My friend, G, is coming to visit for a week. He has been on a tour of Sicily and Rome and now is going to spend a week with us here in Amsterdam. F will be out of town for five of the eight days, which is good.
I like G. He makes me laugh. We talk about things. He's got wonderful stories, which will be lost once he passes because he refuses to write things down. He's one of those people, like my parents and grand parents, that frustrate me because then I realize that having great stories in your head doesn't mean they'll ever end up written down, even poorly. They just dissolve into the universe once the person is gone.
If I wasn't so busy trying to get my own life on paper, I would talk to G more and try to get him to outline the stories he has from the Seventies. He has had a really fabulous life so far. The problem is that not everyone is willing to listen as well as I am - or enjoy him as much as I do. I've listened to some of those stories five times. And I'd listen to them another five. They're truly great stories.
He'll be here for a week.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment