Tuesday, January 5, 2010

In 1943

I found this disjointed piece of writing in an old journal of mine. I wish I could claim credit for it, but I have no recollection of writing it, and no idea what it means.

In the rabbit, it was 1943, my mother fried and that was the end of that rabbit. Hector, the timid brother of my bygone childhood, was off to war. Victor too, gone into the machine. It wasn't as warm, and not because the furnace broke. She could find beauty in anything, my mother.

By the 60's I had become a drifter. Someone who goes with the wind. India, then back with the ships and pains.


  1. oh, sorry, I wrote that. If you put it up to a mirror you'll see a bunch of bike part numbers and head-tube diameter specifications.

  2. Speaking of finding writings, I found this paper in the business building yesterday covered in practice signatures and this:
    You thought about her again, this morning. Another piece of your life beginning w/out her, just like the last one(s). There is hope in beginnings and ends, but hope is about it, and this still feels like the middle.