I will say this. 10,000 people (who are they? who are you? how do you find me? and then, how do I find you?) have come to visit, have written me. I haven’t posted their notes, although I’ve read many of them, but find what they say what you say so mysterious. I will try this again. I really will. I hope.
We’ll see what happens tomorrow.
IT WAS NOT A PLACE FULL OF CAPITAL LETTERS. OR CAPITOL LETTERS EITHER.
I WISH I KNEW WHERE I GO AND WHERE I WENT. STILL AFTER ALL THIS TIME
WHERE I AM AND WHERE I GO REMAINS MYSTERIOUS. BUT
AND THERE IS ALWAYS AT LEAST UNTIL NOW A BUT
BUT I AM STILL, WITH WORDS IN MY HANDS AND WORDS IN MY HEART, STILL HERE.
TRYING OUT THOSE WORDS. ONE BY ONE BY ONE.
It’s been a while. Where I went can’t be easily explained. The simple explanation is Sarasota but that’s not the real story. Of course it is possible to write everything and anything from Sarasota. But I didn’t.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell you why.
Here’s what she says about stories:
What do stories tell us? That this life is a journey through a dark wood. That the soul is always in peril. That those who love should never count the cost. That duty and passion tear the heart in half. That beauty is as good a reason as any. That understanding is all. That miracles happen. That there are heroes. That even a hero like Siegfried, who can row against the current of the RHine, is destroyed by his own vanity and forgetfulness. That wisdom is pain but pain is not wisdom. That the buried treasure is really there. That few things are worth the burden of possession. That no one can steal what no one can possess. That there is always a second chance. That there is love.
Anything is a good excuse.
There is always laundry (although
I rarely go to the basement to do it)
and then there is the problem
of words. Where are they?
What about depositing the check
that’s been sitting on my desk for a week?
I should really pick up
some bottled water. I haven’t talked
to my friend Sue in months. Going to
yoga class is a good idea. I feel
a little stiff. The library books
are nearly due. We don’t have
what we need for dinner. And
maybe I’m not a real writer anyway.