Saturday, May 1, 2010
How short the day, how long the expression I have lived — and at journey’s end a primal sunset, then a room that slowly dims on what remains of a conversation only I can hear, and which is defined by wry lunacy — almost typing rye and spelling it rhye for the tired smile it would bring — a few words, a drawing, a poem, each still moving toward the illusion of universally understandable form. To be old is not so hard. I’ve been so all my life — my mother knew, and said so. To be young is to see the world as a god from his deathbed, even as I burn. And there is nothing more unbecoming than a god afraid to learn.
“Unbecoming” is my newest Notebook entry. Old notes are archived here.
In the Forum: organizing train wrecks.