Every so often, when faced with a writing journey ahead, I turn to Billy Collins. Daunted by the task, I look to him as I stumble with my words and some find comfort in his "Winter Syntax.” Introduced to me by a mutual friend, Karl, Billy has over the years become a close friend of mine. Yet Karl, a poet in his own right, is who I think of today. Questions flood my thoughts of him - the usual roundabout of how he is, what he’s doing now, if he still finds time to write, and if he has finally tramped his way down to South America; maybe even the tip of Patagonia.
Nostalgia floods me as I sit here with Billy perched on the corner of the coffee table, and Patti Smith howling around the room. I try to recapture the faded memories of summer afternoons, driving along the coast, purposely getting lost in the winding canyons of Malibu, and eventually finding ourselves looking out the Pacific Ocean, feet buried in the ground. No matter how desperately I try to recall sentences we exchanged, all I can come up with are the blurry lines of thought and subjects; a broad range of topics that inevitably turned a casual friendship into a bond of kindred spirits. How many other kindred spirits have come and gone? Many it seems, as I flip through the scrapbook pages of my mind. Some faces etched more pronouncedly than others, some whose names I never found out. Nevertheless, the warmth of their memory blankets around me. They all individually, and collectively have helped shape who I am today, and who I will become tomorrow.
Afterthought: When I get silly, I sometimes questions as to whether or not I'm in the right place. Yet, moments like these, I think of my BECA community, and I know exactly that this is where I need to be. Isn’t this why we tell stories? To document our encounters, our experiences, our voices, which somehow, in the grand scheme of things, becomes a mighty chorus of the human spirit.
Nostalgia floods me as I sit here with Billy perched on the corner of the coffee table, and Patti Smith howling around the room. I try to recapture the faded memories of summer afternoons, driving along the coast, purposely getting lost in the winding canyons of Malibu, and eventually finding ourselves looking out the Pacific Ocean, feet buried in the ground. No matter how desperately I try to recall sentences we exchanged, all I can come up with are the blurry lines of thought and subjects; a broad range of topics that inevitably turned a casual friendship into a bond of kindred spirits. How many other kindred spirits have come and gone? Many it seems, as I flip through the scrapbook pages of my mind. Some faces etched more pronouncedly than others, some whose names I never found out. Nevertheless, the warmth of their memory blankets around me. They all individually, and collectively have helped shape who I am today, and who I will become tomorrow.
Afterthought: When I get silly, I sometimes questions as to whether or not I'm in the right place. Yet, moments like these, I think of my BECA community, and I know exactly that this is where I need to be. Isn’t this why we tell stories? To document our encounters, our experiences, our voices, which somehow, in the grand scheme of things, becomes a mighty chorus of the human spirit.
No comments:
Post a Comment