chocolate is a verb

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Tag Archives: writing

found poem: I was alone

found poem © j.i. kleinberg ~ I was alone
found poem © j.i. kleinberg


found poem: writing

found poem © j.i. kleinberg ~ writing
found poem © j.i. kleinberg

found poem: who writes

found poem: riddles

found poem: I wrote

found poem: between

found poem: here now

found poem: your pen

found poem: A WAY BACK

found poem: writing

found poem: to wrestle

found poem: who dreams

found poem: you want

found poem: You are

found poem: I see

found poem: like

found poem: to write

found poem: hiding

found poem: pressed


DAK - What is a line

When she was in her 80s and already on the precipice of her long decline, my mother enrolled in an autobiography class at a local community college. The class met weekly and the same people enrolled semester after semester, sharing their stories on paper and aloud.

Dorothy loved it. Through the writing, she retold her personal history and found a new starring role on the stage of these fragments. More than anything, she loved standing before the class and reading her stories aloud. She dramatized and flirted and used the language of her body and voice as much as her words.

After some years, when my mother could no longer see well enough to read her own stories, the teacher generously read them on her behalf. But Dorothy missed the performance, spent much of each class session asleep in her chair, and finally dropped out.

In the bottom drawer of one of my file cabinets is a fat folder filled with Dorothy’s stories, laboriously typed on her word processor — some by her and later, when she could not make sense of them, by my father. I know these stories; they’re the ones she always told — about her childhood friends, her grandfather, her first meeting with my father.

I remember them. I heard her read many of them aloud. But I cannot bring myself to open the folder and read them all again. To decide whether I’ll transcribe them or simply recycle the paper, printing something of my own on the blank side. She’s been gone more than ten years, but her voice lives in that folder, retelling herself anew, the movie of my mother playing over and over in my head.

. . . . .
words and scribbles by DAK

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