In a blast from the past, I spent some time on the phone the other day with a guy I had been friends with in college, Keith Davis. It was with him that I once played billiards from eight o'clock in the morning until midnight. And it was from him that I won the only athletic trophy I ever did win -- a billiards trophy ... we were the finalists in a tournament we had arranged and as it happened, I won.
Today, at Keith's request, I sent out a couple of copies of my book... a different part of the past. His daughter-in-law (or is it just daughter?) is into meditation with her husband and Keith wanted a copy for himself. So, before it slips off whatever memory shelf I may have, I shipped the copies out.
Strange confluence, somehow. So long ago (1960's), so near at hand (several days ago ... and then again today).
Strange how much credibility people of a certain age can lay at the feet of "a book." A book is an accomplishment, a fait accompli, a concrete something-or-other for someone else. And yet, since it is a book I cobbled together, it's all in the rear-view mirror ... back there ... somewhere. For Keith, perhaps, it is new. For me, it is barely remembered.
"A book" ("Answer Your Love Letters") reminds me that I planned at one time to write a companion volume whose title alone remains as a remembrance: "That Was Zen; This Is Now." I knew what I wanted to say in the second book but could not get straight the means by which to enunciate. And besides, I didn't have the money or energy.
Strange how, as age encroaches, I get nearer and nearer a time when there will be unresolved problems/conundra/mysteries. They simply won't get solved ... why/who made up the spelling of Tucson ... as in the city in Arizona. Or the wherewithal to fill a second book. I sometimes think it is better to leave mysteries in your wake ... not solutions, but mysteries unsolved. Leave some shit for the next poor schmuck.
Today, at Keith's request, I sent out a couple of copies of my book... a different part of the past. His daughter-in-law (or is it just daughter?) is into meditation with her husband and Keith wanted a copy for himself. So, before it slips off whatever memory shelf I may have, I shipped the copies out.
Strange confluence, somehow. So long ago (1960's), so near at hand (several days ago ... and then again today).
Strange how much credibility people of a certain age can lay at the feet of "a book." A book is an accomplishment, a fait accompli, a concrete something-or-other for someone else. And yet, since it is a book I cobbled together, it's all in the rear-view mirror ... back there ... somewhere. For Keith, perhaps, it is new. For me, it is barely remembered.
"A book" ("Answer Your Love Letters") reminds me that I planned at one time to write a companion volume whose title alone remains as a remembrance: "That Was Zen; This Is Now." I knew what I wanted to say in the second book but could not get straight the means by which to enunciate. And besides, I didn't have the money or energy.
Strange how, as age encroaches, I get nearer and nearer a time when there will be unresolved problems/conundra/mysteries. They simply won't get solved ... why/who made up the spelling of Tucson ... as in the city in Arizona. Or the wherewithal to fill a second book. I sometimes think it is better to leave mysteries in your wake ... not solutions, but mysteries unsolved. Leave some shit for the next poor schmuck.
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