My never-to-be-published writings really don’t amount to much — a few hundred thousand words at most, represented by two or three thick typescripts, quite a few stories, and dozens of poems. And when I say never-to-be-published, I mean that they are going directly into the flames. They had to be written; how else was I to learn? That purpose served, now they can be thrown away. And while I might someday feel the same about these pages, the likelihood of that seems small, even though I am still learning. What I’m learning now, though, is that I am less and less the one who is writing, and more the one being written. And what are these pages but my own peculiar way of expressing gratitude for such knowledge? And what is such knowledge but a reminder to be truthful and revealing during the time I am so generously given? Or, to put it another way, I’m too old to play cat-and-mouse. We all are.
The Old Life
What is this trunk I find beside the road,
battered, yet familiar too?
I see the lock is broken. . . .
Ah, yes. I should have known.
I left it here myself, so many dreams ago.
Songs and Letters, April 12, 2007
Another Song I Know, Cosmopsis Books, 2007
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