My Forgotten Lore

I was trodding through these old disks this morning......remember computer disks? I'm not sure they even make a 3.5 standard on computers anymore, but before cdroms, there were something called, "Floppy disks."

'Course, they weren't really floppy. As far as I know. What they did in on their own time was their business, as far as I was concerned.

What I was actually looking for was a file of quotations I had managed to write down in the year between August of 1998 and May of 1999. It was a time of great upheaval, there was a tremendous trembling within the force, and some pretty funny stuff was said, remembered, and transcribed.....

To make a long story short; didn't find it.
I did find a half dozen dead disks, though.

And something very peculiar.

Apparently, sometime during this period, I had begun to write a play about an event taking place in central Kentucky, involving a court-appointed attorney and a client who may or may not be as bad as they say. Five pages.

I'm not usually a very good critic of my own work. But it wasn't half bad.

And I can't, for the LIFE of me, remember when I started it, or what my eventual point was supposed to be.

I HATE THAT.
I should work from an outline.

I also found a sonnet that apparently I wrote about the same time. I have not recollection of it, though.

Oh, shall we part upon the coming wisp
Of morning's light, and ne'er to see again
The glory of our blessed comradeship?
And who among our company would fain
Relief at such a breaking of our bands,
And be untouched by what has gone upon?
We kindred spirits take within our hands
The masks of simple men, and nightly don
The simple rags, to please the ear and eye
Of those who long to sit within the night,
And slip within our pleasant, harmless lie;
So as to give their earthbound spirits flight.
Players are the bridges 'twixt what seems,
What is, and what is found in merry dreams.

But there was scarcely little else.

It's strange to come across this stuff; like it was written by another person, in another time. I wonder to whom I wrote it, and why.

What a strange, mixed up time it must have been.


Glad I survived it, though.

And there was one other thing; some kind of Irish Prayer.

Let those that love us, love us.
And for those who do not love us,
Let God turn their hearts;
And if He cannot turn their hearts,
Let Him turn their ankles;
So we can tell them by their limping.

Goodnight, Seattle, we love you!