In the remotest jungle highlands of New Guinea, there is a mysterious, mist-wreathed valley that in the history of mankind has only been visited by three people: a man, a woman, and a child. In that valley lives the cloud bird, a tiny creature the size of a baby’s thumb. Its delicate feathers are as white as alpine snow and as soft as a cherub’s breath. Its lungs extract helium from the atmosphere, which is pumped into its wee bones. When it stops flying to rest, it simply floats in the air. Never once does the cloud bird land on earth. The females dart down into the jungle to snatch cobwebs, out of which they fashion nests that drift among the mists. Having no need of feet, the males instead have two long spines of crystal, which they extend during their courtship rituals. These are held only once a year, on the sunniest day of the dry weather. Look up in the sky, and you will see a thousand brilliant specks in all the colors of a rainbow, dancing and weaving—

Wait. You mean about me? I’m not nearly so interesting. Do I look interesting?

In Phuket, Thailand, hundreds of artists make a living copying masterpieces. They will also paint your portrait. I told this one artist, make me look like one those Angkor Wat statues. This portrait hangs in my office. I ponder it from time to time when I’m stuck on a story but it doesn’t provide any inspiration. Makes me yawn and think about taking a nap.

 My parents were American missionaries to Indonesia, where I was born and raised and still live with my family. No TV as a kid. For entertainment I either read whatever I could get my hands on or went to the beach. Grew up to be a fit young surfer who did some writing. Now I’m a fat middle-aged writer who does some surfing. Sundays, I go to church and think on questions like why would a good God make evil eggplant for man to gag upon? I also spend a good deal of my life looking for things, such as my sunglasses, which sometimes are to be found propped up on my head. One time, I took my young son to lunch on my motor scooter. Driving home from the café I had this odd feeling I was forgetting something. Which, of course, was my son. He didn’t mind, though. The café owner had given him some ice cream. Next day he wanted me to take him out to lunch and forget him all over again.

To be honest, I don’t like talking about myself. I’d rather talk about you. Or cloud birds.

*By the way, I’m not really fat fat—that was just nice alliteration.  I keep up on my aerobics.  If I were to drown in the surf because I was out of shape, I would be very humiliated.