Etc, Writing

O Hamlet! O Holden!

ONE OF THE SPARE JOYS of bohemian pretention is, and perhaps always has been, writing sad poems in the rain, letting each misty drop efface and blur the tortured scribble; pearls of moisture like the very angels’ tears weeping for the world’s slow sadness, pooling and puddling to rinse and run again.

Try doing THAT on an iPhone.

Etc

Ian Fleming’s Wisdom School

FROM THE NOVEL “GOLDFINGER,” PAGE 056 of the Penguin Centenary edition:

Bond sat back. He was prepared to listen to anyone who was master of his subject, any subject.

(This is one of those quotes that keeps coming into my mind when speaking with anybody about anything they know well and love, especially if they know and love it better than I do. Everyone’s an expert on something. Now go learn.)

Living

Ghosts Don’t Interest Me

NOTE THE SPECIFICITY OF THE title — I didn’t say I don’t like ghosts, or that I shun their company or “disbelieve” in their “existence.” But they’re no big thing to me, any more so than the other amazing things about which I can do nothing but appreciate.

Like most people, I stand at the rim and center of diverse circles of friends: the local Jewish community, the local media community, my pirate buddies, college fiends, pagans, ol’ hippies and any number of peace officers, firefighters and clergyfolk, each of exceptional intelligence and veracity, all of whom trust their eyes and ears despite preconceptions, and whose only motivation in retelling some awfully weird goings-on was to understand their UFO sighting, religious vision, haunting, reincarnation evidence, Ouija session, telekinesis, missing time, seance, monster encounter or near-death experience. (Like I would know.)

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