Every Picture Tells a Story, Don't It?

We just returned from a cold, rainy Memorial Day weekend at the South Jersey shore. I kept everyone well fed, and the work kept me distracted enough to help fend off panic attacks.

Being surrounded by my wife's friends, many of whom share our background and many of whom have recently reproduced, made me acutely aware of the narrative I'm scrambling desperately to extricate myself from. To occupy myself on the long bus ride back, I continued to read the history book I picked up, which made me acutely aware of how durable that narrative has been. And then after we got home I went running through lower Manhattan, which made me acutely aware of the narrative I want to write myself into—no, to have my own chapter in.

Then on my way home I reminded myself that it's all the same narrative, and the main questions are where you show up in the Table of Contents and the Index.


P.S.: While running down Broadway I passed an black Cadillac Escalade at a light, but there were just two black guys inside.

(no subject)

It is sometimes disconcerting and sometimes enchanting to take out the trash before bed, and then to look down the street on which I live and to see Times Square.