These are strange dispatches in many ways, I suppose, but perhaps most of all in that they are not actually addressed to anyone in particular.
I put them down atop a flat rock here on a hill in Cancerland and let the wind waft them where it will. Most of the hands into which the dispatches fall, I do not know, nor ever will.
But since I do know that my kids (kids!) read them, at least from time to time, I am directing this specifically to the two of them, though the rest of you (if there be any rest of you) are certainly welcome to read along.
Jenny and Nick, you brilliant young people, you do understand, do you not, that I am recording shadows here in these dispatches of mine, that I am permitting myself — allowing myself, indulging myself in — the very great pleasure of transcribing fleeting thoughts. And you know what I mean by fleeting, yes? I mean fleeting in the way wind ruffles wheat.
These are brush sketches, like Japanese calligraphy, begun and ended at the same time, in the same stroke. Think of lying on your back on a blanket at the beach, and the flutter you feel on your closed eyes when a cloud passes between you and the sun.
What I am trying to say here is that you mustn’t look for firm beliefs in these missives home from Cancerland. I mean what I say while I am saying it, yes, but soon thereafter may think precisely the opposite.
Don’t let anything I say here worry you.
I am skipping stones, is all.