Page Six Of A Play I Wrote

I wrote a closet drama (i.e., a play that's supposed to be read, not performed, such as T.S. Eliot's Murder In The Cathedral) in 1971 right before I left school for the summer. Then I forgot about it completely.



I must have sent my sister (the demented one) a copy at the time cuz a couple of years ago she sent it back. She also sent me a birthday card I'd sent her in 1961 describing my first date ever, with a bonnie lass--a slip of a thing, really--named Missy Cheeseman, a very pretty classmate of my younger sister and a much better girlfriend than I deserved at the time.

It's good that The Demented One saved all this shit I would otherwise have thrown away; it's not good that she doles these items out to me in this piecemeal fashion, threatening to throw it all in her fireplace if I don't lick her boots from time to time. I hate to debase myself for the sake of a few souvenirs from my childhood; but I love documentation, and every one of these items she's salvaged has intrinsic value to me.