I was married with a lovely daughter and endeavoring to live
the life the way one is to live it as a middle-class American in
nineteen-eighty-four.
I hadn't written poetry in years and my quixotic twenties
filled with Transcendentalism, Tao, and Dostoevsky
seemed a million light-years in some other’s past. I even
had attempted Christianity to fill some void but that's another story.
My therapist was asking me just who I wished to be and not
what others wanted me to be. I didn't have a clue.
That's when she asked me why I gave up on Thoreau, which
somehow came into our conversation half-an-hour ago.
He seems impractical, I said, or that's what others say, I
further said. And what is it you say, she asked.
I couldn't say, I said. Then go and ask, she says, as fifty
minutes is annunciated by an unembellished little bell.
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