The Journals of Constant Waterman
by Matthew Goldman
Everyone wants to categorize my writing. “Are these journals, memoirs or essays?” they ask. “Is there a point? Is there a focus? What is the thread that ties them all together?” All I can answer is, “yes.” They all deal with the water – from the puddle to the sea. They are reflective as a sandy-bottomed brook. They are wistful as an idle boat in summer. They are jubilant as broaching porpoises.
Listen carefully. Read these aloud. I used to be a poet and still write as though I were. But don’t tell anyone. Everyone knows what poets are like.
If we have decent weather this weekend, I’ll be out on the water. If not, I’ll stay home and tell you about the time the Naiad got caught in my breast hook. Just put up your feet and listen...
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