Wednesday, April 7, 2010

No Title

Nothing to say . . .

1 comment:

  1. Dear Gene, I'm tired of hearing you say that you have nothing to say. How can a man as bright and articulate as you, a writer whose words always held such passion, suddenly own not a word to share with his readers? And you, whose mind wanders over wide territory and whose body traveled a similar expanse in the past few weeks cannot seem to begin a sentence with any word but "nothing"? If I were there with you in Tucson right now, I'd ask you to take a walk with me down one of those dusty desert paths. I'd first ask that you do me the favor of saying nothing as we walked; I'd say nothing in return. After our walk, and back at the rancho, I'd break my silence long enough to ask you to share a glass of iced tea with me. Next, I'd hand you this assignment: Please walk to the room where your new computer lives. Enter and close the door behind you. Don't come out again, not until you carry with you at least three paragraphs of prose in mint condition.

    And you're correct, dear friend, "specific incidentals are not accidental."

    My own mortality haunts and chases me these days, and I miss your presence much. As well, I miss the Winn-Dixie Plaza.