It all started innocently enough. I was looking for a poem my father wrote to bring to poetry class tomorrow. Now my house looks like the Collyer brother’s apt did, with piles of old, rotting papers all around. My writings from the age of 27—that’s 50 yrs! I wrote about my loves, my cats, my sister. I wrote journals about my trips to Israel, California, Florida, Texas. I wrote school papers about Khruschev and the Russian revolution. What I said in my earlier blog about tossing things away still holds true: absorb, move on. But 50 years! A whole person is there, a whole person’s life. And the writing, some of it anyway, is good. What to do?
I know what I’d like to do. I’d like to go on a retreat, take it all with me and type it all up and put it into book form, like a chapbook. Then let it be among my possessions so when it’s found, if anyone wants to, they can “read me” all in one place. But it’s so cold out these days, so a retreat in the woods is out. Cold at my age does not stir the blood into action. Au contraire, I just want to snuggle inside my comforter. Anywhere one goes, one’s day would still have to start with a shower. Brrr. Forget it!
Unless I could afford a suite at the Plaza! Food brought up, heat pouring in, views of Central Park skaters and horse carriages, if they still have them. Morning: scrambled eggs and bacon, a hot shower, a trip down to the lobby for coffee and a shot of human contact, and then … upstairs to Mozart on the radio and typing, typing, typing.