...for which I'm most thankful, to say nothing of the immutability of time.
It happens less and less nowadays, but as I grew up, I could not escape the cacophony of brain-dead chorus by my keepers, handlers and masters of how thankful I should be to be young. How grateful for the constant, empty-headed-emotionalism-driven moves to a dozen different apartments all within a dozen blocks of eachother, the ass-beatings from Mom, school-scum and classmates. How delightedly blissful with happiness I should have been for a dozen wasted years of my life under the domineering jackboots of allegedly-wiser others, all "for my own good" of course. Sometimes, as I see the autumn of my life approaching and winter on her heels it makes sense, but most the time if I was offered the chance to be a kid again, I'd turn it down flatly - with maybe a tinge of regret about not going to one of those newer public schools where the 17-year-old boy scores with a hot-ass babe of a "teacher". I was luckier than most, though not as fortunate as some: Most the people I went to school with are dead or in jail, or existing in some other manner where death would probably be a merciful end. I don't go to highschool reunions. Since most the lot I came up with were snobby Papist soches whose OMFR parents were too cheap to send to perochial or trouble-makers, we don't "renew old acquaintances". Those fortunate few I mentioned - of whom I count myself one - saw the pitfalls the others jumped into gleefully, and evaded them. The other escapees had intact families and at least one person who cared that guided them on, up and out. I was blessed with several.
From time to time, I'll ponder curiously about some of them: Greg Mankey, the sticky-fingered friend downstairs my mom constantly warned me about, who went from abusive home to prison, and to my knowledge, never got out. Marty Compton, who had a lot of promise, went on to the Navy and was never heard from again, other than by a few letters, and a visit 20 years ago. I have no doubt Dennis Piercy made good, and left the old neighborhood far behind, and - unlike when he, Marty and I were "the Colonial Federation" - I hope he is well and his family business prospering...Well done, sir. In childhood, there are countless others who enter and exit one's life, and usually that exit is permanent, even if not via the grave. How many really close friends from that time are you still in touch with at 40, 50 or beyond?
The one I really miss and am most curious about is Kevin Harris. Though I have no doubts Bob Fiore and Gary Sauers moved quickly with confusion, empty-headed-emotionalism and religious self-righteousness to crush him as well, I wonder where he is now? As effective as they almost were with me, I ponder if he still lives. It would have been nice to sit down and have a long chat with him sometime before we left for Texas...Perhaps something he had to say or share could have prevented that.
But all these backward speculations, malarkies! Time works on a locked ratchet - at least for now - and in remembering "pubic screw-ool" I'm very thankful for that. I wouldn't trade being an adult for everything the steps back might have to offer, because that offer would probably include the cost of knowledge gained. This could all be distortion due to perception and experience, but I'm talking about my life and therefore might just know a thing or two about it. I never would have made good my escape from childhood without God and His Word though, and it's the only thing that gives me any sort of hope for what's ahead.
Something they and life have taught me is, you really can't live for tomorrow or for someone else - inspite of what religion says - because you are not someone else, and tomorrow may never come.
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