Craig Lee Duckett is my slave name. For fifty-odd years—’odd’ being the definitive term in all twelve of its meanings—I have moved through life, enticed and spellbound by the slagheap of cheap bangles and artificial significances tendered by Western culture. With a stoic’s doggedness, I’d sought truth and meaning from empty words and passionless books while neglecting the Moment at hand. I’d misplaced my humanity, forgotten the blood roaring in my veins, the breath in my chest, my flesh and hair and bone. Over the course of half a century I’d became something I was not: a name, a label, a description, a definition. I was fake and phony, as only language can make you, and believed all the hype.
But recently, something happened. I woke up. There’s no other way to put it. I simply yawned, blinked, and opened my eyes. Had I been asleep at the wheel all those years? An automaton going through the motions with which society had programmed me? And, after opening my eyes, what was it I was finally seeing? Finally hearing? Finally feeling?
I don’t know, but I mean to find out.
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