Thursday, March 7, 2019




When I Turned A Hundred

I wanted to go on an immense journey, to travel night and day

into the unknown until, forgetting my old self, I came into

possession of a new self, one that I might have missed on my

previous travels. But the first step was beyond me. I lay in bed, 

unable to move, pondering, at one does at my age, the ways of

melancholy — how it seeps into the spirit, how it disincarnate

the will, how it banishes the senses to the chill of twilight, how

even the best and worst intentions wither in its keep. I kept

staring at the ceiling, then suddenly felt a blast of cold air, and

I was gone.

Once Upon A Cold November Morning

I left the sunlit fields of my daily life and went down into the

hollow mountain, and there I discovered, in all its chilly glory,

the glass castle of my other life. I could see right through it,

and beyond, but what could I do with it? It was perfect, ire-

ducible, and worthless except for the fact that it existed.

Anywhere Could Be Somewhere

I might have come from the high country, or maybe the low

country, I don't recall which. I might have come from the city,

but what city in what countries beyond me. I might have

come from the outskirts of a city from which others have

come or maybe a city from which only I have come. Who's to

know? Who's to decide if it rained or the sun was out? Who's

to remember? They say things are happening at the border, but

nobody knows which border. They talk of a hotel there, where

it doesn't matter if you forget your suitcase, another will be

waiting, big enough, and just for you.


Mark Strand
Almost Invisible
Knopf 2012