Rest in peace.
A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I wanted desperately to live in some strange place, which I had never heard of, called "Brooklyn", because Merce Cunningham and his dance troup were resident there. I was from a small village in northern New Hampshire and had not ventured far from the mountains. At University, I fell into a pattern. Infatuation with girls of the arts. Dancers, painters, writers, poets, actors, sculptors, life models, musicians. I was in love with avant garde, with innovation, with eccentricity. Everything I clearly was not. Not inspite of writing poetry for myself. In Saturday Review of Literature, which I read in the University library's magazine room, I often read of Cunningham and other dance groups and artists living in Brooklyn. I couldn't even conjure up images of the place. Of course, I never went there. And I could not get one of my adored artists to acknowledge my existence. I was a book grind. I spent no time in the studio, all my time in the library, reading, researching, taking notes, writing. That pattern never changed. My fascination for the exotic woman lingered, though, unachieved. That didn't change, either. But not for a loss, it embued every woman I met with the hope of the unfamiliar. It made life endlessly new.