A page from my life. I didn’t write it. I found it buried in a story some twenty plus years ago. It’s part of the whole. The whole being my inability to read. I can read. But I can’t (don’t) focus well. And while others bury themselves in books. Or magazine articles. Or newspapers. I open these up and start reading and within moments I am staring at words. Since always.
And sometimes, maybe often, well – enough so that I can get at least a small gem with some regularity, the words come to me. They do. This clip is an example. I opened up The New Yorker one fateful day in the middle ’90s and this is what I found. It found me.
When we found each other – because really that’s how it works here – I tore the page, ripped around the salient points, and touched my heart with it. Because that’s how I deal with so many of the important moments. And then I put the words in a draw with all the others. Little pieces from many stories. But just enough (for me) of each to feel like I learned something.
All This By Hand
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