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]
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