Night Walk #1
– falling snow of North Lubec ... out there somewhere a fog buoy mourns through the Passamaquoddy paddle echo of the freezing bay. The night like padded velvet sliding across a polished floor. To be alive: freezing fingertips. Silent tread on beds of snow lined by secret tunnels of the meadow voles and field mice. The high lilting lament of coyotes filing beneath the forest canopy not that far away ...
Ruminating on novel writing; how best to express what it is I need to say.
I realize how flawed and incorrect my Kerouac biography is and have pulled it from circulation. The chronology tells me that because I have made poor lapses of writing & editing, I have made egregious errors. Part of this is that I have a sense of losing myself, my memory and concentration so diminished because of childhood head trauma. It becomes harder to keep it all together. I am always losing myself between 1948 and '49, primarily mixing up road trips. Get one number wrong (to wit: 1948 for 1949 or vice-versa) and it throws off the entire chronology. I only now just caught it, and so will correct it at a later date. I'm just no good at this kind of veracity.
Anyway, I am more wrapped up in storytelling, which makes me want to lean more into telling the story again via historical fiction, or some hybrid process of fiction and literary history I simply cannot do straight-up biography again. I haven't the heart for it. I have other ideas.