I don’t write in a journal everyday, but I have accumulated many entries over the past 50+ years beginning in 1966. Some items evolved into longer works. Among the leftovers little pieces survived. I thought a collection of these with a piece culled from the same date in a past year would make an interesting yearbook. The consistencies and inconsistencies of mind, skipping back and forth across time, provide varied perspectives. It is difficult to remember the context of the past we’ve lived; we also make suppositions about times that predate ourselves.

The few alterations from original drafts were to improve clarity. The worst of my work is not included. There remains enough mediocrity and immaturity to make me feel humble and you feel smart. There are also moments of accidental insight and incidental humor.

Author Stephen Crane referred to his little pieces as pills…apparently they were small and somewhat hard to swallow, but good for you.


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Friday, August 21, 2020

Up on Cold Mountain

 

from this week in August, 1973  (I was 28)

 

Up on Cold Mountain

no moment is humble.

Every action is magnificent,

there is no hearth to sweep.

 

I know something of Cold Mountain

I have been there alone.

Summer nor winter did I see Han Shan.

 

No doubt he resides there.

We did not find each other;

we did not drink tea.

 

Upon Cold Mountain

no man speaks to his reflection,

no man speaks to his shadow.

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