My first black friend was in high school. We teamed up because, like me, irreverence surfaced to her tongue and she hurled some pretty funny commentary about school and life. Our skin wasn’t an issue. More important was our shared teenage angst—you know, boys, make up, zits, bras, and cars. Last names and skin tones made no difference in my youth. I wasn’t raised that way. The person who influenced me most was my godfather, a tap dancer with deep Irish roots. […]
“I was perfectly sober. It’s just that, somehow, I’m unsure how, but, well, no one else would, and, grants are nearly a thing of the past, and the costs keep coming, and well, what could I do?”
I’m not surprised that I still build winding paths through every garden I’ve planted. It’s exactly how I ramble through life. Mystery, surprises, adventure and exploration define my continuing lifestyle.
Between the continuing events in Japan, the breakdown of our own democracy, and the passing of Robert this morning, I can’t seem to get the spirit of the Irish excited enough to don the green or even hunt for a four-leaf clover.
Maybe because the magnetic North Pole has shifted closer to Siberia than what my world atlas indicates, we’re shifting into Mr. Well’s likely interpretation of “ Inception.”
The vitamin aisle was next. Nope. Not one brand came in glass jars. Sigh.
I know cocaine users and I don’t like them. When the opportunity arrives, I don’t mind reminding them how their habit or recreational use is one of the most socially horrific acts they can commit. It’s selfish and with consequences—
I’ve concluded that scribing a memoir, on line, on this blog site, is lunacy. If Hemingway were doing this, he’d have visited self-annihilation much earlier. Swimming with hungry sharks seems more rational.
Whales command my attention for a day.