By Sara Striefel: Today, at yet another social function that did not feed my soul, at a museum that was closed (CLOSED!) except for the conference hall, books found me. I’d just finished crouching beside an overgrown cottonwood tree pouring liquid from a bottle into a can of juice. Déjà vu on vacation. My sinew remembered a time when the bottle held liquid that did more than sparkle, it burned. In the conference room, ten dozen strangers mingled in the pretense of an Aspen evening. Across...