I began writing a letter admitting the possibility of my own pitiable delusion. Maybe I’m a fool, shoulder-to-shoulder with mankind’s most zealous idiots. Maybe my hope for a Great Connector is misplaced. If so, I’m sorry.
I know, though, that in our writing groups and elsewhere, themes repeat. In one blind session, two of us will mention the same species of tree, and two others will write about a bubbling pot of soup, and our invisible ties to each other become unmistakably clear.
Norm MacDonald told Marc Maron something to the effect that he trusted intuition above all other knowledge, and Marc pinned a hole in Norm’s declaration by asking if his intuition was ever wrong, and Norm immediately acknowledged his feelings had steered him astray. And while I appreciated him for admitting what some Thinkers or Instinctuals may never express (the possibility of wrongness), I also wanted Norm to explain that’s not how the deepest seat of knowledge works. We get impressions and we make assumptions and we take action, but our error in translation makes intuition unreliable, not the Intuition itself.
Maybe I am a fool, but if you were me, and had seen and felt the presence of an Endless Best Friend, and given eyes and ears to sense how small miracles unfold, well, maybe you wouldn’t believe, but I hope you’d understand why I do.