I know I promised a bit of homegrown analysis on the Verona Apartments issue this morning, but it will have to wait. I just read this morning's post by HowChow, and you need to, too. This poem immediately came to mind. (from the poem, A Happy Childhood , by William Matthews) It turns out you are the story of your childhood and you’re under constant revision, like a lonely folktale whose invisible folks are all the selves you’ve been, lifelong, shadows in fog, grey glimmers at dusk. And each of these selves had a childhood it traded for love and grudged to give away, now lost irretrievably, in storage like a set of dishes from which no food, no Cream of Wheat, no rabbit in mustard sauce, nor even a single raspberry, can be eaten until the afterlife, which is only childhood in its last disguise, all radiance or all humiliation, and so it is forfeit a final time. In fact it was awful, you think, or why sh...
Where Columbia and Howard County Intersect