Today's punks (wood splints covered with ground plant pith or dung and then saturated with nitrate) used for lighting consumer fireworks are a type of slow match.

That's the word I was looking for yesterday. I didn't find it in the dictionary but I got it when I described what it does.

As some of you know, I am writing a book about aging. I find that I am remembering more and more as I think about my life. It's all there. Well, I suppose people who have gone through psycho-analysis already know this. Do they? And do they constantly encounter ah-hah moments? It's kind of fun, even the bad stuff. Bad stuff about me, I mean.

It's not pleasant when you realize that you have been mean or stingy or dishonest or self-indulgent or neglectful, not, I'm relieved to say, all at once, but often enough. I don't want to talk about it.

I forgive me.

If only we could be so lenient toward others.

Sometimes, I am, I think because I'm a playwright. I am trained to see the other person's point of view and to try to think like he does. Or she. (I refuse to say they when referring to a single person.) There are times when I don't like being fair-minded.