You Come Too

Whew!  I tried to write the third part to the new narrative this morning.  And that is what it sounded like--somebody trying to write the third installment of a narrative.  Oh, I was telling everything.  It was awful.  It is how we are taught to write somewhere, explaining things in detail until the writing sounds like a police report or the instruction booklet that will prevent you from ever assembling the aggregation of parts held by the cardboard box into a working grill. There is only one thing to do with that kind of writing.  It has been done.

I'll try again, though, thinking to bring you there rather than telling you what it was like.  I will not strive for clarity or verisimilitude.  I will try to simply let you remember being there.  That is the thing, isn't it?  For we've all been there.  That is why any narrative rings true.  We've all been heroes somewhere, sometime, on some sunny, blue sky day.  It is the trick to all things, like a good cafe where you love to sit.  It is mythical because the people who work there are so beautiful and smart and wonderful and clever, and they make you feel that way, too.  They are not more beautiful nor more clever than you, just as much.  That is the way they look at you.  That is the way it should seem.  To accentuate that grandeur of the lives that others have led through your own telling--that's what a good story or cafe should do.

But of course, you must be included in the dark side, for you have been there, too.  That, however, is for another time.  Today is Friday and the sun is up and the whole day lies before me like an open bank.  I think to make a withdrawal and spend some cash.

And as Frost says in "The Pasture," his opening poem to the marvelous North of Boston:

"You come too."