The days are noticeably shorter. Very much so, too. It's November after all and I'm closer to the north pole than I am to the equator. This is the nature of autumn, and it's certainly what's in store for winter. As I walk down SW Morrison St past the Jeld Wen Field and over SW 19th Ave to the Max Station, I walk under the Honey Locus trees. I love these trees because they remind me of Denver, a place I greatly miss. Even now, marching into the second week of November on Veterans Day, these trees still hold onto a few of their leaves. I walk under them and think about other things.
I've moved into Jack Kerouac's On the Road. The only two things I have to say about it: 1, Jack missed Denver too. And 2, "He said we were a band of Arabs coming in to blow up New York," (p. 112). Strange. Do you think Kerouac was prophetic, or did people always think there would be a band of Arabs with the idea of blowing up New York? Weird thought, I know.
Then we come to Richard Cory. I drink booze. This is no secret. I often think of drinking less, but then I realize how terrible life would be without it. I still like the bar. Although I have very little in common with my barmates, they are still important to me. So, there we were, in the Commodore and listening to Simon and Garfunkel's "Richard Cory." I asked Bobby, "Who is this Richard Cory?" He said, "Mr. Sickwater, if anyone should know it, it should be you." And indeed it should be. The Simon and Garfunkel tune is macabre, yes. But so is the 1897 poem of the same name by Edwin Arlington Robinson. I'm shocked and amazed that I had never heard of this Edwin Arlington Robinson before yesterday. Did you know he won three Pulizer Prizes?
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