During the fall and winter months, seated at my desk, I am treated to some glorious sunrises. The horizon lies just beyond some trees on the other side of Harris Creek. It is as if the beginning of the world was just a short boat ride and walk away from the room in which I sit and tap out these words. On this particular morning in November I am witness to such a sunrise.

There is a continuous discrepancy between my knowledge and my experience. I can say that I know what I know but I must say, " it is as if," when speaking my experience. I know the real sun is 93,000,000 miles out in space and that it is not rising from below some slightly curvilinear line of trees on the other side of Harris Creek, and yet that is actually the way it seems to me. There is something stubbornly Narcissistic about my experience; it is as if that rising sun belongs to me alone.

Human experience, it seems to me, never actually fits the facts. The experience is infected with fantasy, with wishes and fears that cannot be detected by an analysis of the facts. Knowledge of the facts is not knowledge of the fantasy, and the experience is always inclusive of fantasy. Wherein lies the glory of the sunrise?