Dead Poet, No Punchline

Dorothy Porter died very recently and I've been thinking about her all week. Once upon a time I read her Wild Surmise and it hit me in a way that felt very real. As if it was something personal. That book in particular, it really got to me; it still does. Afterwards, I carried around a little fantasy of meeting her in person one day, of letting her know how much her work had meant to me. We lived in the same city, it turns out – the same suburb, even. It was bound to happen eventually.

Now, this all seems overwhelmingly stupid and pointless and self-absorbed of me.

The words aren't right, but for sheer feeling I'm thinking of the music around the last line from that Neil Young song: "what a killer..."

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