I took Owen to a parachute meet at Hurlburt Field,
where the special forces train. I wrote a book about it.
READFEST ’76. We toured the pit area. The hard-chargers
were respectful of me. They looked at me like I was as good at
doing what I did as they were good at doing what they did.
I didn’t exude confidence so much as know who I was.
I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin so much as I was an
anthropologist-in-residence (AIR), or luftmensch, like
Isaac Bashevis Singer. A man who lives on air, or with
his head in the clouds. This isn’t as easy as it sounds.
A lot of scuffling and making do. A lot of bricolage.
I was a knacker in an abattoir.