(no subject)
All stories are true stories, especially the artful lies we invent to satisfythe wishful thinker in us, for they present to us, in disguies often and at great distacne, the way we are or would want to be. old to us in the lingo as unigue as a fingerprint, they address out up-and-down, our here-and-now. Hey come, I think, from a desire, as irresistaible as love itself, to fix on the page a moment, suffered or made up, when something-one punny thing or idea or person-revealed itself and so turned off the Boom-Boom-Boom which usually deafens us to ourselves. Happily-ended or not, stories are the truth we leave behind, like crumbs, to say how we've come and what was there to see.