Richard Brautigan, the great American poet and sometime novelist, was as old in 1963, when I was born, as I am now. I wish he were still alive; he'd be twice as old as I am and probably twice as wise. But his special dreaming vision didn't keep him from killing himself, from putting his misery out like the cat.
Out went sadness, but there it sits, just outside the door, howling to get back in.
Original content on this page © Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.
Contact me:
ascott@pacifier.com I wrote this in 1992