I write for future read. That when i live to be forty i will not loose the memory of being young and twenty. To write for memory. Let this be the only known reason and the only connection to those brief joys and sorrows that went by. That i may remember if i ever should soon live to forget. Of flights and conquests and days of little or great significance. To retrace the miracles that once worked within me. The miracles of love that both moved and maimed me. I do not write for the joy of the multitude nor to grieve the sorrows of the lame. I write for myself, to myself and for a few others whom i share myself with. I write so that if i should ever grow old and weary i may recall those vanished hours and it’s fragrances and look upon a 
mirror reflecting me . . . when i was young and twenty.
sunday ritual
November 25, 2007
"Never-Never"
by Marge Piercy
Missing is a pain
in everyplace
making a toothache
out of a day.
But to miss something
that never was:
the longest guilt
the regret that comes down
like a fine ash
year after year
is the shadow of what
we did not dare.
All the days that go out
like neglected cigarettes,
the days that dribble away.
How often does love strike?
We turn into ghosts
loitering outside doorways
we imagined entering.
In the lovers’ room
the floor creaks,
dust sifts from the ceiling,
the golden bed has been hauled away
by the dealer
in unused dreams.
"You can lead a toad to water but you cant make her think."
this and more crackpot babble from "His Royal Weirdness" Tom Robbins.
"Timbuktu. The end of everybody’s road. The capital of Nowhere. Geography’s perennial avant-garde and the armchair traveller’s inevitable cul-de-sac. Timbuktu. Hometown of mystery, fugitivity’s final refuge, remote crossroads where Obscurity runs into Exotica, and Daydream and Exile intersect. Timbuktu. The far of which there is no farther. Out there. Gone. Closer to the moon than New Jersey. Rivaled by only Katmandu as the planet’s most musical city-poem. Tim-buk-tu. One of the phonetic wonders of the world. Great place to pronounce but you wouldn’ want to live there."
"Timbuktu.The last pure place. Isolation being the mother of purity. All men are jealous of Timbuktu bacause Timbuktu is removed from men, it’s the wholeness men have fractured, the sacred extreme they’ve traded away. Like Hell, like Heaven, Timbuktu is a palce in the brain, a place whose existence may be often doubtedbut never dismissed. Timbuktu. A constellation by which the imagination can navigate, the joker that hanst the map-maker’s deck."
"Timbuktu. A town made of pastry dough and starlight. A mirage you can walk around in– if you can stand the heat. Solitary, sealed, and shattered, it wears a mask beneath a mask behind a veil. Timbuktu. A dehydrated Venice, crumbling into a plexus of dust canals. Conceived when the sphinx lay down with the goldbug at a campsite half as old as time. The Sahara crackles in every bite of its bread, the ashes of dead books blow through its streets; the lost wisdom of a dozen races is buried under its drifts, never to be jiggled by the archaeologist’s spade. Timbuktu. A city only an adventurer would risk, only a romantic would forgive, only a nomad would find inviting, only a camel could love."
mirror reflecting me . . . when i was young and twenty. 
