Identity

You can't tell it's him unless you know him.

And even then how can you know him who doesn't himself know who he is.

He's different than he was when you thought you knew him. Something's changed though neither of you are quite sure what it is.

It is a shame that neither one of you are able to look one another in the eye.

The Art of the Toothpick

"What's that in your mouth?' his granddaughter asks as they emerge from the restaurant and she looks up to him to take his hand now that they're outside in the hazardous world.

"It's a toothpick," he says, thinking he should explain that as one ages, one's boody changes shape and the physical structure deteriorates. Instead, he removes the toothpick from his mouth and flicks it aside, telling his granddaughter not to worry, that the toothpick biodegradable.



Well

What you think is the situation is not and never could have been, is something else you can't imagine until you see it.

And there's only one way of seeing--the way you see--and seeing this way you see things you hadn't seen before.

The artist

He remembers being downtown. It was late. He'd just seen a movie and was walking back to his car. One of the people he was with said, "look up, see how beautiful the buildings are, the lights."

He reached for  his camera, agreeing that the lights of the buildings against the dark night sky were beautiful and deserved to have a picture taken of them.

He stopped, took his cell phone out of his pocket, and took a picture.

Days later, at home thinking about the movie he'd seen--what it meant, the striking visual images, the language etc.--he realized he'd made a mistake and had taken a picture of the pavement, on which his right foot could be glimpsed, and not of the beautiful buildings as he'd intended.



Coffee and Light

I meant to talk to you last night, but I didn't; I was concerned that my words might hurt your feelings. Now it's too late, and the moment I knew that what I had to say might save you--even if my words were difficult and might have turned a friend into an enemy--is past.

I knew the truth, but said nothing; instead I remained silent, thinking there would be a time when I could speak openly. Sometime in the night, what I hadn't said woke me and I thought I heard your voice say that what I'd withheld had real meaning.

Seven ways to say hello

1. Hi.

2. Hi, haven't we met before?

3. Bonjour.

4.Hello, and where have you been all my life?

5. Hello, how would you like me to inscribe my autobiography?

6. What did you say your name was?

7. Let's have lunch again, sometime.



The writer at sixty

There's a cardboard box in the attic where I keep everything I don't want to think about. It's heavy, a masterpiece made of the whole weight of the world, crammed with at least one apocalypse, several civil wars, and lots of small stuff I can't remember keeping.

To reach the box presents a real challenge: I have to stand on a ladder, push a heavy wooden door with my head so I can keep my hands free to fasten the latch that holds the door up. The act is extremely dangerous and complex, not unlike like defying gravity.

Lately, I've been thinking that it's time to start taking things out of the box, bringing them down into the house one-by-one to think about again, shake the dark space out of them and watch how the light becomes a poet right before my eyes.