Refracted Neurons

I’ve always been entertained by people who have a last name that sounds like a first name.  My absolute favorite though, is people who have the same first and last name, like the poet William Carlos Williams.  I can imagine exactly how that sort of thing happens.  I had to fill out paperwork right after giving birth, and let me tell you, my children came really close to being named Dill Dill. Anyway, speaking of William Carlos Williams, I heard a story about him that’s too good not to repeat.  I’ve never seen this story written anywhere and I can’t remember who told it to me.  To be clear: I’m about to spread gossip about a dead guy. William Carlos Williams was not the sort of poet who spent his life locked in a room writing poetry.  No, dude had a day job.  He was a doctor, and apparently worked as one until his death.  This should be pretty familiar to anyone who is creative; we live a sort of dual existence.  Perhaps Bill Bill (if I may call him that) realized how work shapes a

When Petro was young, there had been a rope, anchored to a iron bar near the sill of his window.  When he grew bored, he would climb down the rope and play in the forest. As he grew older, he stayed outside of the tower longer, wandering under the canopy of trees, following the specks of light as they swayed on the forest floor.  Each time they led him farther, until he found himself standing at a clearing, facing what he assumed to be a massive stone tower. With a sense of awe, he approached it, resting his hand on its rough face. The stone was warm under the midday sun, and he leaned against it, pressing his face to the rock.  He was so enchanted, that he didn’t see the soldier approaching him. “Who goes there?” the soldier called out. Petro jumped away from the wall, “I meant no harm.  I was just admiring your tower.” “Tower?” the soldier’s face was bemused, his right hand grasping the haft of his sword. Petro pointed at the stones.  They seemed to run on forever to