CONDUCTING SYMPHONIES ACROSS THE SCARRED FACE OF TIME
There are times to stand and fight. There are times to roll over and play dead. There are times to make speeches and times to mumble into the shadows. There are times to hang glide, drive fast cars, zing around Rome on a moped looking for easy sex. There are times to drown your sorrows.
I’m as happy as a beached whale. A toothless alligator. A severed finger in an ant hill. I have blisters where the sun don’t shine. I have a memory bank that tells me things are apt to get worse. I have séances in bed at night with the covers pulled over my head. In the morning I get up and make coffee as if nothing has happened. I grab Tuesday’s mask off its hook and head out the door. Bring on the day.
Punch-drunk, I raise my baton and conduct symphonies across the scarred face of time.