August 5, 2014

Odd, when you come to a file of writing of which you have no recollection. You must have written it. It sort of sounds like you, but you can’t remember ever setting these particular words together. You read it over and over trying to understand why it was abandoned.

Rose in the utter dark of morning, before birds, starless, moonless, the sky a low lead ceiling.

Thinking of the fish pond in the graveyard you could get to by crossing the Cuyahoga at my old Nature Day Camp. Thinking of our part of the river. Do all those kids remember it? Me? I thought I remembered lying on one of the rocks in the river having sex, but then I knew it had been a fantasy, grown, if anything, more vivid with the passing of time. The Indians had split a great oak into three, to tell them where to portage their canoes.

Bought tickets for Theater Row on 42nd: one for a musical about the Manhattan Project, one for Naked Boys Singing. I got a front row seat for the latter, so the full horror might descend upon me.