The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle’s flame.
Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.
I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
The time when I was among their adherents
Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.
But all of them would have one subject, desire,
If only my own—but no, not at all; alas,
I was driven because I wanted to be like others.
I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.
The history of my stupidity will not be written.
For one thing, it’s late. And the truth is laborious.
It felt like time to pull out some Milosz and read it.
This letter is to apologize to you for taking some pieces of rock from the forest. I am very sorry. I am also sorry that I told a lie to the man at the gate who asked me if I had removed anything from the park. The three pieces of rock that I am returning are all that I took. I picked them up at the Agate Bridge area. I rationalized that a few small pieces would not hurt. I did not see the note on your brochure about a “few small pieces” until I returned home and now realize the effect if everyone took a “few small pieces.”
I can assure you that I have been smitten of conscience since I returned home and instead of pleasant memories of your park, I feel guilty. So, again, I am very sorry. As far as I know, nothing like this has ever happened to me before and I assure you that it will not again. I hope you understand.
A Guilty Traveler
Plant life in Estado Libre y Soberano de Baja California
Mule and Cow