In the house on Paper Street, a police detective started calling about my condominium explosion, and Tyler stood with his chest against my shoulder, whispering into my ear while I held the phone to the other ear, and the detective asked if I knew anyone who could make homemade dynamite.
"Disaster is a natural part of my evolution," Tyler whispered, "toward tragedy and dissolution."
I told the detective that it was the refrigerator that blew up my condo.
"I'm breaking my attachment to physical power and possessions," Tyler whispered, " because only through destroying myself can I discover the greater the great power of my spirit. "
"The liberator who destroyed my property," Tyler said, "is fighting to save my spirit. The teacher who clears all possessions from my path will set me free. "
"Tell him," Tyler whispered. "Yes, you did it. You blew it all up. That's what he wants to hear. "
I tell the detective, no, I did not leave the gas on and then leave town. I loved my life. I loved that condo. I loved every stick of furniture. That was my whole life. Everything, the lamps, the chairs, the rugs were me. The dishes in the cabinets were me. The plants were me. The television was me. It was me blew up. Couldn't he see that?