You may call me a disappointed hippy, an approximate monk, a writer, a poet, or if you wish, you may call me Ray. Just don’t call me, as a cousin used to say, late for supper. He never wearied of making us groan with that old saw.
During my wakeful hours, I am at home pushing a shopping cart filled with odd scraps of culture.
I collect scraps. Crumbs of philosophy, anthropology, mythology, and religion…all fragments, I think, of a larger story.
And like some other indigents, I can never quite make out what to do with my collection; but I can’t keep from looking in the next dumpster.