A long, long time ago, when I first started our manuscript (God/i) in my errie basement, withe crickets chirping at 1:55.55 and who-knows-what's-creaking-in-the-dark, I wrote the title of my first novel in French, 'La Mort Avoisinante' (the Death Adjacent). Janet was, still is, mind you, a beautiful, sweet, mature, nascent young woman whom I so loved, as French is those same, four adjectives, too. 'NASCENT' meaning, basically, at the moment one is set free from earth. See the similarities?
My 'engaging' Papa pulled this outta some cardboard box sometime in 1991 when he was going to High Ridge, MO; my parents had gotten an annulment many years before and... hmmm... I thot about joining and becoming a sturdy, nondescript Roman just to see. Gulp. That dragon was HUGE, my short sword-of-faith was small. Nevertheless, all things are possible: I was studying RCIA at his house, that fabled, elusive ubiquity which Cortez was trying to find, when my Pop sed to me in his erudite, psychiatric, 'obiter distum' (Latin: 'offhand remark'), "Would you like to see something?" crisp and clean, nice and neat, the way a neurosurgeon speaks.
Could not believe mine eyes. Where'd this come from?? A very realistic poem with gentian-like-qualities written when I was only twelve Twelve! Twelve years outta the womb and already I have this much emannative insight!! True, true. Very opuscule, very immature and unpolished, but the mercurial-mustang-piece speaks a surplus of volumes. Whoa, girl. Easy now. Ain't braggin, brudda. It must've come from above NOTE: Waaay before Goth. Those dudes are simply trying to show-off how much they look like post-mortem-stiffs. If that's too morbid, kindly return this alien novel from the stars where I'm from and ask for your moolah back-to-the-future where you should be, instead of guys dressing-up as girls in neurotic, Neanderthal make-up in the fifteenth century --- You'll find in the third paragraph, not to mention the whole gun, err, I mean, piece, I've always, always, always had a calculated fascination with death, with what lies on the other side. Of course, my gramps, on my father's side, was an undertaker. Ah! Now we see! He used to kid, "Nope. No shortage of money. Somebody's always dying" I find that extremely hilarious. That's pro'bly where I get my supersonic, cavalier attitude - my grokking, too [grasping something without having to consult a manuel - coined by Robert A. Heinlein]. And, of course, our wreck, which heightened the whole process of efficient mortification. Perhaps that was in fact a Divine Conundrum. Let's begin with your childhood, shall we?
Winter of 1982:
Sitting at my desk to write,
out the window I give a gaze;
for now it is long past night
for which I give my head to graze.
Thoughts are blooming in my mind,
other thoughts are dying;
I've to pick just the right kinds,
still my mind is flying.
How many stories have I read?
Still in my mortal lifetime to spend.
Where has it gone into my head?
Still it comes and never ends.
Have I got the last to write,
my head still fresh, clean, and young?
Have I got the last to write?
For there are songs still to be sung.
My head abounds with things to say,
forever seeking new;
I ask myself in a Way,
but where has it all gone to?
My mind, as if in a cage,
won't come to let things pass;
I say in a sort of mild rage,
'you're like a stubborn ass!!!'
I stuttered from birth to age 15;
and now, with speech,
it ain't all that grand.
I guess as an amateur's first poem,
things might be kinda hard to say;
but, as I wonder and getta know'm,
I might be good someday.