As I drive to the store <br />a feature on the radio <br />sets my mind roaming <br />thirty years back. I lived <br />in a little room in Cincinnati, <br /> <br />read an interview in PSYCHOLOGY TODAY <br />with one of those celebrity New Age healers, <br />one whose name <br />soon plummeted out of public view. <br /> <br />I'd left California then, <br />thought I'd left my soul there <br />(how could the midwest have a soul?) , <br />and I wrote to this fellow in desperation <br />with a crazy scheme to go back <br />and make him my therapist, <br />assuming I could break free <br />of the substantial chains <br />binding me in Ohio. <br /> <br />Never thought I'd get an answer, <br />but weeks later, a postcard: <br />'I think I understand what you want, <br />but I'm committed to some sculpture <br />projects for the next six months.' <br />(<i>rennaisance man</i>— a sculptor, too!) <br /> <br />A small incident in a life. <br />Now I tried to remember: <br />what was that fellow's name? <br /> <br />I called down the well of memory. <br />No answer back from the darkness. <br />I asked again, thinking 'one more example <br />of the effect of all the chemical <br />additives in my diet.' And then, <br /> <br />so silently they were there before I realized it, <br />two words, 'Stanley Keleman, ' <br />clear and silent as a sunrise. <br /> <br />I sat waiting in my car <br />at a red light in the autumn air, <br />for the moment, completely self-satisfied <br /> <br />that I can still call down a dark well <br />and a trusty voice <br />will answer sometimes <br />up through the labyrinth of years, <br />the shadow box of faded memory.<br /><br />Max Reif<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mysteries-of-mind/
