I read an interview with Knoxville native and writer Cormac McCarthy a few years back.  I wish I could remember the exact quote, but I can't. I can, however, distill the substance of his comment to a deceptively simple and brief gist.  In short, McCarthy said that a writer who does not deal with death is not really a serious writer. 

 Well, if that's the case, I've been a VERY serious writer lately.  That's not necessarily to say a good one, but, by  Cormac's criterion, I am (no pun intended) a 'dead serious'  writer.

 

But aren't we all 'dead serious?'  Oh, I know, on a daily basis, most of us don't keep our fear of death on the front burner.  Life gives us too many other pots to stir on the front of the stove. However, doesn't every man, woman and child (above the age of 5) have an awareness of the inevitability of death permanently simmering, unwelcome, on the back burner?

 

Still,  I don't think that pot on the back burner is particularly morbid or unhealthy.  In fact, I think it's fair to say that remembering and stirring our own mortality a little bit every day is one of the things that makes us feel most alive.   It's an urgent reminder of how precious the present is; none of us have a moment to waste.  

 

So here I sit, in my studio.  The windows and doors are open, I hear bird song and insects droning in the woods.  A humming fan wafts cool air my way as my fingers move on the computer keyboard.  I am aware of my own breath, my beating heart and my searching thoughts.  I am fully present in this moment: I am gloriously alive.

 

And yet, I find myself, at a fairly advanced age, frequently and oddly adrift, befuddled, discombobulated by this whole mysterious trip and the way it will inevitably end.  

 

I will, in fact, be VERY surprised if I don't take my last breath still asking,  "What was that all about anyway?" I just hope the old hymn got it right:  "We'll understand it, oh by and by."  

This morning, I wrote this little untitled poem: 

 

In the window, I can see

 

a silhouette that looks like me

 

curtains open, lights ablaze

a shadow player on a stage

looks around and hesitates

in quavering voice, I hear her say:

 

 

Does anybody know the plot?

 

'cause somehow, seems like I forgot

 

is this the middle or the end?

 

do I go out or come back in?

 

Can anybody help me, please?

 

I can't remember my big speech

 

 

Beneath the carpet of the sky

 

silence is the lone reply

 

a window shuts on mundane breath,

 

the silhouette is still as death

 

but there's no sound or fury here

 

just twinkling stars and crystal tears

 

 

 

Be well and good luck!  MM