NO MEMOIR TODAY; I WROTE THIS INSTEAD
Nothing of the past; nothing of the future.
I am sitting in a room in Berkeley by a huge casement window, twice my height. Watching the light of the late afternoon sun that is tickling the leaves of a tree even taller than the window. This is better than memory.
On the table in front of me is my favorite patchwork bucket hat that holds its shape so well because it is made of hemp. The patterns of the patchwork are random, except for the inclusion of some mushrooms – whoever designed this hemp hat knows their audience. And where else would I wear it but here in Berzerkley?
In a few minutes I will take my afternoon swim in the beautiful pool of the Berkely City Club in a room with a gothic style vaulted ceiling and I’ll let my mind go wherever it wants to wander as I splash through lap after lap.
It is a good way to spend an afternoon, thinking about the sunlight, and a hat, and a pleasant swim.
I will take my time. I am not afraid to indulge myself. I am a sensualist. I take in all the afternoons. I will leave nothing untaken and try not to make demands. I will not give this afternoon away to worry or temperament. I will simply splash in the coconut twilight.
There are worse things to write about. I am not afraid to write about anything. And I am not afraid to write about nothing. I am not afraid to write. I am brave enough to write. I am an artist and a wizard. I take a hat and a splash of sunlight and a swim and make some art of it. I take what comes. I do not give up.
I know that there are worse ways to pass the time. I know that there are worse ways. I have been down other paths I wish I hadn’t taken. I have been down. But now I’m up. Up to the task. Up to the moment. Up to going to Ralph’s Market and buying a chicken.
The journey is everything.
The journey is the sunlight, and the hat, and the swim, and the words, and the memories.
The journey is my father. The journey is the tree outside the window. The journey is the blue garbage can next to the bright red Private Property sign outside the brown house on Durand street. The journey is my fingers pounding the keyboard. The journey is my determination. The journey is my indifference. The journey is my commitment. The journey is my burden. The journey goes wherever it damn pleases.
CLICK HERE to visit the home page of “The Writing Wizard!”