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The Way We Were

I'm still muddling through the archives of Fragments, revising and reordering the parts of the four seasons of life here that may become a little tome at some point. It is a love-hate experience to go back over pieces written on a morning long ago, then promptly forgotten. The advantages and disadvantages of writing for daily publication lies in the spontaneity of the writing... the Moving Finger writes...and the mind quickly forgets. And so going back through the archives is to open old trunks and boxes filled with precious and terrible mementos rediscovered. Some are comic. Some, tragic.

"If there are no tears in the writing, there will be no tears in the reading" someone has said.

This week, I'm working on Winter. Buster, our black lab, turned FOUR last winter. He was such a fine specimen and faithful companion during the turmoil of the past few years. Here is his birthday card. He died five months later.

And, mistakenly in with winter posts, was this account I called the Joys of Home Moanership. Now that brought back some traumatic, hilarious memories.

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it. the rubaiyat - omar khayyam - 11th century

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Comments

I remember this one. I suggest it belongs on the radio, along with sheets cut down the middle and sewed together. It's very funny, and read aloud in your voice, it will be even funnier.

I second that motion ... the voice of fred, with dry inflections reaching in between the words, coaxing the listener to join in the fun if they'll just follow along.

Of course, in the telling, you'd have to be wearing nothing but your rubber boots and boxer shorts. Authenticity counts!

The thing about keeping a journal that this piece hits on is that the entries are often emotional snapshots. They capture the moment, but then time moves on. It's why I don't go back and read mine too often. I'm a wimp about such things.

(I'm feeling all deprived, having never heard one of your radio pieces. You need to capture it as an MP3 or something since I generally can't tune in when it's on.)

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