There's a line from an old radio show, The Shadow.
I remember once being thirteen and standing in the alley between Colombi's Motel and their laundromat, and I imagined being in Italy, in a corner of a bustling plaza, an old man sitting to his coffee and a pastry, nearby pink geranium petals spill out of a hanging planter, a newspaper spreads before me, I am content.
Someone wrapped the persimmons in Chinese-language newsprint.
Who knows what darkness lurks in the heart of man?
At least I think so—that was before my time.
Who knows?
Where did that image come from?
When I actually did get married, we considered a spot that was just like that. But there was a pandemic on. We ended up getting married in my mom's backyard, under her apple trees.
Shadowlight, moonlight, candlelight, firelight, sodium light, twilight, spotlight, highlight, torchlight, starlight....
My whole life I've suffered—or maybe I should be less melodramatic and just say "experienced"—strong feelings about the future.
When I was 22 and in Dharamsala, too afraid to get out of bed, my room was so cold, I remember laying there and thinking I saw my future wedding, on the coastal plain of Northern California, the redwood forests to the east, the crashing surf to the west. I saw it plain as day, like I was a helicopter spinning by.
Let's call them pseudopresentiments. That's fun.