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The World Is Not Done Yet. Part One.

Picking Up The Phone

She begins again with writing, the joy & skill he willed her...

loosens her attachment to print & casts herself upon the cyberswirl.

I’d pick up the phone and he’d always be there ready to discuss any idea.

He could be counted on to know not just all things English grammar and use, but he'd have the facts of Western history at his fingertips as well.

I could take his answers without question. Knew he knew.His unfailing response of encouragement to any line of thought I might be tracking, “you may have something there."

He paces deep in thought but not lost at sea. In fact, found.

This thinking, his favorite shore.

Today’s question, “Is it the re-integration of the Hero that’s the important thing for the community?”

Which brings on a long conversation about the Iliad & how stability and un-changing-ness were held as high values in early clans.

That assuring survival through warring was all about continuing "un-change" in and for the primary bloodlines.How this practice of writing now, here on this screen, brings him, makes me feel his presence again. The strict truth of correct writing.

X

"Glaucus may think of himself as one leaf in the centuries of leaves, a transient phenomenon, an irrelevant individuality, but that acceptance of transience is not what most of the poem (the Iliad) thinks or most of the heroes in it. For them, and for Homer, impermanence is life’s central sorrow and the source of its most lasting pain.

It is also what the poem itself is intended to cure.

X

In scene after scene, Homer quietly shows its listeners that it knows more and remembers more than men usually know or are able to bring to mind. The whole of the Iliad is a hymn to the scale of remembering of which epic is capable. The world forgets, but the poem remembers, and that knowledge is the source of Homer’s repeated sad-eyed, bloodhound irony on the nature of life. Only the gods can know as much as the poem knows."

Still he writes and thinks to bring into being.

Yesterday he calls at 7am, disoriented.

He's had bad dreams of hospitals, endless rooms where he was unable to find me, his trusted guide, his reminder of times and places.

He mentions he might need a few things at the store. I offer to pick him up, want to confirm for both of us our physical being, our steadfast side by side.I miss her, that daughter his, that thinking being made visible in his presence.

Our faith in print's capture of meaning fades. The stories & that hanker, afterthoughts.

We are having coffee surrounded by young girls insisting it is summer with their short shorts. My father begins, “I’ve been thinking what you should write, Annie.”

He tells me I should write "small chapbooks" about various episodes in my life. The bookstore. My illness (the same one that will soon kill him.) My love of bicycling, which “we both know is more than just moving your legs.”

Women would be interested in reading this, he thinks, especially if I can figure "a light but deep style.”I listen, knowing this is his effort to impart last bits of influence on me to keep writing, no matter what.