Snow day yesterday. The snow began before dawn and kept going ’til evening. Time glided by; late in the afternoon, I spiked warmed cider with bourbon. That was that, an off day, a day off.
Today , Katha and I went to matinee of a friend’s one-man play, an exploration of what it means to be a man if you’re gay, and born in the 1950s. It’s the third time we’ve seen Steve perform over the last couple of years, and this was its best iteration, tight and harsh and generous, but the feeling it evokes in me remains the same as it was on first witnessing: life is too fucking short.
I make it here by late afternoon. The browser come up and a quick whip through the chance nodes of the web take me to an old friend that resonates so with the afternoon’s performance it made me gasp:
This Is Just to Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
It gets me every time, that last stanza!
“Forgive me”
You must be fucking joking. Or rather, flaunting. No one saying those words out loud is looking forabsolution.
“they were delicious”
Yes they were. I can taste them still.
“so sweet”
Memory. Halt on this moment. This is why one writes; one reads.
“and so cold”
Hold that which cuts.
Marching orders. Time to go.