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  • In 1980 I walked to the University through the sidewalks I had known since early childhood.
    I was living at home my first year and did not get the rapid introduction into a 24 hour social cycle that my fellow freshman enjoyed.
    In other words I was a little lonely and between stages of growing up.

    I saw him many mornings, an adult dressed in denim with shaggy hair, heading in the same direction as me, on similar days and so it was inevitable that we began to walk together.
    He turned out to be the teacher and poet Howard Nemerov, who’s work I began to read and that led me to another trove of riches.
    One morning, walking with him, I talked too much and in florid language about the beauty of the morning and the flags unfurled at the top of the turrets that made the University resemble a castle.
    “Let’s just enjoy the morning,” he said.
    And we walked together in quietness until our paths took him up the hill, to the castle, and me down the hill to the studios.
    **
    There is a life long process of entering one’s past and finding new connections forward.
    How to hold onto and retain the past while not becoming stifled is a slight of hand, a juggler’s art, a carneys’ trick.
    I found it again, the lost time, stuck like gum to the bottom of my shoe. I hold it gently now for examination.
    That is one way to live.
    What was it, is it, this thing, your exisistence? Really?
    Paths to what was or almost was, and what is or could be intersect with the other.
    Your life, my life, is my thought today as I reach a new level of understanding and incomprehension.

    Some days inner doubt sounds like the clanking pipes of an old radiator, about to blow, or a malfunctioning engine room in a submarine where, if it blows, you are fathoms down under deep water.
    Those noises stopped me cold for years.
    An ice age ensued.
    I let the fear stop me and gave away my power.
    This is not an ending.
    You know these words are a floodgate to the reservoir.
    I have hinted at the entrance of a vast cave where handprints on the wall show the marks of those who came before.
    I am a child at the gate.
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