Dropped by prop plane in remote Alaskan wilderness a man named Jay Larsen paints reality with the ochre form the rock mixed with linseed oil. Sleeping in riverside cabin, only the bright stirs him with occasional stars. A month ago a book fell off the shelf and landed at his feet but he didn’t bring it into the wild, didn’t get the drift.
The man awakes one night to the valley river flooding and he wonders if the cabin will sweep away. He is stationed right on the water. The deluge swamps the valley and for days he holes up inside hoping the water does not rise. There is nowhere to go.
A prop plane comes to check on him. That water is going down now and he has to keep painting reality. Seeing that he is all right, the plane drops down a box of food and staples. Inside the box is the same book that jumped down from the shelf. It is called Illusions by Richard Bach and it’s the story of a prop plane driver.
After summer in the wild, the man returns to Seattle with his lover. Bach’s symphony is in the man’s head now and when he opens the morning paper the only advert he sees is that of Bach again, for a book signing. On the way to the book signing to meet the conductor of his personal opera, the man walks into the bookstore next door. It is Dawn Horse Bookstore.
The man is writing a paper for his thesis called Science and Sacred Culture, so naturally he picks up a book called Science, Sacred Culture, and Reality. The Author is someone named Da. Life is waking on him now and he feels the thunder cracking. The man and his lover soon move to an island called Lopez Island and unknown to them this is where both Bach and Da reside too. Prop planes continue to fly as the symphony gets louder.
Inward and outward the spiral in the gyre turns. Illusions, waved into being. The Divine is perfect. This man Jay, who was Wild, and still is quite Wild, now resides on another island in another spot circled by art, he told me to read this Bach book a decade before I actually read it. It happened the same way it happened for him. It just suddenly appeared on my doorstep. Yes, Richard Bach, thank you, you said it perfectly. White seagulls are cranes, too. This man Da, who is beyond Wild, also resides on another island in another spot circled by art that one can only get to by prop plane or boat. Circle, pattern, books of truth. When I read Illusions by Bach there was so much in it that felt like Da.