'Tis Better to Be A Witty Fool

There are those who write history;

there are those who write history.

who will ye be?

(neither probably)

love anthologized (1)

these pages of book

will always remind me of spring

and the day that you weren't there

to see me write i love you

in the margin of

the storm (2)

i knew then what (3)

i know now

1. this poem is dedicated to t.s. eliot

2. "So the storm passed and every one was happy."

3. what they say about love is true. it steers a course all of its own. weaving, diving, soaring until one day it lands right in front of you. staring you in the eyes. and the only thing you can do is pray to God that in that moment you are able to capture it. take it by the hand. if not, you'll live every day like me. hoping to get just one more chance.

Write What You Know About

Over a year ago, my father purchased for me a very old copy of Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn; a copy printed in the year 1896. At the time, I did not hail the novel as my absolute favorite; it was just one in a very short list of American classics that I had forced myself to read throughout the course of my twenty-three years of existence; it took me nearly two months to finish and for all the times I laughed I equally fell asleep.

But time has a way of gilding opinion and mine has made no efforts at exception. I completely idolize Mark Twain--something that I'm sure he would have a problem with but I will continue to do so nonetheless--and his writing and, especially Huckleberry Finn. This is daunting, though, and at times I find myself wondering when I sit down to write what it is that I am sitting down to write about: what the hell am I going to do? Who are my characters? What is the story? And my head nearly implodes until I remember the newspaper clipping glued into the front cover of my century's old Huckleberry Finn. This is what it reads:

Original of "Huck Finn"

When Mark Twain wrote "Huckleberry Finn" and "Tom Sawyer" he wrote incidents of his own boyhood and that of his friends. Those friends with one exception, are still living in Missouri. A stranger visiting in the last Missouri legislature would hardly think of the quiet old man who kept in order the gallery above representative hall in connect with Huckleberry Finn, but as a matter of fact he is the man described in most of the stories. The old man's name is Barnett C. M. Farthing. His friends call him "Huck," or "Old Huck," and he answers to that name more often than he does to his own. Farthing lives at Paris, Monroe county. He is a bachelor, 65 years old, and a carpenter by trade. He works when he feels like working. When he feels like resting he sits around in front of stores in the quiet little Missouri town and tells stories. It was too cold for him last winter, so Speaker Whitecotton brought him to the capitol and the sergeant-at-arms put him in charge of the gallery, says the Kansas City Star.

"I have the highest office in the gift of the legislature," he said. "It doesn't pay as well as some, but I can look down on the members as well as the employees. About my being the original of 'Huckleberry Finn' it was this way: When we were boys, Sam Clemens (Mark Twain), Frank Pitts, Tom Blankenship, John Meredith, John Briggs, Bob Bodine and myself all went to the same school. Sam was a speckled-faced boy, and when he came to Hannibal to go to school he had to fight his way into the crowd, but after he had fought with us all he became one of the leaders of the gang. I recognize in 'Tom Sawyer' a great many things that George Butler did, and I suppose that some of my doings did get into the story of 'Huckleberry Finn.' After Sam went to work in a little newspaper George and I had a boat that disappeared. After awhile a boat just like it turned up in Sam's possession, with the name of his best girl painted on it. After Sam became famous I tried to make him confess that it was our boat, but I never got any satisfaction out of him.

"When Sam visited Hannibal a year or so ago, there was an old lady with white hair, who came to shake hands with him. He couldn't place her.

" 'We were great friends when you was a boy,' she said

"Sam looked at her still puzzled. 'It's impossible. You are too young.' he said.

And that was where the article was clipped by a woman named Belle. I know her name was Belle because she wrote a nice note to her sister on the opposite page, wishing her a Merry Christmas, 1897. If she were still around, I would thank Belle. I will thank her now, even though she is most likely not around. For it was this simple inclusion that made the one gift to her sister a two-fold treasure to me.

The lesson learned: Write what you know or pray to God that what you don't will find its way into your life somehow.

To: The Love of My Life

I think about you all the time.

Especially your smile. It is graceful, dignified, but also fun, like the sunset on a summer evening where the wind slightly plays with the dune grass. You always said you loved those nights, as you played some kind of walking game with your fingers in my hand. I always loved those nights, too.

Did I ever tell you that I thought you have the most exquisite cheek bones? They are like landing-pads for kisses and caresses. The kind meant for mornings and comfort after a hard day at work. The kind where I look you in the eyes afterwards and say you are the love of my life. Because sometimes we all wonder now and then. And sometimes should always end with the feeling of forever. That's the only remedy for curious love.

I believe that your eyes were forged not in the womb of a mere woman, but somewhere in the deep, deep heart of a loving soul. There is no other way to create that gypsy magic they call love at first sight. Not in a passing glance, not in any glance. Just in yours.

So, I thought I would just let you know that I think about you all the time. And hope you do the same for me.

But now I will turn off the Sinatra. I will hang my coat up in the closet and make myself some dinner. The Life of a Bachelor is thus.

And Even though we have yet to meet. Even though we may not even be in the same city or perhaps even country, there is one thing that always keeps me warm and patient. It is the thought of meeting your eyes for the first time. And realizing, somewhere deep inside, that for the rest of my life, you are mine.

Love,

Me

(I wrote this a long time ago, on Valentine's Day, after spending an evening with my best friend and, now, love. It will always mean a lot to me; it was the first time that I let my heart fly.)

La Amistad-1841

I have heard Joseph Cinque

I have heard him call

from the stands of the court of this land

give us us free

give us us free