Dust Jacket

I'm writing my memoir on the inside of book covers, "Dust Jackets" they're called, a designation as unfortunate as other designations writers must contend with, words such as "Submission" and "Rejection", two of the most unfortunate words in the vast kingdom of the written word.

I keep the Dust Jackets in the small table beside my bed, the table with one drawer in which the Dust Jackets share space with my 5-year diary, a piece of sandpaper, three pens, several bookmarks, a sleep mask I never use, and a copy of "Line Caught", a little book I wrote and Lea Ann made in 2007 as a Christmas gift for friends and family.

I hadn't read "Line Caught" in years, then found copies of it when I moved from The Presidio to the house I live in now on 28th Ave. near Anza. Reading it I was pleased, not often the case when a writer re-reads his stuff, to see that I'd made a document that could actually teach people to think--that there was enough information in the little book of twenty-eight pages that not only revealed the inner life of the author but might also inspire an intelligent reader to take part in slightly different versions of their own lives. This 'entry' (p.2) for instance:

At this time of my life--late middle age--I often feel like I am watching a film being made of my not being here, but pretending I was.

And this (p.19):

If something comes from the heart it can't be too out of place. But remember, the ancient Greeks believed that ideas came from the midriff, not the brain.

Forward to late 2018: I'm in the midst of writing my memoir on Dust Jackets, kind of a haphazard notetaking at this point with no beginning, middle, or end in sight, all of which will come later, I hope. It's the last thing I do every night; propped up in bed with the night light on, I reach inside the drawer, grab a pen and the latest Dust Jacket ("Your Duck is My Duck" by Deborah Eisenberg, Ecco, 2018), and write a little bit, a very little bit, about my life.

Dust Jackets are handy for this kind of writing, in that they may be folded into four (4) separate writing surfaces, and each surface can be a distinctly separate entity or, when unfolded, that is to say when opened up entirely may share their surfaces with the other surfaces, not unlike the text arrangement of a normal book, four- pages-in-one instead of only two.

I think a lot about dust, as anyone who knows me knows. Where does dust come from? How does it get here? Is dust a purely physical entity, without consciousness, or does dust have a will and, if a will, a Being? Dust is a Biblical character, as are Ashes. What happens to dust once it disappears, what happens for instance when dust is 'picked up' by a damp cloth, where does it go? Does dust remain dust and relocate somewhere else, or is dust vaporized, made extinct by its apparent removal? Does dust have a jacket?

This could go on and on, just as dust goes on and on and will no doubt outlive us all, and I really don't want to know about dust, the life of it, how dust gets here and what happens to it once it does. I'd rather think about dust instead, come to no conclusion, "let the mystery be" as the songwriter Iris DeMent sings it, talking about God, I think, not dust.

At at age when I sometimes miss a spot shaving, I imagine others see the spot and think 'he's getting old.' I think I miss the spot because I don't want to see myself. (p. 18, "Line Caught").