Somehow it all seems to revolve around telling. Writing, editing, telling stories … what one friend refers to as “drinking tea and swapping lies.”
Lies, truth, fact or fiction … in the swirl of the Internet, the distinctions aren’t so clear. But in truth, they probably never were.
And I digress. Other stuff I’ve put my shoulder to: An introduction for a children’s book of Walt Whitman verse, when I was executive director of the Walt Whitman Association in Camden. … Press releases about Jacques Cousteau, Alan King, Harry Reasoner et al. when I worked for ABC-TV. Am I dating myself? Yeahhh. … Stories about children’s television and about the Philadelphia Folk Festival; about Paolo Soleri and life on a reservation in Montana. … A bio for the catalog of a fabulous artist who paints the life of her childhood in the coal camps on old quilts …. And a lot of journals, some songs, some poems.
It all comes out of our memories and our daily observations in the end … and from that mysterious place where ideas form, so that when they come through us, we say, privately, Whoa! Where’d THAT come from?
We think we are so special, we humans. And we are. But so are the whales and the elephants and all the rest of them. I always say, we just got lucky. We got the thumbs. The opposable ones. But as for the brains, well, don’t you wonder what the whales and the elephants are thinking right now about how we’ve managed things?
But, says Jalal ad Din, We were born with wings. And we were born with a love in our hearts for the work we were meant to do. May we do it well, and the planet thrive, as we go forward.
Not fare well,
But fare forward, voyagers.
– T.S. Eliot, “The Dry Salvages”