where the writers are
the real taboo
The Real Taboo



Today I talked to a book group. I talked about the complexity of human character, the mutability of emotion.  One formidable woman in her eighties asked if I had ever fallen in love. What is love? I mused.  She announced that she indeed knew what was to fall in love. Did you stay in love? I asked. Yes, she said firmly. I stayed in love for sixty years.   For her, “being in love” was an immutable, fixed state. 


Another woman stayed on after the others left and asked me to pray with her to Jesus. But I am Buddhist and Jewish, I said. No matter, can you accept His light? We went to discuss all this quite frankly.


Strangers will describe their most intimate sexual encounters and can be adamant with regard to their political views.


 I find the real taboo today is MONEY.  How much do you earn ? Did you inherit?  What about your lover/spouse/parents?  How do you manage to get by as a poet with no visible source of supply?  This kind of question raises spikes of protective armor.