There are certain things which cause no suffering whatever by themselves, but make us suffer as signs. Today's exclusive offer is to “Save Your Memories Before They Fade Away.” On his birthday I remember Allen Ginsberg: we were shoulder to shoulder to window in an airport van when he asked what I'd talked about. Hart Crane. “I have my students read 'Atlantis,' out loud,” he said, “because nothing so resembles the movements of the mouth during cock-sucking.” We drove into rural Maine and stopped so he could kiss a friend on the lips. This also could be last. My friend says her husband is losing time when he sings; he's still on key, but not on the beat. Tempo fugit. It's the blur note, the one that makes us see time like a woman walking after her stroke, one leg swaying outward like a canoe paddle, the other pumping straight. At a certain age, we agree, we say “after I die” as if it's true. Our kids don't like that. It was my mother's retirement plan, the car left on in the garage. I'm gonna tell you how it's gonna be. A love that's love will fade away.
--for Tiff Holland
[from The Notebooks]