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Personal Note:
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Poem
My life used to be a journey.  The destination of my journey was heaven and the current 
landscape mattered not.  
Now my life is a ride.  Rides are destination-free.  
Some people find purpose in their children, who in turn find it in their children, and so on.  But if 
nobody ever gets there, there is no there. 
Maybe the destination is a ride.

I am in a bubble bath.  I can see the bare branches of winter through the high window.  Heat 
seeps into me, a warm ride.  I am old and will need to plot how to get out of the tub.  But for a 
half hour yet I need not move.  Non-aching is a destination.
Yonda kneels beside me.  Her skin is a sky, leaking light.  She smiles and says we were lovers.  
She reaches toward me, scoops up an array of bubbles, and blows herself away.

The sand makes squeaking noises as I walk along the beach.  Only the clear ocean seething 
toward me is newer.  A palm tree arches over me to launch a volley of fronds at the sun.  A boat 
bobs in the waves, an iguana slants into the forest, and I see a distant hut up the beach.  
Everywhere is a destination.  Running is a ride.

Wide steps lead up to the museum.  High ceilings cup quiet to my ears.  Unembraceable 
objects enchant.  Strife and struggle have been confined.  Accomplishment is postured, beauty 
decided, and pride mounted.  The past is cleansed of destination.  I ride the past.  

I hadn’t seen her in two years.  When she called, it was from further than 2000 miles.  I didn’t 
know it was to say goodbye, that she was terminal at 39.  She took a version of me, one I had 
liked and she had loved, with her.  
Wouldn’t it be nice if there were a destination where we all ended up?  I’d like to ride with her 
again.

Drinks clink, balls click, the king is toppled.  I win the game, finding the angle for the balls, the 
intersection for the pieces, the weakness of others.  I lose the game.  It is still a ride, ersatz 
significance.  Boredom has been averted.  Something I dimly sense and acutely miss is again 
postponed.

On a ride you carry nothing.  The people change.  There is no plot.  The theme of the park is 
perfunctory, pasted on.  Yet it seems important.  I seem alive.

In Limon I plan Cahuita.  In Kuching I plan Belaga.  In Flores… Livingstone, and in Penang… 
Batu Ferrengi.  In…

The computer hums on my desk.  I get out of the chair and go to the recliner.  Ahead of me is 
Wall, White, Without Window.  This isn’t a ride and sure isn’t a destination.

In Cayce...
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