blame Tom Beckett. his recent blog entry abt mortality depositd gravel in my loafers. after all I'm a decade older than Tom. & these past few years have seen my wall of the dead get higher & higher.
I'm certain the reflective moments in yesterday's posts were spun from Tom's wool. the only good thing abt aging is an acuity of vision. I see things differently. the mistakes of youth are so clear now. & the importance -- or lack thereof -- of events & objects seems simple.
so at the gym this morning my outward grunts were matchd by inner cogitation abt Tom Beckett & Eddie Quillan & Djuna Barnes & how they all collide with Gildzen. I got to thinking abt this whole writing thing. I began writing when I was 10 or 11. I began publishing when I was in my teens. it's a big bibliography. but is any of it important. there are no monographs abt my work. no movie abt my life. it remains a struggle to publish some of my books. one of my late poems that I think is pretty good -- "there are men" -- causd a stranger to write me that it was a masturbatory reflection of an old queen. perhaps the years of no notice are better than that kind of reception.
I don't know where this is going so maybe I shd conclude before I fill the blogosphere with more bromides. I guess I want to tell Tom that every time I lay me down to sleep I don't expect to wake up. & when I do it's a joy. on the precipice of old age I'd rather see a movie than read any kind of criticism. I prefer a kiss to an award. & I'll keep on writing becasue that's what I do.