If A Man Is To Lose His

I Took The T From Logan Airport To Harvard Square. I Hate Driving In Boston. It's The Traffic That Drives Me Spare, And The Absolutely Terrible Manners Of The Motorists. Other New Englanders Refer To Massachusetts Drivers As "massholes.

'you've Got Mail!' Exclaims The Cheery Automaton At America Online. The Flag On The Mailbox Icon Waves Invitingly On My Computer Screen. For A Second, I'm 10 Years Old Again, Waiting For The Postman's Whistle To Slice The Stillness Of An Australian Afternoon.

While I Love To Read Contemporary Fiction, I'm Not Drawn To Writing It. Perhaps It's Because The Former Journalist In Me Is Too Inhibited By The Press Of Reality; When I Think About Writing Of My Own Time I Always Think About Nonfiction Narratives. Or Perhaps It's Just That I Find The Present Too Confounding.

When I Write A Word In English, A Simple One, Such As, Say, 'chief,' I Have Unwittingly Ushered A Querulous Horde Into The Room. The Roman Legionary Is There, Shaking His 'cap,' Or Head, And Al Cap Is There, Slouching In His Signature Working Man's Headgear.

And So, As Generally Happens, Those Who Have Most Give Least, And Those With Less Somehow Make Shrift To Share.