So, I've been carrying around this idea for awhile, and as poets Robert Haas and Brenda Hillman say, "I haven't heard a line." It all stems back to my nonfiction class and an exercise we did.
The task was simple: see what happened the year you were born. That's 1984 for me. It was intriguing to see all the things that happened that year, but I began to dwell on what I have not experienced in this lifetime.
The idea that has stuck with me the longest is this: famed photographer Ansel Adams died two months before I was born. I have been to many of the locations Adams photographed, but I still can't grasp that the world he knew and the world he captured never existed while I was alive. True, those locations are still there, but nothing is as it was in those photos.
I don't know why this is so disturbing to me, but I just can't come to terms with it. The passage of time is more real to me in this one fact that in so many other ideas. And so, I've been carrying around this message throughout the spring and summer, but it won't come out the way I want it to. There's a poem or an essay here, something with the potential to stir, but I can't figure it out.
The only thing I ask is, please don't take this for yourself. I'm too connected to this idea to see someone else produce something from it. Perhaps it's just a strange sadness I'll carry around the rest of my life, but maybe, just maybe, I'll find something great to write about it.