Been reading “The Intentions Of Thunder” by Patricia Smith, slowly; remembering all the times I’ve seen her read, our long talks over drinks, our casual conversations over the years, and marveling at her prodigious Gift for this work.
I find it both humbling and daunting to try and live up to this standard, knowing it won’t happen in this lifetime, if ever.
I haven’t been writing as much as I usually do of late. I do think this lack of interest is part of the issue, but I’m also feeling suddenly more tired than I have been and I can tell it’s not just the strokes but part of old age. Feel like I’ve done enough. (“Enough” is such a difficult word to deal with, or it was until lately.)
When I go as I must, keep these last wishes for me, please:
I’ve been enough as I have been.
Pass my body onto science and organ donation.
No burial when those are done; burn me and scatter the ashes.
No headstone; no trace of me on the earth.
Keep the poems, the Work.
Until such time that they are forgotten, keep the Work alive — keep those scraps alive.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
Dark Matter 