People are buried every day. Death happens. Live and let live. Live and let die. One is the loneliest number. One comes before two. One follows nothing. He ain’t heavy. He’s my brother. We are family. I got all my sisters with me. I do have two sisters. She did, too. Before, we were strangers traveling in opposite directions. Now it’s impossible to say where either one of us is.
In what may or may not be a calculated effort, I wrote some stories. If memory is to addition what nonfiction is to subtraction then fiction is left to choose to multiply or divide.
I’d like to quote Shakespeare, Nietzsche, Mother Teresa or even Tina Fey saying, “The mind, like memory, is complex; what it perceives is second only to what it conceives.” Only that would be weird, a kind of inverse or reverse or maybe perverse plagiarism because, you see, the words are mine and who am I? I have no clout. I do think, however, they’re true. So is “What is borne of experience and then recorded for playback is memory.” But memory is never the whole story.
The mind’s way weaves meanings, marrying mystery with mistress. Why am I putting in essays and stories? The truth is I don’t know why. When I wrote this I was looking for meaning. I guess this is how I hunt. This is what came after. I wish that when you read them I could know what you think. I’d like to know what you make of the aftermath.