefully at Duke University, took two endurance swimming courses the past year, trained for cross-country running the previous summer and fall, completed a Red Cross first-aid course recently. I thought: the Outward Bound course is designed to teach him to survive, might have been preparing him for what had occurred; he had to be all right. I had always felt that nothing would ever happen to him—he had always seemed very special. I tried to convince myself that he was safe, but underneath it all I was desperate. My mind held my prayer beads more tightly, but the thread on which they were strung snapped.  My thoughts scattered.

     I stared into the darkness of the most terrible night I had ever lived, terrified that I might never see David again, that another kind of darkness, a darkness without end, may have slipped into my life and that a critical part of my future had been torn from me.



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leaves from the journal of a soul
by David A. Schwimmer
Foreword                                                          vii
Preface                                                             xv
IN THE WILDERNESS                                    1
prelude                                                        3
MICHIGAN  (Age 11-12)                                 9
"I start writing."                                             11
IRELAND  (Age 12-14)                                  19
1 - "I wonder why we came to Ireland?"      21
2 - "I just like being naked, that's all."         25
3 - "I'm beginning to grow up, and
      regret it."                                                31
RALEIGH  (Age 14-17)                                  35
1 - "Let me have the will to hope!"             37
2 - "Such love, such love."                          42
3 - "I'm a bit homesick."                               47
4 - "Love is, and love will be."                   52
5 - "I can't help liking boys. Or help
      liking girls! They're both in me."          57
6 - "Sometimes I feel so close to God."      65
7 - "I'm just a sad, mixed up kid."              71
8 - "The mind is torn."                                77
DUKE  (Age 17-18)                                       89
1 - "My life is full of joy."                             91
2 - "I am so lost, God."                              102
3 - "Is anyone else lonely tonight?"          120
1 - "I can do so much, if only I don't          149
     give up."
2 - "Preston, I love you."                           175
3 - "The last of my dreams."                     209
FICTION AND OTHER WRITING                 230
"Portfolio of Loneliness"
The Lady Lamp                                          232
"Courage, courage!"
Hope                                                          235
"Hope dies, but a second life comes."
College Applications                                  239
"How can I get close enough to me?"
The Wilderness                                          246
"Mind and soul must do battle."
Notes on the Chapel Bells                          270
"They are warm bells."
Sing Together With the Stars                     271
"The morning goes to God."
afterword                                                  275

leaves from the journal of a soul
by David A. Schwimmer

from The Wilderness 

     Danny scribbled the words, slower than they were thought, half-empty, half-void. A grey pencil, somehow it was expected to draw, to make, to tell, but it didn’t.

     How does one explain how hard it is to follow day in, to morning in sleepiness, to shower in cold. I am alone on chilly ground that will not explain its chilliness to me. Sadness comes welling up out of the aching heart and into my hands, and I must write, write. I wake to fear the day, for I am still living, and there is something terribly frightening in my life. I am still living, and I should not be, for I still do not know why the ground is so cold. The world spins and spins and heeds Newton or Aristotle or Someone--but not me. It is too busy, it will not slow down for one who longs for the forgotten-lost. The lost, the ever-remembered, the seldom-remembered, the easily forgotten. The black that shines against the black, the silver white; the ghost images of ships and trees. Trees weeping their leaves harshly to the ground. I sleep and sleep and when I finally dream, a door closes, locking me in, so that I cannot free myself. I am blind to dreams that only I can see. I wake and sleep. Yet I fear death, for this is only a beginning, and I must pass, I have to, God, I have to, and I am so sleepy, and yet, and--what am I saying--and yet I must keep living . . . I MUST KEEP LIVING . . . because, ‘cause, I don’t know, and . . . are the people grieving yet?

     The hill was long and the people small. Narrow paths inched past the tree, the tired tree, the growing tree. The sun did not feel the love he was trying to find; the sun filled the sky, and the shower of tears falling from his face blinded him. The narrow path inched past the tired tree, the growing tree. The people were small. The bottom of the hill was dusty, and the dust was clay-dust, clinging with a stubbornness that frightened him. The rocks cut through his feet, and the dust rose to choke him, and he felt his life running in a small trickle down the few feet behind him. 

     He faced the hill, and felt its pull, yet the step to go on belonged to himself, and the sweat did not cool him. He knew that it would be all right once he was on the hill, but he hesitated, for the sweat did not cool him. The sweat, the sweat, it hammered through his eyes and his head, and blessed Mary it was not sweat but tears and they were perfect tears, for they fell as tears of sadness. Again he felt the rocks cutting his feet and felt the sun shining on. A shiver ran through his body, and he woke.

     So why dream of mountains? They do not hurt. It was a frightening dream, and yet I think that it had hope in it, in a thin thread winding down from the tree. The tree, it was so far up the hill, yet I could see it, and . . . but did I ever see it? I felt . . . and it was growing and tired--or was it me that was tired? And the paths! Longer than the hill, winding, and crawling, if a path can crawl with no people on it. I was alone at the bottom of the hill, and somehow that seemed terribly wrong when I awoke. It was the difference between the sweat and the tears, or something like that. I was waiting for someone, and it wasn’t God, or anything like that--it was a boy, a man? A . . . I don’t know. It’s getting so vague now, and I just can’t see. I feel so tired again, and I’m trying to think of that dream, and all I can think of is . . . is . . . My God, I think the people were crying, and the tree, the tree was weeping leaves, and someone beside me was trying, trying to . . . trying to let me see, Oh God, ­how sad he was, and he was crying, too, and I felt it tear my heart .

                              . . .

     Danny stared, frightened, at the ceiling. Slowly he got out of bed, dressed, and left the house.

     The street was filled with buses and cars, lights and shops, tables and people.

      Danny rushed past the shops and stared intently into each passing face. He hurried down the street with which he was so familiar. It began to rain, but he hurried on.

      Block after block, why had he never noticed before?

      Street after street, how did they suddenly appear?

      Person after person, had all these been born?

      He stood finally at the beginning and stared down the street.

      The street was long.

      The street was silent.

      It was filled with silent tables and empty people.

      Danny looked up at the sky. The stars were bright. He frowned, remembering nights immersed in stars and light, when he would lie on his back and feel himself wafted into the blue-black sky. And the man in the moon smiling down on wet-brown locks. Danny frowned again.

      The street was long and the shadows wide, and it was well past midnight. But Danny walked on.

      The sun morninged over the street, and Danny slowly felt his eyelids opening. Had he slept the night on a bench? Of course! A green, hard bench.

      Danny turned his head and saw a man sitting beside him. No, not a man, but a boy.  His brown, wet hair glistened in the morning light, and the sounds of the city were but subjected to the heart-rending splash of tears on the green bench.

      Danny stared at him, and staring he awoke.

      Oh my God, I am afraid to sleep! That is my dream! Being far from home and alone, and you know how to get home, but you can’t, ‘cause there just isn’t enough time left in the dream. But then, then, there is enough time but I . . . just don’t know about it in the dream. I mean, I know that the time is there, but it isn’t there for me. It’s only there for the waking me. Or maybe the sleeping me is afraid to use the time. Or knows that the time can not be touched. Or . . . what am I saying? I’m trying not to think about that boy because he frightens me. Oh God, he frightens me! He was too real! I could see each strand of each little lock of hair, hair that fell perfectly, perfectly as only wet, uncombed hair can fall. And he wanted to speak to me, he was going to say something to me, but the tears clouded his eyes, and when I looked at him, all I could see was the mirror eyes, the eyes one sees in a mirror. And I wanted to talk to him, but I was alone, and I was afraid that if he answered any of my questions I would start screaming. And he just kept on crying and crying and crying, and I’m going to have to go back to sleep because all I can feel now is his tears on my cheeks . . . .

     A brilliant stream of white light glistened in a blackness everpresent. Danny watched as men climbed up and down the white, and stared closely at them, for he saw that they were not men but winged watchers, and that more came down than went up. Yet Danny knew that they all wished to go up. Their movement was smooth, and the winging silent, yet Danny felt each one of them and stared on. Suddenly he realized that he was not seeing anything, and that he had slept for much too long. He woke, and he was by the window, watching he knew not what. 

     And then I wake up. I can no longer pretend that I am asleep. It is so clear now, it is so clear. Yes! Yes! I can see it now! Oh God, the wind is so cooling . . . .

     The wind began to blow through him, and suddenly he saw the ship very clearly, and the tree, with harsh leaves that were now red, now gold, now green. And the water clearer than any dream, a dream in itself and by its own right. A dream itself.

          The pencil dropped and fell to the floor. Danny slipped into sleep: blind dreams for blind dreamers, the moon overcoming the night and persuading him to wake up. Maybe just for one more try.



There runs a whispering murmur through the dark:

Christmas carols sung in snow and the cold.

Water climbs gently through my soul,

And the well draws deeply of sunken sweetness.

When I close my mind

I see the tree,

With roots firmed down in submerged sorrow­

With leaves laughing out to the sky.

I hear a noise,

And it is the sound of sturdy walkers,

With eyes a greyness and steady.

I hear a noise,

And it is the sound of a child jumping,

And the laughter of a leaping dog.

I close my mind now,

And I hear the roar of pebbles on the sea

And boats, far away: dragging, dragging.

Grey eyes laugh, and brown eyes calm:

Winter and summer, the tree grows inward.

The temple of myself again comes free,

And I flow with the stream:

A wanderer found in the midst of the sea.


     Rabbit Rabbit Day and I forgot. Coach B. makes me trust him so much, makes me stop worrying, makes me want to run, I guess.

     Then, Preston, looking at me with such love. I look awkwardly down and feel ugly. I don’t know, I don’t know. I love her so much, but follows a dream in which I rest my head in a man’s arms. Oh Lord, somewhere in my youth . . . .

     I am first day at Duke again. Lord, Lord, what am I doing here besides loving Preston, working at Docs, running, learning. I’m answering myself. But, God, how hysterical: what happened to classes and studying?


Dear Homebodies:

     As you may note, the typing life is back    in full swing--­today was the beginning of classes. I ran with the cross country team for the first time yesterday: my ankle seems to be sort of better. I can run on it now, but then, I banged it against a door last night and almost screamed with pain. Hmm. Practice was at 4:30 and almost knocked me out. The runners quickly split up into two groups, mainly those who had trained during the summer and those who hadn’t. I got stuck, thankfully, in the second group. Strange how I feel awfully slow sometimes. Coach B. is neat, though.

     It’s hard to explain to a million people why I’m sleeping on the floor. One guy came in late at night and asked Dale if he had a dog (I heard that!). Besides the fact that this room has absolutely no book space, it’s O.K. now. That is, if you don’t mind a pile of books in the middle of the floor. Or people tramping through to go up on the roof. Actually, I spend some time there, hoping for falling stars . . . .

     I’m going to cease and desist. Hopefully, I’ll see someone on Sunday.


David, official A.P. Wilson third floor correspondent


     My problem must be that I exaggerate. I told Dale that I’m madly in love with Preston.  But I’m not madly in love. I’m in love. But not PERIOD. Colon, perhaps. You see, I still feel a need to define my love. Isn’t it funny? I wanted to hold her hand so badly, I mean, felt so awkward not doing it. Yet, calm down, David. You’re asking for trouble.


     I feel so sure now that I’ve decided about my running. My ankle is still messed up.  Yesterday I was thinking along the lines of, “I’ll accept what God sends me, running or not running.” Today it is the same, but with a major resurgence towards truth and patience and strength: I cannot run now. I must tell Coach B. that. But I still want to run for the team. I have three years ahead. I will rest now, start swimming to strengthen my ankle, and then gradually work into running WHEN I AM WELL. If he can accept me, I think I can do it. I want to be able to do it. It’s strength that I want. Oh Lord, and the decision feels so right!


     C’mon David, tell Dave. Say Hey to Billy. Don’t lie to the world about yourself.

.       .       .

     I’m afraid that I’m not lying to the world but to myself. David, do you really not want to be homosexual, or are you just fooling yourself. How much do you love Preston (admit she bores you at this minute).

     Oh God, my neck hurts me so much tonight. I’m feeling every ounce of my tightness and hatred of life.

.       .       .

     This breeze up on the roof really makes me feel better. Actually, it makes me feel beautifully washed, dressed, cleaned. Preston unnerves me with her loving stares. I wish I knew what she had behind them. And she always knows when I’m upset. And she always asks what’s wrong. And I always evade and finally answer. Hmm.

     Preston and I were talking about naming kids yesterday. At the end of the discussion she said that she’d probably never be in the position to name kids anyway. That startled me, and I felt like asking her why; she could have just been joking, but I wonder.


     Sad, sad, unhappy, and upset. I feel now as though I don’t want to go to school. Why, why, why Hebrew, Organic, English, why? Why not, too, and that just as troublesome. Then, needing someone to talk to and feeling snubbed by Preston, with no snub intended--but I can’t keep throwing myself at her. I feel like saying, “Forget it, David, she’ll never love you as you’re thinking.” I’ve got to stop. I’ve got to.

.       .       .

     God, why does it seem that I’m just discovering how much I love some people.

     Preston, every day I love you more. (Wow, did that sound like a soap opera or not?) “What’s wrong?”

     Emily: stalwart and cheering: “How are you? No, don’t answer that.”

     Wanda: comfortable elegance: “Good morning.”

     Rise up, David, lift up your eyes above your aching knees and bless the Lord. Hail, who comes in the spirit of the Lord. Hail, Hail, Hail!


     How did I forget so easily all the wind pain, and mind pain, and frustration pain that comes with running. We ran nine yesterday afternoon. I wasn’t the worst; I wasn’t the best.  I’m tired, bones moving stiffly only at command.

     And so easy to talk with Dave.

     You see, in a way I love him, too, God.

.       .       .

     So, upset with Preston at the dance with Johnny and not me, I go to Ruth and spill the beans: I mean, this time it was a little bit easier than the time I told Dale, but saying, “Do you know I’m madly in love with Preston?” and then, when she starts to ask a question, “But wait, there’s more.” Pause pause, try, pause. “For the last three or four years,” pause pause, “I’ve considered myself gay.” Big pregnant silence. “Why?”

     Thank you, Ruth. Thank you, Ruth. I’m so much happier now.

     I am so a happy person, I am so!

.       .       .

     It makes me feel uneasy spiritually that I am so depressed when I wake up in the morning. Why? It goes away, usually, after shower or breakfast, but invariably I wake again in the same depression. The content of my dreams (which, right now, I am making no effort to remember) seems to have some bearing: Happy dream, happy waking.

     Still so dissatisfied with life, David?

     Yes, no, maybe.

     Can’t I please wait and answer that tonight?

     O. K.




        I will rise at 5:30 each morning for Yoga.

        I will read three verses from the Bible after Yoga.

        I will try to remember my dreams.

        I will keep trying to run.

     Oh Lord, give me a long-lived will!

                        .       .       .
     I guess I’m just feeling annoyed that I have to study on a Friday afternoon, that
I have to bitch constantly at Dale, that I have to be so antipathetic about meeting someone Preston’s in love with, and going to a movie with Emily and Joselyn. Just a bastard today, with a still-aching ankle and too big a lunch.

     Shove it, boy, shove it.

.       .       .

     Last night I was feeling vaguely, unhappily depressed, and I wandered over to Giles [Dormitory] to find a Preston-comfort that I tell her Dale never gives me (nor anyone else, honey, but I didn’t say that). I can’t and won’t deny how much I depend on Preston’s love and intense questions and ready help. It makes me so happy to think of marrying her, maybe just knowing her all this life, but then again her question, “David, what do you want,” and my really, truly spoken answer, “I want to be happy,” with tears coming to my eyes because I was so unhappy last night.

    Because there runs an undercurrent of bitterness in my life here at Duke. You see, I reach this English class and see a guy sitting in front of me, and (not particularly thinking of him) I realize that I still miss and long--with a carved-out pain that I love nevertheless--­also for a friend who is a man, who I can grow with as I grow with Preston.

     She teaches me so much. I wandered around, vaguely mad and unhappy with her--all week--for not being home, for never coming up to see me. Then John Kolische strikes my mind with his “people need to love people” ending, and the statement, “When you touch anything in the world you find it attached to the rest of the universe.” Suddenly, you see, I realize that Preston gives love to so many people, that so many people need her, that I need her, that I guess I’d better stop feeling degraded for running after her. I needn’t sacrifice myself, only pride, I suppose. Oh, Preston, I do love you . . . a love I though I’d lost with my lost saints.

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