When I close my eyes I imagine I am a bird and can fly.

As I spent my week up in the Himalayas, I started to imagine what I call an emotional equation.

I mean, I can't even imagine what it's going to be like the last day I rodeo. I mean, I'll be alright.

And I could just imagine the committees reporting back to them on where agriculture was going to take humanity, at least in the next few hundred years.

And I'm sure there are people here who probably know better than I do about efficiencies, but I can't imagine that every apartment having its own air conditioner is a very efficient way to cool a building on this scale.

I admitted that I'd actually had a fantasy kind of a dark fantasy of writing a letter about everything that was wrong with the world and then lighting myself on fire on the White House steps.

But knowing my father, and how he kept saying that he was a pacifist and non violent, I found it very hard to picture him with a helmet and gun.

I want you to know that there are farms out there like Bill Keener in Sequatchie Cove Farm in Tennessee whose cows do eat grass and whose pigs do roll in the mud, just like I thought.

I kept imagining all the walks I might not take with them, the art projects I might not mess up, the boyfriends I might not scowl at, the aisles I might not walk down.