Ecstatic Moments.

When i finished tristram shandy recently, i was asked to do an essay for Dr Lansverk's class. He offers a creative prompt, and I choose to emualte the style of tristram shandy in prose--actually it was an essay, but an essay in prose with the explcit purpose to digress from any specific subject matter. That is actually a lie, my last musing in the essay was what i found to be the most important subject matter of the book, and what I feel Dr Sexson might have been expressing as somethning to weep over when he talked abou this book in class--iknow i teared up a bit when i read this part, when young tirstram is travelling through france and he talks about young love, and then there was an external context i discoverd about the book and stenre--writing to the moment is impossible, and perhaps we need just remember our happiest memories to find that plane were beauty and immensity coincide--at least for a moment, and maybe i am too young to reall apreciate everything life has to offer, but this is what i did:

But it isn’t worth it after all to live, love and lust after morning dew, and then watch dawn’s haze roll through and reced and recollect moments past. To remember the dirt brown cannel’s of Holland, the purple-green fragrant blossoms spouting out of the concrete walls, and my yellow lab that ran along the shore of the beach with me—in the ocean’s gray haze, and cold breeze. And later, when I was teenager, in the old green wet hills near the lakes—New Hampshire, New England. The infinite long, and windy back roads through the fall’s yellow and red dropping leaves, the white churches, and the perfume from those first lips—the cascade of her blue eyes and that white dress, spring 2005. And the first time I really loved Montana’s mountains—when we were all still best friends playing catch outside—watching crimson-red fleeting-orange swirls—the last of days the sunlight, fluster in the clouds on the snowcapped mountains above the evergreen and aspen trees. For, in that final moment between light and dark, a coyote howled at 9 pm on the pastor, behind RJ’s fence, and that—that was my last best memory.
Conclusion:
“And what was all that about”, my proof reader said on finishing the essay. “A Cock and Bull essay” I said—“ ACock and Bull Essay, and the best I have ever wrote”.