Translating the Self

E.B. White once said that "writing is translation and the opus is yourself." What have I been doing for the last ten years but translating myself for an audience that may or may not care. Not true! Not true! I'm translating myself for MYSELF. There you go. Now you've got it.

 

Can I stop here? Can I stop in the larger sense, stop translating myself? Or does it go on and on until the last breath? I don't journal (although Henry David Thoreau told me this morning that it was time to start). So I can see me, death-bed-bound, journal in one hand, nice easy-writing pen in the other:

 

Dear Diary (Well, Dear Journal. Sounds more grown-up). I'm coming to the end of the line. What more can I say? Thanks for the memories? (Way too flippant.) A quick "thank-you-very-much" a la Elvis? (Even more flippant.)

 

Face it. I'm not going to be foreshadowing that final write today, now, in this place. It has to wait for the appropriate moment.

 

In the meantime: kindness, kindness, kindness. Or remember that each of us is seeking love from everyone we meet. In the meantime: you gotta live, live, live until you die! Everyone has already said it all—and better. So I guess I'll just keep translating . . .

 

 

 

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