204. February 1967, Union College frigid quad, “Light My Fire” full blast from dorm open window. After the organ intro, “Light My Fire” from another room—a Doors round. Fraternity guys stop to listen. My folk music friends and I stop to listen. More dorm windows open. Someone yells, “Blow My Mind.”
205. All the world’s a stage but how many players are off book?
206. My mother can no longer speak, but her eyes listen. This may be my last chance. “I want you to know that I learned a lot from you about being a teacher. I watched you working the counter at Woolworths. You put on the extra piece of lettuce for the old lady who never left more than a quarter tip even though your boss said not to give extra food. You were always watching, you were always listening, and you always cared. I try to be that way and people tell me I’m a good teacher.” If the eyes are truly the window to the soul, I can see from their shimmer that my words have reached her soul. I will never be sure of what I see next: The shimmer seems to turn into a vapor above her and is gone. The next day, so is she.
207. On the bus a man talks to a young woman while his ten-year-old daughter tries to listen. When the woman gets off the bus, the man explains, “That was one of my students.” The girl asks, “Is she the one who stole your ideas?”
208. Perhaps the first electronic blogger was Will Rogers, who—from 1926 to 1935—submitted short newspaper pieces via telegram from wherever he happened to be: LONDON, Aug. 25.—France is very quiet. The rise in taxes was only proposed. Deer season opened in Scotland for all those who can’t hit grouse. Debts and dictators quiet today. Rogers often composed quickly and submitted his copy unedited.
209. Summer 1969 working for the Riverside Press-Enterprise, I cover a folksinger’s visit to Chino State Prison. She sings Dylan’s “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues” (“And picking up angel who just arrived here from the Coast”). I interview a burly prisoner wearing the prison uniform of blue jeans and work shirt. He tells me he’s a Hells Angel, and I ask if he’ll go back to the Angels when he gets out. He replies, “It’s a lifetime thing.” He has a question about one of the songs: “That thing about picking up the angel—was she singing about a Hells Angel?” “Yeah, you could interpret it that way.” His face softens. “That’s what I thought. I felt a touch of apathy in my chest when I heard that."
210. Prose poems can be quick, which is not to say rushed. A person who is rushed is often careless and forgetful of details. The race goes to the swift who stay on their feet. But if you do fall—fall gloriously and capture that pose.
211. Our houseguest opens the refrigerator and smiles. “Someone brought home baked goods from Entenmann’s.”
212. Our dusky conure Dulcinea goes missing. We search every drawer, nook, and cranny in the apartment, including pillow cases, where she has been known to crawl. We make sure all windows are closed. After two hours we pretty much give up hope of finding her alive. In the third check of the closet I noticed the lump in a pair of pants. As I gently extricate Dulcinea, I can feel her breathing and shout, “She’s alive!” I gently put her on the bed to see if she is hurt. Well-rested, she soars around the room and down the hallway.
213. Life never gets old but we do.
