Music

Moving out of an apartment, as I've been doing recently, convinces me, at last, to resign

from American consumer culture and live with only bedding, one towel, two changes of

clothing, a pair of shoes, and one suit to wear for shows, and also to be buried in.

Stationary, yes, stamps, and a couple pens. I own 21 coffee cups, I only need one. Nothing

plastic, thank you. I will still fly Delta Airlines, but I'll lose 25 pounds to lessen

the load. The pleasure of moving is the excavation of the past, I open a box, and here's a photo

of my fifth grade class, the eager, neatly combed and dressed boy with glasses sitting behind

John Pot, is me. I'm still that eager boy, heavier, but still anxious to do well. There

is a letter from a fan of my radio show, she says every Saturday at 5 p.m., everything

else ceased, and we gathered around the radio. Also in a brown envelope, eight color photographs

of my innards, taken by the surgical team that installed a pig valve in my heart, the valve

is pale pink, the innards are dark red, and there's a letter from a beloved aunt in 1995

reproaching me for traveling to Rome with my fiance, engaging no doubt in pre-marital

sex, embarking on a path of flandering and adultery for which there would be no forgiveness.

It's a powerful, articulate letter, and I admire her for writing it, which she did out of love.

Four artifacts of a long life, the boy eager to do well and pleases grandma and his

aunts, the radio guy who amused himself for two hours every Saturday and was and still

is astonished to encounter people who listen to it, the recipient of a heart valve to fix

a hereditary heart defect that killed off several relatives in their late fifties, and the

sanctified brethren boy brought up on literal interpretation of scripture, except we did have

automobiles and we went to doctors and attended public schools along with the unbelievers. I

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