There’s a catbird outside my window. He sounds lonesome. That’s the thing: all of creation is aching from solitude and horniness.
Meanwhile I guide my life by dreams, inefficient as always, prone to depression, occasionally pressing my forehead on the wet lawn early.
Meanwhile here are several true statements about my life:
Once, afraid of the Russian police, I pressed my face against a birch tree and cried.
Once, I lit my shoe on fire in a fleabag hotel.
I sailed alone while blind through a thunderstorm.
Rode an elevator with Melvin Laird, told him I loved his “war thing.”
Was sneezed on by an elephant.
Hit a Chinese bell with a coin when none of my sighted friends could do it.
Had a soulful moment with a donkey in Galway.
Beat a French chess champion who overturned the board.
Held Enrico Caruso’s saddle shoes.