Irish beach 70th

Morning visit

Everyone has tens of thousands of stories; each one of them can change the “once upon a time.” Our memories are our hieroglyphs. The order in which we recall them can change their temperature, status, and direction with a fresh menu of ideas. The idea that one person might present himself or herself as your Rosetta Stone is absurd. If you are seeing someone for a personal bout that extends more than a few months, you’ve made a friend you trust, and you are paying him for both. Perhaps there is nothing wrong with that.

There is feeling good. Feeling bad. And not feeling. Examine what made and makes you feel good, but don’t mine too deeply. We never really ask why that song lifts us, why we find comfort in aromas, the sun, and the quiet. Going back in order to go forward might seem to make sense. We see history and we see us. The brain only goes back to our beginning. Two people wearing plaid do not make some inner familiar coincidence. In fact, in the compromise we make to accept that, we lose ourselves and restrict discovery to comparisons.

To recognize satisfaction and practice its retention through all distraction, I believe, is the gateway to understanding the smile. We suffer more from believing in mental “sameness” than the fear of mental illness.

A Politician’s Disclaimer?

I have decided, before I am exposed for actions I’ve forgotten, been forgiven for, been excused for, and those no one will ever know, I want to apologize for all the shit I’ve ever done that might be offensive today that was clearly unknown to be then.

But I want to go all the way back to when I was ten—no, no, five! I should have played Tonto occasionally instead of always wanting to be the Lone Ranger. And I want to admit now that my hands wandered to places they shouldn’t have while at the drive-in with Kimberly Love, who never actually said “no” until I went for the buttons. I realize I was dumber than a sack of sand, and should have known better when Butch announced that from now on he was “the nigger,” I was the “the wop,” and Eddie Guadalupe was “the speck”—yeah, the speck. We realized later that the word was really “spic,” but we had used “speck” too long to change it—it was the Bronx in the ‘50s, and that’s not an excuse, it’s an explanation. You won’t get it, but I’m not going to spend my life trying to define it for you.

I’m going to run for office and try to drive the car without always looking in the rear-view mirror to see what might catch up to me. You see, it slows the vehicle and delays getting where I would like to go: understanding what’s ahead and listening to those who know about destinations.

So I’m going back to age five, calling, “Ollie ollie oxen free!” I’ve never had body parts in my freezer, and I hope you vote for me!