As An Introduction

The aphorism is a flash of lightning to the brain. The poem is a gradual ray of light brightening at dawn. The story is following a flashlight in the dark down twisting forest paths to a small clearing in the woods where a campfire has been laid. Now you must bring out the matches and keep the fire going while the story continues, while you add your side of the story.

The aphorism: too stark, or too opaque. Too funny to be serious, or too wounding to be heard. L'esprit de l'escalier or Treppenwitz. Too true for comfort, or so far from the mark it would be as well to shut the f--- up.

What I share with other aphorists: the desire to be believed before I prove my assertions.

These are some of my thoughts that have lasted long enough to be articulated, once, twice, three times. Worded, reworded, polished. Then pronounced. But like all thoughts they too finally subside. Whether you inadvertently kick a rough piece of gravel into a puddle or gently place a cut gem on a velvet pillow, both will end up at the bottom of the sea in the end.

When I say you, I mean me. When I say women, I mean me. When I say men, I mean R. except when I mean J. When I say sometimes, I mean always--because I have been told never to say always.

Every time I write an aphorism, I am sorry. Not sorry I thought it, or wrote it, but that I feel the need to inflict it on other people. I'm trying to blame other people for this, but can't find a way. So far, Don Paterson has the most to answer for. His book of aphorisms made me start this file.