Jackson has been a changing revelation to me.
His entrances and exits were like his laughter something special. Like his Christmas gifts, rare surprises, like his humor delightful and open. He was unlike anyone I had ever met. And he was family.
Instinctively I drew toward him and ever after wherever I spied them slender, quick, lithe, toned bodies took my eye. They were the lines and depictions of beauty to me, beauty of form and of motion.
Jackson was dark. He was lithe, quick, muscled, slender. I watched him.
I wanted to do the things he did. He was talented and smart. I wore jeans.
Lyman was darker still. He was taller, more slender, at times thin, sinewy, tough, quick, silent, intuitive. He wore jeans and boots. I watched him.

Jackson and Lyman I took into myself without thinking it was so natural and playing my secret games alone rode their horses, walked, did their daring deeds and took their stands.
Which were right and true.
What I did, what I thought or assumed did not shame me.
That demanded effort and vigilance. But I did try always.

And Jackson and Lyman, did they try?
Did they keep on trying or did they grow so tired and dispirited with the hopelessness that they relinquished all and gave it up?
They were both drunks. Both of them.
They both had TB.
They both had wives who loved them dearly.
Jackson had asthma.

Connections, connections. Little connections of amino acids.
And me.
I will never give up. Never surrender to life however it thwarts, however excruciating it is and isolated it leaves me, I will never give up and let it think it has won.
Never. Never. Never.