Dear You,
The rain this early afternoon came while I was sitting on my porch reading a novel my guest left behind. The lanai, as it is known here, has a metal covering, and the sound drew me away from the scene of the crime in my story and, within a moment, transported me up the Atlantic coast 1,403 miles to another porch and another time.
I spent only a short time each Summer on the porch in Manomet, MA. Those days, like the house itself, no longer exist -- the house, unlike my memories of it, have been bulldozed and carted to a landfill.
Memories, I think, are a sort of landfill, too. More easily mined, sometimes, for the treasures we bury there. In the case today, I closed my eyes and back I went, lying on one of the spare beds, a book nearby, listening to the rain strike the rubber roof and watching the reflection of myself in the windows that had been swung open and hooked to the rafters.
I was transported, and with a great sense of longing had to pull myself back here to March 22 in Florida. Back to the scene of the crime.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Mene, Tekel
Dear You,
The day Gatsby reunites with his beloved, Daisy, the narrator, Nick Carroway observes that she is a flibbertigibbet and wonders why Jay doesn't see how far she has fallen short of his enormous dreams. Well, isn't that dramatic irony for you?
And isn't it the case with us all? In the end, doesn't Life itself fall short of our youthful dreams?
In the St. Petersburg Times, even the obituary section is a good read. Now and then, a writer turns one death notice into a little biography, and I read with no little jealousy how remarkable someone else's life has been. "That could have been me," I think, "if only . . .."
It is tempting now and then to make of oneself the hero of a story: "Sipping his coffee on the lanai, the morning forming itself in growing splender in all three directions he could see around him, Paul went over his List of Possibilities for the day." And several pages (chapters? Could this possibly be sustained?) later: "He leaned against the cushions and poured an unwise third glass of zinfandel, trying to decide whether to draw the drapes against the fading light. 'The middle of March already?' he sighed."
Okay, I agree. Way too Prufrock. Better to just get on with it. Still, I have to wonder if that Times writer, some day in the (distant?) future, will choose me.
The day Gatsby reunites with his beloved, Daisy, the narrator, Nick Carroway observes that she is a flibbertigibbet and wonders why Jay doesn't see how far she has fallen short of his enormous dreams. Well, isn't that dramatic irony for you?
And isn't it the case with us all? In the end, doesn't Life itself fall short of our youthful dreams?
In the St. Petersburg Times, even the obituary section is a good read. Now and then, a writer turns one death notice into a little biography, and I read with no little jealousy how remarkable someone else's life has been. "That could have been me," I think, "if only . . .."
It is tempting now and then to make of oneself the hero of a story: "Sipping his coffee on the lanai, the morning forming itself in growing splender in all three directions he could see around him, Paul went over his List of Possibilities for the day." And several pages (chapters? Could this possibly be sustained?) later: "He leaned against the cushions and poured an unwise third glass of zinfandel, trying to decide whether to draw the drapes against the fading light. 'The middle of March already?' he sighed."
Okay, I agree. Way too Prufrock. Better to just get on with it. Still, I have to wonder if that Times writer, some day in the (distant?) future, will choose me.
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