I took a look through my filing cabinets tonight. And let me tell you, it freaked me out.
There could well be five thousand pounds of unfinished, unremarkable, and terribly embarrassing prose and poetry in these folders, bundles and boxes. (Tell me: do they even make those canary yellow newsprint pads any more?) There are several hundred pounds of handwritten stuff and tons of brittle, twenty-pound bond paper, imprinted with ink from ancient typewriters (both manual and electric); stuff composed on word-processors; and newer offerings printed from computers.
I've never felt older and less vital than I do right at this second.
The guy that wrote that stuff is long dead. Opening those vaults was a big mistake.
Hey buddy... got a match?
3 years ago