It was something from Wise Wolf wrote that sparked a memory tonight of the Grand Canyon. Something about whether or not there is really any wisdom at Phoenix Ark Press, or what my own stories and books might have meant. I’ve told the story about despair over my novel Fell, over people I loved, especially one, and my American publisher. The depth of how wrong that was makes it hard to let go, not to ‘fight’ it, or not just to give up the ghost. But then there is something beyond personal obsession, something about what you out there hear and find inspiration in, that makes giving up ghosts impossible too. So, back to the Grand Canyon and discovering something when I was touring with Fell, and doing a writer’s in residence programme in that astonishing place too. It was a very surreal time, that seemed never to stop, after the death of a Park Ranger, Eric York, of Pneumonic Plague. But it was then I learnt about the wolf in local Indian legends. That those natural people, bound into their environment, called the wolf The Pathfinder of the Never Ending Story. If the Fell in me was killed by the people around me, perhaps a little howl to the ‘world out there’, the world of nature, so part of us beyond our surfaces and also falsenessess, will bring back that informing spirit again, for a little pathfinding. Nature’s great song, power and astonishing beauty, in the song of never ending stories.