The Giant Rat of Sumatra

Janet had a good question last weekend.

Why do I remember all this stuff? Because, I told her, I have lots of hooks to hang the memories on. But why would I want to remember all this stuff? she asked. As you do.

Because it is my life. My world, my only one, as the poet said; and if I do not testify to its reality, there is no one else to tell the tale. How many times have I summarized the story thus far? If I should tag and index all my journals, the various summaries would require a meta-entry of their own.

Although, like the tale of the Giant Rat of Sumatra, perhaps it cannot yet be told.

My world my only one, whom I must love,
if I so hard persist and pursue
to become a happy man with you
just you, with only you, my obsession,
and I cannot imagine
another possibility than to make
such idle passes at my only world.
But you are coy, you make it hard
(as if we hardly knew each other)
even to declare my honorable intentions
and then you tell me, "Take it easy, guy!"
This I despise
and kick a rock along the road in rage.
I am beforehand disappointed
and late at night I end up sobbing
on the shoulder of my only one my world
for here you are -- where else would you be?
"Whisper to me." What word must I whisper,
lovely, and what flower shall I bring?
where must I stand and wait to catch you in the mood?

(Paul Goodman)