—–I fail to write from memory . . .  but the same memories can be encountered within an already flowing text, tripped upon by association with words, combinations of words that create phrases that are like . . . empty vessels. Maybe it is just innuendos in the rhythm of a sentence in the making. But, what I mean is, if I start with a memory, held in mind, and try to faithfully record it, language rebels and laughs at the effort. On the other hand, when I write anything at all, memories are there, all over the place, and in pristine condition, waiting to be run into in the course of the writing; helpful memories, suggesting things and places to go in the development of whatever I had chosen as the task. And I can glancingly deal with them, they aren’t going anywhere, they are like in eternity, for the grabbing, and without violating the sacrosanct mystery of their origins. Without maligning them, in the course of my writing, I can visit and stay in the visit for some time, with these memories; and consider how to plug them into the topic that I, the writer, has set himself upon. And it will lend to the topic an an air of authenticity, even–if I can back up my thoughts with what sound like experience of life. How funny!  If  I start with memories, though, I am going to become a fiction writer, there is no escaping this fate. They are just grist, and will serve another scheme which, God help me, I have to hope is also sincere. Or approaching sincere. But I am saying that what is really interesting, in my work, is that if I start with the impulse to simply invent, be inventive, be charming, write fiction, or what is equivalent in my book, be speculative, write my thoughts directly– talk about my ideas, then words and phrases and the very flow of the text will summon memories. As if to defend my existence! Satisfaction can ensue when I manage to refer to, and save in some fashion memories in that way. But I cannot simply save you fledglings, you snowbirds, hopping along, tagging along, I cannot use you directly.