After Gene died, it seemed like a hundred other horrible things happened in rapid succession. But at 50 I am no longer inclined to list them.
Neither am I writing at the moment. I am reading extraordinary letters by an extraordinary man who left this world in 1996 and that seems to be enough. I am genuinely considering an exit from any sort of public life, including publishing.
I remain in touch with my friends--with sensei Richard Lenchus, Paty Cockrum, my pal Harlan, and with several writers, artists and musicians whose work and whose nature (like Michael Netzer, Richard Manitoba, Peppi Marchello, Steve Forbert and Don McGregor) are uplifting and make one proud to be part of the same species, though others work endlessly to cast shame on the lot. I am devastated about this missing child in Brooklyn.
I will be 50 and a half next month. I am back to counting half birthdays like a child. I'm not sure if I will ever seek to publish fiction again. It really wasn't fiction anyway. And the death of the book in America calls for a certain reverence by those of us who care enough to be reverent.
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