An excerpt:
From my favorite bluff, I could see over the hilltops for miles, and my child’s mind believed that view to be the span of the continent. In the far distance, a vaguely defined copse of trees stood apart and above the others, and those were Californian palm trees. It wasn’t until I was embarrassingly old—maybe 11 or 12—that I asked one of my parents and they explained that those trees were pine, like all the others, and only perhaps 10 miles away. I remember that moment clearly, the moment when I was corrected, because it was one of the first times I was conscious of the pleasure of letting go of reality. I stood and looked out over the hills and I let myself believe 100% that I was looking into that eternal, tropical distance I’d always imagined, and at the next moment I knew 100% that I was wrong. And then I went back. And forth. Like sliding between different frames of the same image. Each displaced the other entirely, and each felt equally real.
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