Patrick’s entry of 25 August 1962, in Wiesbaden, as found in pages 4 and 5 of his diary.
The first oxygen goes to feed the fire
that flames in the heart of us;
that flares our gaze out beyond
the near business of day to day.
Like the bonfire
which begins its own round grave,
the center goes first into coals,
then cinders, then smoking dust,
a crater ringed by useless fuel.
Burn from the outside in,
let the flesh go first and leave
nothing bur spirit to ignite
your glowing soul to supernova
o glorious cosmos!
before the last collapse into that darkness
from which all light is born.
Con los ojos cerrados
Con ellos abiertos,
Con las manos cerradas,
Con ellas abiertas,
Con la boca cerrada,
Con ella abierta,
Te escucho y
Con los cinco sentidos,
Luz Adriana Rojo Estrada
(Found in Patrick’s files, dated 12 Sep 2013)
Here are three pages from Patrick’s 1962 diary.
(Click on the images to enlarge them.)
Diary (page 1)Continue reading “Diary – 6 May 1962”
Here’s something a little different, a list of wines Patrick or Stephanie saved on 15 Nov 1998. I found it in his Dropbox account.
Menetou Salon 1997
Blanc (From Guy and Stephanie)
mis en bouteille par
Bouchard Pere & Fils
Pinot Noir de Bourgogne
mis en bouteille par Thorin
Chateau La Mouline
Moulis en Medoc
mis en bouteille au chateau
mis en b outeille par Alphonse Mellot a Sancerra – F. 18300
Les Tourelles de Longueville
mis en bouteille au chateau
vin de pays d’oc
mis en bouteille pour SVG
par Clement Pascalet aF 11590
Another letter from Patrick, this one dated 17 March 1975. Those were desperate times for me, but how much they shaped my future I can’t say.
Patrick sent me this post card in July 1975, trying to reach me in Phoenix. As a result, we reconnected in person after a decade’s absence. I was 19.
That summer trip and the events that followed deserve several chapters in a book I’ll likely never write.
Here’s a letter from Patrick dated 24 January 1975, shortly after we’d resumed corresponding.
Kids were fascinated by the way Shorty got around East End. In those days, the only paved road in our part of town was Highway 50, unless you count the short road up the hill to the Gospel Tabernacle. The remainder of roads were mud tracks, sometimes covered with what they called red-dog, the rose-colored residue from the burned-out slate dumps down at Minden. On these, cutting back and forth across what was once the Rhodes place, we regularly stubbed our toes if we went barefoot on our bikes, and new cars were turned into rattle traps in a few months. In the winter the depressions were yellow slime pits, or frozen plates between the jagged edges of red dog.Continue reading “Shorty (Short Story)”
shattered in the fountain
swings west while we sleep
the moon is shattered in the fountain.
let's wake the poet
with so many dreams
he will have things to say.
I have no idea when this was written, or if this is even Patrick’s. It was at the top of the file called poems.doc, which contained a collection of his writings.
Nathaniel Hawthorne has a book called The Shattered Fountain so perhaps this is the reference, or perhaps even a quote.
For what it’s worth, I’ve been told that Nathaniel Hawthorne was my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. (Not sure how many “greats” belong there but I think it’s five.)