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I suffered a modest hit on my recent memory and was diagnosed as having a form of dementia. I began to write daily, to test my cognitive skills, to reassure myself that my mild impairment was not progressing. It was not and is not. Writing has gone from fearful ritual to reaffirmation, to nurturing my creative needs and to passion. My final wife, best friend and lover goes down the least traveled roads and into the deepest recesses of markets with me, all over the world. I send off stories and she takes photos and remembers the name of the hotel, the room number, where we parked and where the tickets are. We are blessed. Other stories by Lenny Karpman on the net: 1) A Teenage Minute With Allen Ginsberg. 2) The Wailing Wall. 3) Lost and Found. You can reach Lenny Karpman at Karpmanhal@aol.com.
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ost mornings, I remember to say a short prayer of Thanksgiving for a second chance. Then I walk my rescue mutts through first light in a salt marsh on the northern end of San Francisco Bay. They stop to sniff the spirits. I stop to pay respects to migrating water birds and occasional wild flowers. Ultimately they nap in the car while I drink coffee with old salt curmudgeons overlooking the harbor. Then it's home to the keyboard to reassert my compis mentis and spill my creative juices onto blank pages.
I knew that I was a writer as an adolescent, even when all else was subservient to lust. I married, raised a family, divorced, and practiced medicine for more than thirty years, still a writer, but mostly on sabbatical from writing. The wake up call came about six years ago.
