REMEMBER GREEN WALLACE?

I don’t know if you remember him—not Wallace Green, but Green Wallace. He appeared here just once. Let’s call him a sort of Guest Speaker. He is the forgetful one and has a great many imperfections greater than that, in fact, among them is his anger.

And today, Green is sad, feeling like he should be curled up in a little ball. He’d be happy in a dark and damp place somewhere lost deep in a forest in a land without so much as a name. He’d like to be lost. It’s almost as if he’d like just not to be at all! Which is a very scary thought for Green Wallace or for anybody for that matter.

When Green got this way, buried so deep inside himself that he—well, he wanted to see if he could be somewhere else outside himself as if he was an actor in a play who could see himself acting the part of someone else. He thought life would be so easy that way.

He liked the idea of not having to be himself for awhile. But then sometimes he would forget himself—just who he was exactly—until nothing at all would matter, nothing at all.

But that was a sort of depression, or a depression of sorts. That’s when he would find himself deep within the forest we mentioned, where the air certainly smelled more of musk and mold and where there were more animals, insects and trees than anything else at all.

And there it is where we find Green Wallace, still alone, almost as still as a rock or as a dead fly even.

Wallace has a kind of hunger within him—an empty space that nothing, it seems, could ever fill.