staying power

There in the midst of it,
so alive and alone
words support like bone.

Mercy street – peter gabriel

To me, there is an amazing link between consistency of idea and brilliance. Those who invent ideas and nurture them, staying the course while the world swirls around them--up economies, down economies, political upheaval, terror attacks, you name it--all the while their teeth clenched around a message that is fundamentally important and undeniably consistent. An idea that is sustained over time. Resonance carried across markets. Brilliant.

Few in business do this. Especially marketing types. Most of us attach to the latest theory—from chasms and tornadoes, to markets of one, to permission and viruses. We marketing types live our lives this way, blowing in the wind, hoping for a soft landing on a cushy pile of money at just the right moment, with the idea de jour as our parachute.

And then there’s Chris Locke, a case study in brilliance (and maybe two or three fascinating neuroses). A search on google groups will show you that Chris Locke has been delivering the news on the net and business since the net met business.

Thank you, Jack Schofield, whose article Rebel without a Pause today in The Guardian did Chris Locke justice. Schofield captures much of the man, the spirit, and the mind that is Chris Locke. Applause from me to you, Jack. I care about the guy. And the message.

In the article, Schofield describes the staying power of EGR this way:

“It was often very funny, sometimes intensely moving, full of ideas, and beautifully written. It was, in short, the sort of thing no conventional publication would allow, but it couldn't be stopped on the web.”

As the message and the medium, so goes the man.

Go to Hell

This blog from journalism focused poynter.org is tracking the sex abuse crimes in the Catholic church. More coming on this topic to a weblog near you--soon. In the mean time, feast your eyes on some of these revelations from the last few days:

"Few of the 51 sexual abuse complaints against Metro Detroit priests released to prosecutors last week are likely to result in charges because the cases are too old, two prosecutors said Monday."

"A former altar boy sued the Vatican, the Archdiocese of Miami and two Roman Catholic priests on Monday, saying he was forced to participate in orgies with priests as a teen-ager 30 years ago."

"The Rev. Paul Shanley traveled to Thailand in March and spent as much as a month in a vacation spot infamous for its child-sex trade, likely meeting up with fellow priest and longtime companion John J. White, according to Thai immigration documents."

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I didn't put out in my last confession.

I've been waiting so long

It's getting near dawn,
When lights close their tired eyes.
I'll soon be with you my love,
To give you my dawn surprise.
I'll be with you darling soon,
I'll be with you when the stars start falling.
-Cream


When I see him, it's from a distance. A good distance. He sits with the guitarist, on the back edge of a big blue 1970s Oldsmobile wagon, outside the festival tent, getting ready for the next set. It comes at once--kids in the schoolyard walk up behind and kick your knees out from under you--that's the feeling. I stand on the dirt path, fixed in a secret place, wondering who he is, deciding to watch him for a while, at a distance. I'm just 21, catholic college girl, come out virginia, wanting, afraid of wanting, and wondering. Catholic school girls do a lot of that.

The drums hit, and they head back to the stage. Numb legs carry me closer as they start to play.

Daughter of a bassist, is that what calls me closer? Resurrecting my father, why not. That place I see him go as he leads the band further out, his back arched, eyes full of a pain that is my pain, releasing it, bass to the sky, electric orgasm.

Isolating the bass is a trick I've played since I was four, the low end has always mattered most to me, born into bass, take me home, take me from this place, I am so scared, alone, I am so eager to go.

He never saw me that day,
but he took me.

When we meet face to face, it is night, not day. This is no accident. I go with a single purpose, to find him, to let him find me. This night is especially hot and sticky inside Schnoz's, a Rochester hotspot in its day, and that day was September 21, 1984. In the club, you don't know where your body ends and another begins, beyond crowded, elbow to gut, beer spilling, feet stuck to tacky floor, we are all in this together.

About to sign with MCA, Cabo Frio is just starting to tour nationally. When they play in town, everyone goes. I didn't know any of that then. I only knew this: he was the most beautiful, passionate, talented, exciting man I'd ever seen.

The spotlights hit--red plus blue plus black equals ecstasy. I dance my ass off, and God it feels good to be 22 this night. I watch him the whole time. He watches me, and I know it, and I move just for him, and breathe in every note, watch his fingers climb up and down the neck with ease and precision I've never seen. And when it's all over, I sit with my girlfriend at a table, we're smoking our brains out, hair dripping, talking about what we should do tomorrow.

She gets up. I see him coming. Every breath of air is sucked out of me, and I wait. I've been waiting so long.

I press out my Carlton menthol--yeh, I was trying to quit--in the ash tray and he's standing there. Holy shit. Holy shit. What do I say? But he speaks first.

"Hey, I smoke that brand too," he says.
"Oh, really?" I say.

Yes, those are our first words. When we look back now, we have a good long laugh. Two smooth operators. Heh.

But to me, this night, his words echo across the sky, wrap around the moon, and come to rest in my solar plexus. We talk. We stare. He takes me to his place, and we talk all night, on top of the covers, until he falls asleep and I lay staring at him, too electrified to sleep, wondering what I am doing--this is not real. He tells me that night, before sleep, that he wants to marry me. I wonder if this is real. Think I'd better go home.

And I do go home. And I spend the next six months trying to push him away, the intensity terrifies me, dark savior why did you come for me? I tell myself I am too scared, and I don't understand, and I'm not ready, and I'm only 22, and I don't know what love is, and I've had a shitty life, and I don't deserve to be loved, and do I really want this life, and maybe I should go back to school, and I have issues with men, and what I tell him is this: "I'm not sure I can ever love anyone."

With this, he says, okay. I get it. Goodbye.
And he goes. Away. For a long time.

Without him, I can't love, I can't walk, talk, hear, live, eat, breathe, think, write, work, laugh, sit, stand, lay, smile, drink. The pain is so gut wrenching I vomit. Every day. What have I done?

He moves on, with one eye watching me still, and I set out with a passion I didn't know I had to get him back. I would kill to get him back. You don't understand. I know what I want now. I get it. Thank you, you have shown me love, reminded me of loss, I know the difference between together and alone, and I hate alone, and I get it. Okay. I get it. Take me off the torture wheel, will you?

I leave him cards on his car windshield. Other women take them off. I call more than I should. I'm pained and I'm pitiful.

And I'm still the one he wants.

"I've been waiting so long
To be where I'm going
In the sunshine of your love."

And he comes back. He holds me and Heals me. He captures me and frees me. His strong arms hold me up. His love lifts me up higher.

And in the 17 years since then, we've weathered storms that could sink well-armed warships, We've watched our friends' marriages go down in flames, and we hang on. At the core, it is the music, so tightly allied with love, there is a chord that resonates between us, sustained, even in the hardest of times.

Sustain. Resonance.
The secret of voice, the secret of love enduring.

Haven't laughed in a Day

But I found Fishrush's Vowel Blog hysterical. Does this mean I've cracked completely? I'm hoping he comes out with an article or preposition blog really soon.

Thanks for the chuckle my finned friend.

When you start taking bets, let me know

The gauntlet has been tossed. fishrush and Eric "RapBlogger" Norlin are taking it to the streets for the Chicago Marathon. May the best man win, or at least not blow out a knee.

Who's your money on?

Spill

Feels like
Colored rain
Tastes like
Colored rain
Rain down colored rain...
Rain...
Bring it on down, babe
Spill.

-Traffic


Bad weather here in Georgia this day. Sadness spills and fills my street. Dropped my life off at school today—postcard from her daddy tight in her hand. It’s the first postcard she’s ever seen, and it’s from her daddy, even better, she misses him so much. She runs up to the circle where the teacher sits with the children, starting to read a book. A book my daughter could already read on her own. The circle is isn't about story time, the circle is about structure, control.

This day, my daughter can’t sit down. I found myself, standing inside of her, so excited to share these words, this picture from daddy. She holds in her hand the missing piece to the puzzle that is her world. At that moment, there is nothing more important to her—to the world—than this 4X6 piece of cardboard.

The teacher says, “Please, sit when you come into the circle.”
“I have this,” holding it out.
“I’m reading a book right now—you need to wait.”

Crushed that her world isn’t their world and our world doesn’t fit like it used to, how do you make sense of that at 4? And I think back to my own education—what mattered to me, did it ever matter inside those walls? Slice and dice, pound the peg, take your seat. Hail Mary, Full of Grace.

I left, and I didn't look back.

The money that we spend on school isn't what bothers me. It’s seeing the future, the lifetime ahead of conforming or paying the price, of not relishing the unique, the spirit unlike, the one who is so much more.

I have no way to fix the future, never mind the past, and that’s what bothers me this day.

Torrents of torture, rob my soul, tie my hands, take their toll.
Wet with sadness, more rain on the way.

"Bring it on down, babe"

Spill.

Shine

RageBoy and Chris Locke have converged this week for a spectacular solar display of the human soul. This cacophony of music and colors, not experienced since 1969, is intensely brilliant. Do not stare directly at it. Best to use one of these while viewing this or this.

There is so much--a lifetime really--within these two EGR sends. There are moments and hours, there are years and painful seconds, a tune out time, a soul out of rhythm, finding the cadence, hitting the groove, and then back again to that electric, archetypal (aaah!) place called loneliness.

The ideas----of rubber soul, bounceback, resonance, relativity, actions and reactions, and what voice has to do with it-----these are what make me tick as a blogger, and as a human. Echo? I'm not sure about echo, because an echo, after all, is you resonating unto yourself. Forced masturbation. And that's why the echo is the loneliest sound.

I will blog more about this. I haven't slept much in two nights trying to keep my household, child, life, and job in gear simultaneously, while alone, missing the person who keeps me steady, so far, so fucking far away.

I don't want to stop blogging tonight. I want to blog all night and into morning and all day tomorrow and tomorrow night. I want to blog in the tub and in bed; I want to blog outside, on the porch, with an American Spirit hanging from my lips; I want to start a 48-hour blogathon, fueled by the raw energy, the sparks, of these ideas.

What makes me even more tired, more depressed, is that I can't--not tonight. I'm tired, spent, exhausted, whipped, physically that is. My mind wants to write, but my hands aren't willing. Tomorrow. I'll be back tomorrow. Don't let these words, these sparks, die down. Someone--Golby? Keep fanning the flames til I get back. Good night.

experiment in anger

I'm getting my feet wet here. In my prose, in my blogging, I've been dealing with a lot of anger and rage lately over the stuff that makes up these 39 years I've spent on this planet. I keep my poetry a little more cryptic. So, about tonight; I didn't sit down to blog anything at all tonight. I sat down to read. Things are quiet though, and I said, let me open my little bloggerpro window and see how I feel, and I discovered something: I'm really fucking angry. That's why, I guess, I've layed a few F-bombs in the last three posts.

Why so angry, Jeneane? I'm not sure (the therapist on my shoulder says, well, what might it be?) I dunno. Maybe a phone call from a family memeber who isn't supposed be drinking anymore, and, maybe, you know, the conversation, friendly as it was, reeked with deceit. You know the conversation? Anyone out there? It starts with niceties, the guard goes down, followed by a few slurred words here and there, and your ears fill with blood, and you start thinking, motherfucker, you said you were done with that....

And then after you hang up, you walk around the house thinking, probably my imagination. didn't sound too bad. but I swear I heard something in that voice (... that voice .... that voice... that voice....) Lost in thoughts of screaming matches past. Fist to table. DAMMIT!

And then the celestial heavens, perfect side men, start ripping up the sky with a thunder storm to die for. If I wasn't a mother with a kid in bed, I'd have been out in the driveway, hands to the sky, fingers stretched up up up trying to touch the violence, the cracks in the night sky, yelling,

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSS!"

And so, stopping myself short, I'll just say: Bring it on.
I'm ready for round three.
ding ding, motherfucker.

sea breeze

Key of E
minor
melancholy
merry go round
out of time
play that
carnival song
evil for me.

childhood
that wasn't,
everything
you took
from me.

pretentious pretender
what the fuck
were you after?

Robber, beggarman, thief
anything
would have been better
than this.

Swing my leg
over the
painted pony,
the one that
moves that way

Strike up the band
nuke the high end
boost the bass
take me round
and round
spin me faster
til
my hair
catches the breeze
flying now,
blast me off
this fucking
ride.

got nowhere
to land.

the lie

lightning strikes me
strikes you,
never
the same place
twice.

How did you think
it would be?
You, with all the answers
never listening
to the question

Stand on your bully pulpit
motherfucker,
while I rip pieces
from it
one by one
throw your balance
off.

The biggest lie
is the one you tell
yourself,
your voice
gives
you away
every time.

your crutch
can't hold you up,
losing your grip
too often now.

Watching you fall
watching you fall
waiting.
hit bottom,
damn you.

Daddy, I NEED You

My daughter is missing her daddy, my husband, more and more as the days pass slowly by. Playing in Hong Kong for three months, he's been gone for two weeks, and it seems a year. Tonight our daughter wept in her room, "Daddy, I *need* you," and it nearly broke my heart, for me as much as her. I remember crying the same words at nearly her same age, but I knew that my daddy wasn't coming back.

It's the needing that socks me in the gut. That desparate helpless needing, unable to manifest that person you want so badly to see and touch, the one single solitary thing that can make it all better, and I mean *all* better. But you can't form them from the air around you. You know you can't, and the knowing feeds the cycle of want, making it even more powerful as time ticks by. Tick tock, tick tock tick tock.

Daddy, we miss you.

Scratching the Itch

If you haven't read this latest EGR, you should. I've been talking a lot about getting personal lately. Why blogs are most interesting when the writer "dares to." Dares to do what? Dares to do something, anything personal. The brave hearts online are those who give a little something away to you, a piece of themselves. They give some to get some. They are willing souls who treat blogging like an airport strip search. Go ahead. Check it out--check it all out. This is all I have. There's nothing else hiding anywhere--well, anywhere you can see right now.

That's the beauty of Locke's latest EGR. Something I sent to him I'll blog here because I don't think he'll mind me sharing (to quote him who sent: "Whether it's beautiful or butt ugly, don't ever tell me not to write about it.") And it goes a little something like this, ya'll...

---------------------------------------

Transported...

To an anthropological dig, a group of young scientists in cut-offs and tank tops, unearthing an ancient stone tablet, all damp and clay covered, etched with hieroglyphs from an unknown civilization, long extinct.

They hold the stone and stare at the muddy water dripping from their hands, and they realize the stone is weeping, and when they hold it to the sun, it reflects a light so brilliant they have to shield their eyes against it.

They work day and night to bring these silent symbols to life, to give them voice, and they are amazed to discover that this stone holds the secrets--the fucking *answers*--to love and loss, to living and re-living.

It is a text for human survival.

This is what you've made.

------------------------------------

Now, all of you, go bathe in it.

Accupuncture Part 2 and Car Shopping Question

Okay, so I'm all itchy and I have a migraine. I'm hoping these are good things. Ancient cleansing or something. I don't know.

Today we have a quiz. If you had to buy a good, cheap car (or even lease one for cheap), what would you choose? I need to do just this and I have absolutely no inclinations or brand loyalty when it comes to cars. Something with a good warranty. Something cheap. That's all I need. I spent 4 hours car shopping this evening and am more confused now than before I left home, hence the migraine and itching I suppose.

Oh, and ideally I have to dump a 97 loaded Ford Explorer that I'm upside down on in the process. Forgot to mention that little deal breaker.

And I can get a GM discount if I go with GM. That's another parameter that may help you advise me accordingly.

Recommendations are appreciated. Thank you for your assistance.

Perhaps tomorrow I'll have my brain back. I'm not sure. Life is kicking my behind.

-j.

A personal wellness first

I tried accupuncture today. Wow. It was kind of amazing. No it was really amazing. Me--a hater of needles and all things pointy--laying there with these pins sticking out hither and yon (the yon ones did hurt a little). The amazing thing is that it really didn't hurt. It was relaxing and energizing at the same time. I'd find myself fighting the needles, then submitting to them, then relaxing, then I'd tighten up again and begin the familiar climb toward 'freak out,' in this dark room all by myself looking like a pin cushion, and then I'd submit again. A few times I even found myself thinking positiviely. Imagine!

I'm hoping it's going to help relax me a little, center me a little, bring me back into focus, which I've wandered pretty far away from lately. There was a book the office I think I'm going to get about TCM (traditional chinese medicne) called The Web that Has No Weaver. How appropriate is that to the net, blogging, and the discussions flying around out here these days? Yah, I know it's not about the Internet, but something in the interconnected nature of Chinese medicine does parallel what we are doing here. Anyway, this is a short and boring post, but to me it's exciting because I faced a fear (needles) and did something positive for me (accupuncture and herbs), which doesn't happen all that often.

more later.................. going to lick my wounds now.

A Personal Blogging First: Remove Me

There are many firsts as we begin our lives as bloggers. Registering for the first time with blogger.com or your tool of choice. Choosing you first blog template. Executing that first "link." Adding the first bunch of bloggers to your blog roll. Publishing your very first post. Reading the first comment that makes its way to your site. All of these are blogger milestones, those things that get us "jazzed" and propel us along in this journey called blogging.

Today I have another personal first. It's not one that gives me great personal joy, as those I've just mentioned. But it is something that I feel I must do: I've asked Mike Sanders to take me off his blog roll. I've never asked to be removed from a blog roll before. Yeh, it's not too smart in terms of linkage and google results. But sometimes you have to say, "enough."

The idea of removal was something Mike mentioned a while back. He offered to remove anyone from his blogroll that couldn't define terrorism, or who didn't think terrorism was always wrong, or something like that. I have neither the time nor inclination to search through his archives to find the exact post. I do remember this--when I read it, I had a little urge to say: "Remove me." It was too Bush-like for me... Too limiting. That "You're either with us or against us" mentality that doesn't sit well with me. But I let that go, figuring Mike was just hot-headed over the current state of affairs, which was understandable.

There's a lot in the middle here you'll never know. The emails I've received from Mike that I felt insulted and provoked by. I won't go into them here. Mike's view is that emails aren't for the public square, and I'll respect that.

Instead I'll say this: I blog, in part, to learn. That means digesting what others have to say. It does not mean rushing to judgement, putting up walls, tearing down ideas, labeling people, or name calling. Mike Sander's post today where he goes after Mike Golby is just that kind of post, and it's not his first. He takes a shot at Doc and others he's labeled "peace bloggers" too.

On Golby, Sanders says: "For me the breaking point came when Mike Golby continued to express his virulently anti-Israeli viewpoints which were picked up in varying degrees by others. The irony is Mike seems to be a nice guy and if it wasn't for his diatribes I would probably still be a friend."

This is both painful and exhausting to me. I'd like to just leave it up to you to figure out what's wrong with this. I'd like to say: If you can't figure out for yourself what is wrong with this, then find a Blogging 101 course -- no, a humanity 101 course -- and sign up. But it would be a cop out to stop here...

...because there are so many things wrong with it.

-Labeling another blogger as "pro" or "anti" anything--especially anything that strikes at the core of their personal belief system--without giving backup is wrong.

-Picking apart bloggers who are brave enough to get personal on their own blogs without daring to get personal yourself is wrong.

-Posting inflamatory comments on your blog without a comment mechanism for others to contribute to the conversation or defend themselves is wrong.

-Using your blog to deliberately inflict pain on others is wrong.

-Using a global medium to state your views without acknowledging the global context and ramifications of what you say is wrong.

-Accusing others of being unfair and insulting when you practice the same regularly is wrong.

There's more. Isn't there always? But I hope this gives some reasoning to why I am drawing the line, why I am saying, "Take me out of this conversation, remove me from the discussion, take me off your Blog Roll please, Mr. Sanders."

There are some who will read this and say, "Oh, she's just allied with Mike Golby." If you take out the "just," I'll agree with you. I am allied with Golby. I see in him a level of humanity and caring that is refreshing and sometimes astounding--and its something he has brought to the art of blogging that has inspired a whole new era of bloggers.

Seeking to become more than "opinion bloggers," Mike and I stand allied together and say, "We will put ourselves into our blogs; we will get personal." What we give you is not just words and current events, but the context for our words and life events, the dramma, joy, and tragedy that has informed us and our words. We try our best to reach through your screen and touch you on the arm--"Hey, we're here. We're *really* here." We dare to give you the whole picture.

If you think that isn't personally dangerous or risky, then you haven't tried it. And maybe you should.

that little rascal

watching the white car take another actor to jail for allegedly killing his wife. Hope he didn't do it--the guy had a tough life and made something out of it. Now, my prediction (and why not)... not guilty. A risky prediction given everyone's still wanting to convict OJ. Ah well. Nothing more for tonight, and no links because I haven't seen any online sites hitting on this yet. I'm sure the bloggers will be on it first.

I'm alive

Got three emails today from blog buddies gently nudging me (and then there was that blogstickers guy) because I've been quiet. I bet you all thought I was deep in thought, exploring the realms of death and loss, talking with those dark muses that inspire me, or trying to beat RB for the longest bout of depression non-blogism.

I would that it were so, my dear, concerned friends. Unfortunatley, it's my job (remember--we do have those... I know; I forget too sometimes) that's got me roped and tied to MSWord and my laptop this week--big deadline, big headaches. I feel like the reclusive shut in I am. And when I have had a second to blog, blogger sticks it's big stupid tongue out me and says, "not now chickadee."

George is doing well in the Far East, if you don't count the fact that they've brought this super group of jazz musicians over there to play for pay, only to insist on the likes of Proud Mary, Mustang Sally, and other jazz classics as their repetoire. Yes, on upright bass. So you see? Nothing is as it seems and everything is the same. Really.

I am ignorant on current events the last few days. I heard something about "UBL" as Asscroft calls him. I am expecting ELO to start the strings any minute. I have no idea what's going on, and actually it has made a kinder, gentler person. Let's just ignore it all, you and I, shall we?

So, all of this is to say, I have nothing to say unless you want to read my eight pages of client copy from today, which, trust me, you don't.

good night. may tomorrow be a tiny bit more inspiring for us all.

j.

bloodied hands are everywhere

And just to clarify my stance on terrorism, about which I've received some nasty, unsolicited, and unintelligible emails of late, here you go.

inumerable
wrongs
don't
make
right.

In case that's not clear enough, I'm against terrorism and genocide of all kinds. If you don't like it, take me off your blogroll.

microblogging

Some bloggers like most to talk about the global, the big picture, the world, its conflicts, its leaders and losers. Some are very good at it. Others are annoying. Still others are mere copies of what we hear on cable news and talk radio, which, in my mind, is a waste of good blog space.

As for global issues, I will leave it to the bloggers who are good at it. There are more opinions out there on current events than you can shake a laptop at.

The blogs I like to read are the personal, those individual portraits of the human heart, blogs about lives and losses, realizations, aspirations, fears; bloggers who open their closets, skeletons and all. That's where I learn things. I come here to escape the macro, the global, the things I cannot solve, the pieces of the world that others control and seek to dominate. Big secret #1: You have no control of what's happening; it is in the hands of governments, and governments, like corporations, are not human. Only those caught in their in the machinery are human. That is the tragedy.

What I CAN change is me. That's it. That's all I can change. And that's all you can change.

Mirror to face,
Blogging for grace.

I challenge you today to put your heart on the line. Take it past the easy blog fuel--who killed whom today, what could happen next. Go for premium. Get personal. Tell me about you. Who fucked with you today? What happened to you that you are the way you are, the person you are? What brought you to blogging? Not the outside stuff. The *inside* stuff.

I dare you.

panic remembered

The past has a way of protecting you. Sometimes for a long time. Until it’s way way in the past. Yesterday, I remembered suddenly the circumstances around my first panic attack. I used to think they started in high school. The doctors would ask: "When did you start having panic attacks?" I'd try to think back, but, caught in the grips of anxiety, it seemed like always would have been the most accurate reply.

Until yesterday, though, I thought I had it nailed down to my tough times in 10th grade. Those are the ones I remember best. Under siege by what ifs and terrorized by possibilities ranging from the very real to the really absurd, grappling with hour-long bouts that were very painful, and very physical, and made me certain that I was going completely out of my mind and could not take it another split second, the days when a minute seemed like three years and the thought of three years led to the next wave of terror.

But last week I remembered. I didn’t just remember; I was there. In the fourth seat of the first row from the door, Mr. Connor’s 6th grade science class, trying to pay attention even as I was fixated, as always, on his bald head and his wrestling coach walk, and the rumor I had heard from the other kids that his wife had just died.

His question to the class is what started this wave of panic, which ripped up my spine to flush my cheeks, which made me want to run from class to the bathroom where I could throw up. I was sure I would faint, and if I didn’t I was sure I would die. It was perhaps the hardest question I had ever been asked and is even still:

“What does your father do for a living?”
Followed by, “Let’s go around the room.”

And one by one, the answers came from the other kids, fast and furious, a restaurant manager, a construction worker, a teacher—like you Mr. Connor!—a writer, he works at Xerox, he delivers the mail, until he hit the row before mine. I turned around to Susan, who sat behind me. She lived on my street… one of the few who knew I didn’t have a father, that he was dead—“What do I SAY?” She shrugged her shoulders. “mmmm mm mmmm.”

As a kid, when your father dies before anyone else’s in what you know to be the entire world, that makes you really different. A freak. And in 1969, if he died of cancer, that made you a leper. I was about to become a leper if I didn’t think fast. Really fast.

And as he pointed at me, I said it. Well almost:

“My mother works.”
“Oh. ……………….. What does she do?”
“She shows apartments.”

And he moved on.

But I never did.