Inelegantly, and without my consent, time passed.
There is always the temptation in life to diddle around making itsy-bitsy friends and meals and journeys for years on end. It is all so self conscience, so apparently moral…But I won’t have it. The world is wilder than that in all directions, more dangerous…more extravagant and bright. We are…raising tomatoes when we should be raising Cain, or Lazarus.
It flows thru
the death of me
like a river
American poet Gregory Nunzio Corso (26 March 1930 – 17 January 2001) died of prostate cancer. His ashes were deposited at the foot of the grave of poet Percy Bysshe Shelley in the Cimitero Acattolico, the Protestant Cemetery in Rome. Although Corso was Catholic and the cemetery was strictly Protestant, an exception was made for him. Corso also wrote his own epitaph, above.
Everywhere she went, including here, it was against her better judgement.
Stored away in some brain cell is the image of a long-departed aunt you haven’t thought of in 30 years. Stored away in another cell is the image of a pink pony stitched on your first set of baby pajamas. All it takes to get that aunt mounted on the back of that pony is to eat a hunk of meatloaf immediately before going to bed.
So, I guess we are who we are for a lot of reasons. And maybe we’ll never know most of them. But even if we don’t have the power to choose where we come from, we can still choose where we go from there. We can still do things. And we can try to feel okay about them.
What is an expert?
Anyone who others think knows a lot about something. These days, it’s not only what you know that counts, but also who hears you. Resonance, not authenticity, is the key ingredient of expertise in the Information Age.