Thang Nguyen 555

Ishiguro always put his fingers on some pulse. First he was known for “The Remains of the Day”. Then went on with “Never Let Me Go”, followed by “Klara and the Sun”.

He knows how we feel. Claustrophobic. Hemmed in. By the forces beyond our control e.g. industrialization and digitization.

Now with a play adaptation, he re-introduces “Living” to Broadway.

As if we haven’t at all noticed (I drive by a fleet of Amazon trucks every day) the sudden scale-up of what Charlie Chaplin had nailed down in Les Temps Modernes.

The daily chores. Stack-up habits and sudden temptations.

All the while, inflation creeps up (thank you Saudi), population increases (thank you Bill Gates and his vaccine push) and Chinse cheap goods flush the Mall of America.

We know something is missing. We just don’t know what it is, and if IDed, whether or not we can afford the opportunity cost. Papillon knows this well when in solitary confinement. Freedom and the need to be understood.

So Meta and social media know this. Leverage and monetize it. Blog all you want. Read to your delight. But someone needs to collect, deposit and withdraw.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid tried to go “straight”. While discussing an alt lifestyle, they found they couldn’t ranch nor could they farm. Heck, one guy can’t shoot, and the other, swim. Back to robbing banks, with changed venue: Bolivia.

And so it goes. We deserve this sterile life. Albeit large percentage of it were inherited. The rest? blame it on the school system, society and government (many of which rightly deserved for being dysfunctional) and finally, as Ishiguro noticed, the machine.

You and me and the IT ( milo) named Boo. Traveling the land.

Tops down. 101 Hwy summer breeze “makes me feel fine”… We need the “Hug Squad” back on Haight-Ashbury Street. We need to tell each other jokes, between toasts e.g. Woody Allen “I have a brother who thinks he were a chicken”….replies the therapist “why don’t you turn him in?”…”cause I still need the eggs”….

Life as we know it. Part inherited and part invented. It Won’t last forever. The more mistakes, the more misery. On average 76 years span after Covid. No time to drink that beer. Join the AARP. You and me and the IT named Boo. All the unrealized dreams and talks of making it in Australia, as the said pair chatted before going out in a blaze. Freeze frame. To seem to live forever in mid-air, like Cara in Fame. “ I Want to live forever…” “ people knowing my name”.

Our “remains of the day” through a hazy blaze.

Been dry ! In the desert, riding the horse with no name. Some just let go. Never learned. Never changed. Except on New Years. Then, business as usual. Stores Open and Closed i.e. permanently downsized.

However, the longer the wait, the sweeter the result. Like desert bloom. Like maturity and wholeness. Seeing life from both sides. Of course, our outer self is withered while our inner renewed.

Yet we tell ourselves we are looking “fabulous”, younger next year?

For New Year resolution, I learn not to take on additional “blames “(in blame seeking culture). Leaders, be it de Gaulle or de Klerk, paid and promoted, should take responsibilities (for the fall or failure of their regimes.) Most times we would never know e.g. tales of a country collapse. Mine for instance. With babies tossed from Chinooks and caught like basketballs.

Came the cleanup. Came the rescue of refugees. Relief and Cultural Orientation camps. Push/pull forces: Thai pirates’ threats behind, Third-World asylum beyond. Twice, 42 and 40 years ago, I returned to those camps (as of this update, the whole apparatus of USAID was dismantled).

I found myself playing “god’ (culture shock). Flying toward the Sun Icarus-like. Candle burned at both ends (right about now, it feels two flames will soon meet up in the middle). “He who is no fool to lose that which he cannot keep gaining that which he cannot lose.” i.e. made of flesh – college-grad fresh meat – that burn in a flash.

It’s one thing to volunteer: raising money to do good for one summer. It’s another to re-enlist to keep warm a vacated slot (or else the Baptist will take over). More challenging than I had previously thought. CO camp was where folks were supposedly less anxious, knowing a seat on a flight out soon be reserved in their names (with UNHCR hand-carry bags, like the ones we would pick up at “shows” to contain promotional materials).

April 29, 1975 escape, but without “babies like basketballs”: orderly, organized and with orientation. Think Costco shopping: select, carry, load up, transport and lug in the house.

Yet we were 4 adults, 4 kids and one old mom. Later, when the table turned, I became a giver.

Along with UN relief folks, I was often waved through the gate when back on leave. PRPC was a tight run ship of 20,000: controlled and structured. The Philippines made a deal with international VOLAGS: have your personnel and payroll outsourced here. Their track record (Clark Airbase) and proximity to the action won them contracts – for a refugee’s holding center.

A Habitat for Humanity + Guantanamo Bay. Everyone knew it’s transient, like the summer before college. My previous exposure to the Philippines was a 3-day stop at Subic Bay, on-route to Wake Island. But that time, in Bataan, the Baptist just baptized en-mass while the Catholics had their Mass (with Papal visit). Bataan was designed for longer quarantine than my brief stay at Indiantown Gap, PA 8 years previous.

My own refugee processing period was rushing, with weddings conducted daily at Indiantown Gap Chapel, Vegas-shotgun marriages.

Even with empathy and experience, I was ill-prepared (except for being bi-cultural and bi-lingual, with some refugee-work experience). The plus side? International living among expats made my subsequent Cross-Culture coursework a breeze.

Communication was my mainstay. Hence, I found myself speaking, writing, teaching and leading discussions (often I forgot I no longer was at an American campus). Interestingly enough, I found myself a referee among regional factions who, when locked up in confinement often resorted to war 2.0.

In Hong Kong, on my second tour, a vacation-relief assignment, things ended on a sour note: I was falsely accused of “stealing” a gold-engraved Bible. Turned out, I never saw it and hardly read the Bible in Vietnamese to begin with.

Here I was putting myself on loan, at the service of others, riding the ferry, plus boat trips to far-out shut-in camps, with multiple doors slammed behind me on each visit – stomach (Chinese food) churning – holding tight to your day pass (or else easily mistaken for a detainee) while listening to tales of violence and rape – which had occurred the night before…only to get falsely accused in place of thanks.

Not to mention upon repatriation having to wait tables for a few months. On one occasion, unavoidably I was assigned to serve the section where my former film crew ended up seating. “How was humanitarian these days?”

Years later, with humiliation from “humanitarian “behind, I still marvel at the forgiving Father and His unforgiving children. At times, I thought all the wrong in the world, cascading or not, was caused by or somehow implicated me – High Priests of High Church tend to lay colonial guilt on us flocks.

Today, you can hardly find any trace of “white-man burden” in me. All “white-out”, pardon the pun.

Overall, I have had my shares of human misery. Refugee I had been myself, hence am not “rich Christian in the age of hunger.” Of all the (blind) people, few returned to say “Thanks “. I, on the other hand, said twice. From the heart.

Those religious outreach tactically had a trapped audience e.g. cross-shaped burning- brush lit up the hill where spiritual hunger (survival at sea – even on dead- companions’ flesh -would prime and well-oiled you good) would otherwise remain apathetic. As found in the States and Europe, where mainline Protestant denominations experience quite a drought.

At Westmoreland-breakneck pace, baptism was synonymous with Anglicizing. (Certificate of baptism before certificate of citizenship). Wonder how many faithful can withstand materialistic onslaught once settled in the West (It was only fitting the Baptist “mission” was carried out by a former Marine). Numbers game!

Human misery will always be with us. From Hungary to Hong Kong, from Ethiopia to Algeria. Yet we also find beauty in the barren and miracle in the mundane. There must be time (Hologram for a King).

In all its sterility, life has its charm, to serious seekers.

In looking back, I realize despite agonizingly high opportunity cost, I have gained what I was in for (still without knowing the name of the horse on which I rode). Tales by survivors at seas, of rape and rescue, stay with the most hardened of hearts among us. Desert blooms sometimes.

On one of the accounts from a Navy man who worked on USS Kirk during the Frequent Wind evacuation at the end of the Vietnam War (recording to be sent to his wife) “they tossed babies from 25 feet in the air, out of Chinooks, and we caught them like basketballs”.

Meanwhile, per Newsweek piece, last piece on the Fall of Saigon, the writer stayed and boarded next-to-last chopper out of the roof of the US Embassy in Saigon. His fellow passengers, the Lucky Few, were Ambassador Martin’s aide, and his black poodle Nitnoy (per Loren Jenkins’ account).

On the UK chart, we found Bye Bye Baby among the top. Sing on, baby. Fly on down. We’ll catch you.

Get on the plane, the bus, and the ship. We are into hardware transport, not human cargo.

Babies as balls. As political balls, to be punt, fourth down.

Back and forth. Life as a game, Earth our stadium.

Opposing teams, opposing parties. At least, when the Navy men decided to push those choppers to the side (after yanking out headsets and hardware), to make room for the next landing on limited space on ship deck (the sky was dotted with bees-like choppers), the quote was “human is more than hardware”.

In today’s toxic environment, I am not so sure.

Even the Son of Man who shows up today, with “Christ” still in “Christmas”, would definitely be rejected or punt out of state.

Saigon babies are all grown up now. Many have gone on with their Medical careers. Exchange rates help elevate the status of those who fled and flourished.

Those stayed behind, bought new flags and hung up new portraits. Streets got renamed. Statues replaced. Markets meanwhile keep on selling confiscated goods. Hush hush. It’s the US dollars (slightly burned, recovered from oil barrels at the airport and the Embassy), relics of an old-time passing.

If people can revise history on that sad chapter, they can rewrite anything.

Bye bye baby. Bye Bye Basketballs. A view from an US-made Chinook. Catch them if you can.

Aboard a ship or on the bus.

California is where reality meets rhetoric.

A Hail Mary toss of the ball. Quite a pass. A punt. To improve the scores before game over. Except, life is not a game. And human not hardware, as they once said , aboard USS Kirk. Those Lucky Few numbered around 30,000. Could have been transported to the Island of Borneo, to never be seen nor heard again. To never pursue a career in dentistry or medicine. Heck with today’s exchange rates that help their inflated status – to conveniently play both sides of the fence, covering up once painful past: babies as balls in the air.

We’ve seen it: a hero welcome at the heart of Democracy, a damning report about its former Head, and of course, a massive spending to come.

All in one day. Not to mention reduced life expectancy for folks like myself.

Everything accelerates: the pace of spending, inflation and interest rates, climate change and no choices for the poor.

We’re all social media welfare queens. Relying on pushed ads spending to keep each other amused and entertained. At the costs of our time and creativity. All the time curating snippets and nuggets of cute quotes to post. To no avail. To no one.

All the while, where is the human heart? Does it take a non-NATO comedian to remind us of the seriousness of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness? Out the mouth of babes. Former comedian outlasts former President. What a poetic sense of an ending. TIME magazine Man of the Year. Real vs fake, hero vs coward.

You get the gist. Now, let’s put back the human heart where it belongs (after screwing back the head – on the cover of TIME and elsewhere).

Our human family have been distracted: first by Covid, then by insurrection, then by inflation and war. We’ve forgotten each other and our very selves. TIME missing person of the year has been us all along. Or more rightly, our human heart.

Let’s gift ourselves this season. With real heart, however long it will still work, per latest life expectancy data.

Stay away from overdose. The only overdose we should allow ourselves is overdosing on love. On compassion for the less fortunate and those out in the cold.

It’s one down and a few to go for me (coldest nights). I will survive. I will thrive. I will live. To see the day when the world gets back its heart. It will be a great countdown, louder than Times Square ‘s on New Year’s Eve. Every heartbeat counts.

This year’s Christmas movie on my list is Avatar. The public expects another dose of endorphin. We’re all under the influence. Of times past. Of Christmas past. Times we received loving care and compassion. Give and receive. Gift exchange. Surprised by joy.

We’re more than our mere biological make-ups. Knowing that, let’s put back the heart to human. Not to complete its biological function, albeit utmost necessary. But to make the argument stick: we’re more, much more. Shame that it takes a former comedian to make us cry, right at the heart of Democracy. The same Chamber that the former Head lit the fire, in the hope to see it destroyed on TV.

Around this time of the year, we feel it (joy) in the air, hear the Salvation-Army bell, and see motorists stopping for panhandlers. Very much heart-warming, like in Joyeux Noel (1914 WWI film).

Enough for year round. Spin it again.

My first memorable Christmas in the alley where I grew up: tables were set out, blocking traffic (the only time not for funeral). I remember plenty of food/drink. Join us! (I was an under age. Yet, invited and included). That’s how I remembered.

Then the itch and the scratches through the night, perhaps from allergy to seafoods or drinks.

In All Quiet on the Western Front, our protagonist, almost survived till the end, recalled his first bombardment, and how his platoon had helped themselves to the whole pig that night.

Meals in the military. Memories of war. The dead in that context was more fortunate.

The ongoing joke of my times was “what! you’re gonna ship us to Nam?” Or ” When we get back to the world” (per Tobias Wolff) meant out of this war, to anywhere but there.

Let’s see: we’re gonna buy a whole case of Champagne. Cheap Champagne.

Costco Chicken. and of course, Chocolate. To celebrate. To spread the joy.

Sparkling drinks for Sparks of divinity. Even the Three wisemen came having followed the guiding star.

A Messiah is born.

Giving. What’s precious. What’s valuable. The Nativity with : manger mixed with myrrh, donkey in starry desert.

Just like a scene of contrast I saw this morning: a motorcyclist pulling out his wallet for a panhandler. It’s 2023 and not 1914 when opposing parties joined in the celebration. We do have hope still. That it only takes a spark. To get a fire going.

Just like that nuclear jolt in Berkeley, or the first locomotive that ignites the Industrial Revolution. Somewhere in time, we made that game-changing leap: to be where we are in the evolutionary chain. To have the ability to think, to remember and reflect.

I remember scratching like crazy that Christmas Eve. In that bent and out of shape alley. Yet the occasion was joy, not mourning as usual. And occasional pops of guns still could be heard. With fireworks in the background We created our own space for peace, inner peace, amidst war (outside). Our Joyeux Noel film set wasn’t as cold as in 1914, sitting with friends and not enemies. BTW, that same neighbor was the one who pulled away the barbed wires for us to back out to the street, and to never look back years later.

What are they gonna do? Ship me back to NAM?

That’s me. I am not writing about someone else. You see, the man who was about to move in across the street has died. I was told.

All the frantic buildout, renovating and refashioning.

If we were Amish, he and I and the whole village would have chipped in (barn-raise).

As it turns out, I have never (can’t now, at least not yet) met him. Mostly I saw contractors coming and going. One group after another; the roofing guys, the lawn guys seen through my window.

Now his porch lights are always on, 24/7. Like an eternal flame for his wake.

Was he privileged to the timing of his departure? Or his, a sudden death? From the prep work, I wouldn’t think he did. Perhaps it’s better that way.

I in fact feel for him. More than being curious. Fate of Fellow human: working and breathing, stressed out and burned out. To finally build a “fort”, surrounded with soil and shrubs to mark and protect One’s space. One’s privacy. One’s history.

Gone. In a puff.

We are our past (that bleeds to the present, claiming more and more territory and time each day).

Past as prologue. It’s as if sports fans had left the stadium, knowing with some certainty the final score and outcome of the game, despite last attempt at Hail-Mary pass by the losing team. Our past got momentum, critical mass and velocity. Train on its track.

It takes over. Can’t reverse it. It’s there in the Cloud. Facebook and Linkedin.

It begins with our birth certificate and ends with our death certificate.

Some folks travel and leave home with a prepared will. Others reside to the comfy chair, bitching at his son-in-law (Rob Reiner of the world). Meanwhile, Our “superhero” cashes out his brand equity with NFT cards.

I have never met my new neighbor. I am not nosy. Just regret we had never met. To exchange barbs, to rant about the weather, about inflation, interest rates.

It’s Christmas. And it looks awfully lonely to see the porch light on. With no one living in that house: newly minted, deck dusted , rail untouched and lamp ever -shone.

Meanwhile, in my household. kids chit-chat over TikTok, telling each other jokes e.g. “how do you fit an elephant into a fridge”….

In the vein of ever shining I would put on “Evergreen” by Streisand.

In the hope that, if the past is prologue, then the present is prologue to love, a love that transcends space and time. Hollywood makes money by hyping up violence and sex. If forced choice, I’d take Woodstock over War, And I do hope my neighbor had some of it (love) for the journey of his going. I sure can use extra serving just as I have basked in the light of his porch lamp.

For years, I have seen above picture. Lately, it’s on my home-office desk.

Sister’s family left side. Ours, right side. With my Mom, situated in the middle. Always the matriarch of the extended family. My brother, far right, was a Medic Captain (divorced and ran into his wife and kid on Wake Island, where this was taken).

But only now that it dawns to me why I had that thousand-yards stare: my Dad was left behind in a hurry. He stayed behind for a good 10 years from that turbulent time we found ourselves vetted in the middle of the biggest ocean on Earth.

“Do you know, where you’re going to, do you like the things that life is showing you.”

It’s hard to predict and project your life 10 years into the future. Let’s just say, recent announcement out of Berkeley’s Lab. It might be another 2-4 decades before we see commercial and consumer applications as we now begin to see with Tesla.

I can predict though the entrenchment, resistance and lobbying of the incumbents. After all, there are so much capital invested in other renewables (esp. the fossil fuel industrial complex).

So, the front row have been doing well: adjusted, fed and clothed. Warm clothes. Their kids to, interracially marriages. The back row. Not too good. Just passable.

I am left stranded. Off sync. Always seem to miss a few beats, generationally and culturally. Can’t interracially marry (barely codified yesterday here in the US). Can’t go back to date among our own race (heck, if I could, I would have visited with my Dad, the missing person in the picture).

There was some happy endings: he signed the house over to the government, then joined us with just a shirt on his back. Later, Dad passed away in a Winchester, VA home. There aren’t many tales to tell, except for some legendary incidents e.g. swam after a rescue boat for our family to evacuate to dry land during a Northern Vietnam flood, shooed away a thief in the night by a throw of a kitchen knife, and of course, stood up for me against my alley bully.

We need fathers. Good ones. To serve and protect. a 911 kind, a sensitive kind and a juggler of many balls in the air. Tall order. No wonder in today’s toxic environment, we find many single moms on welfare, on WIC’s etc…Where have all the good men gone? Back in my days, my Dad, a discharged Army man, came home every single night. Supper waiting. Songs waiting. And at times, visitors waiting.

We had something of a home life. Sunday outings and graduation parties. It’s the Confucian culture that held us together, more in death than in life. We commemorated the dead. Remembering the day they passed away and got together every year on that same date. To retell tales and to encourage each other to live on.

Now that I realize who is missing in that picture, I can comprehend the anxiety and restlessness present: if I did not know his whereabout, I would never know if he lived or died. And most of all, on what day of the calendar should I remember him. That’s what got me antsy and apprehended, shown in a thousand-yards stare beyond the glistening sea for a glimpse of the person missing in the pic.

We’re privy, each of us, to 15 min of fame ( Irene Cara herself). Andy Warhol, Woody Allen etc.. all famous, with memorable quotes. Life compressed. A short sentence. One word. Name.

People , who taught me about life, have all passed away. They showed me the opposite of the ideal they instilled in me. In short, failed expectations.

Then that falling short keeps passing down, from one generation to the next: “Don’t speak ill of the dead”. Hence, the lie keeps perpetuating. Tugged under the couch, hidden under the rug.

When old people speak the truth, they are shut down and labeled as “Grumpy” (Walter Matthau, and now Rob Reiner). Our image of a hero is thwarted: male, WASP, tall, larger than life, womanizer and drinker. Justified violence and always wins in the end, in the Name of the Father.

Hollywood version. Roaring like the MGM lion at the beginning. A few twists and turns of the plot thrown in, for realism. But most times, every time, it’s for good reviews, mass consumption and ticket sale.

Feel good. Forget. What is history? that’s for librarian and Dewey decimal.

We’ve got Google for spelling and remembering. No one, no one should misspell (auto-correct). Life is from here on out, perfect. Slick. No errors and no missteps.

And thanks to machine-aided technique, we now upload, comment, and always a step ahead of events and happening (the 6PM-news broadcast seems outdated).

It’s a world full of facts, untruths and myths. The more we know, the less we know.

The paradox of modern age. Wisdom is dying off. People I trust, who taught me about life, have died off. Leaving me and handing me the torch. To play the Old Man and the keyboards. What to say besides: let’s move on. Let’s preserve the good things. On giants’ shoulders we stand, tall. Spread your wings and dance while you still can. On Broadway and Highway. Like Irene. Like Woody. Like Andy.

Before it’s too late. Before we are forgetful. Before we become species of yesterday. You may say these are old-man’s rant. Yes they are, and hopefully landing on receptive ears. Most times, people are turned off. It’s called selective perception: we only seek out and confirm what we already held as true.

So let it be. A lonely planet. A world divided. Mind’s interior and the Moon’s exterior. Keep exploring. In here and out there. Until you get old, like me, with fingers on the keyboards. Making some noise.

Old man and the keys.

We can stay still. Close our eyes. We can think. Talk and discuss. Or we can move ahead regardless.

Gretchen Rubin, author and expert on Happiness, says habits take self-control and decision-making out of the equation: showered and shaved, coffee and toast etc…

Long time ago, event took me out of my habitat . Disrupted my habit. Deer facing oncoming headlights.

Froze. Not sure how to proceed. Millions of little calculations in my CPU. Not enough RAM and ROM. I read Toffler. I consulted Tillich.

Future shock. Culture shock. I was at my inflection point. Like Chevy Chase on his National Lampoon’s vacation, driving around a Parisienne Round-About with time lapse.

Maybe this is how the game is supposed to be played: we don’t know, period.

TIl we have faces.

On the other side of the coin. Fake it til you make it. Two front eyes can only see forward, not back, not over the curve (of the Earth). We all live in a submarine, painted Yellow. Help! Submerged and suffocated.

Things will sort themselves out, so they say. All quiet on the front (but not here).

More EV charging stations, please. More Emotional Charging stations, while at it.

One life to live. So many roads to choose.

Some says “Look within”. Others, outward. For centuries, science and religion never cease to butt-head. We explored the Moon many times over, and turned around to look within, at a nano level. Man’s life vs Moon’s.

How about just close your eyes. Think. Rewind and pause. Take stock. Follow not the herd. The crammed posts from the Democratic Party, from the Republican Party…and now from the Independent Party.

Back to my standing at the crossroads. Which way to turn. One Must move forward (in time). It so happened that topography and time seem to go together. At times, they are de-coupled (as when I returned to the same place, and got to know it for the first time – as a stranger and visitor). Places you can return to. Time, you cannot.

Someone requests a payment from my Paypal. Do I know you? I am broke. Should be the other way around. Scammers and grifters. Go away. Make my day.

Hence, the road ahead is unknown but knowable even when it’s a wrong turn. You and I will only waste time (and energy). But geography can always be redrawn. Empires do this all the time, most times, shrinked. Yet man’s ambition always enlarges, in disproportionate to the size of their penises. Fear not those outward appearances (of silver hair and rim glasses). I am becoming one of them, those supposedly authoritarian figures, who hid their frailties and faults.

Unlearn your reflexes (fear is one of them). Acquire new ones. As Gretchen put it, once we’ve acquired new habits, we don’t need decision-making and self-control. We are on auto-pilot. Go for those frequent bathroom stops. Then immediately refill with caffein and endorphin. Tillich with his analysis on reality and idealism. Toffler, on how efficient can we get what we want in the time we’re given.

Happy is a man who decides, despite all the shocks and doubts. Make making decision (risk taking) part of your new habits. Don’t just stand there and get run over. The road ahead is where we are now standing. I know this. I still remember the speech I heard at graduation: “….with all the privileges and responsibilities this degree entails…”. Been more of the later than the former. All quiet on the front. But not in here…with millions of little calculations given the DNA…to survive Future Shock ( in a pro-sumer society).

I wish. That life out of an alley would shoot forward to target, like an arrow.

Unfortunately, its trajectory has been more like a beeline . A shock absorber with DNA strands and scars. Perhaps it’s better that way (an arrow might miss its target). Like little Red Robin, we can afford to make an unplanned stop here and there, to get in trouble.

The Good Lord knows all this (Omniscient). Been there and done that Himself (Omnipresent and Omnipotent). The truth will set me free, despite path I have taken . Every step (you take, every move you make, I will be watching) even missteps.

Out of the alley, I have passed the analog phase : 8-track music, VHS and Betamax.

Then digital phase with easier surveillance. So prevalent that I afraid am being watched, heard and recorded, anywhere, anytime (certainly at the gym this morning). Citizens of China: rise up! (You’d rather be watched but not lying down).

How could countries keep their citizens under watch is beyond me. Someday, they all escape to not just another country, but another universe: Metaverse.

From Marilyn Chamber to digital chamber (playground, sandbox, etc..).

Control, control, control. Hemmed in. Like randomized-test mice with placebo. Awaiting death inevitable.

Meanwhile, control groups urge us to experience other death precautions (spiritual, social and psychological) like baptismal or other wise for insurance.

Out of the alley, I shot forward in time. Neither straight, nor curve. Just one rung at a time, along the narrow trail. Then it struck me. It’s not the road, but the seasons, not topology but time: Summer and Fall, Winter and Spring. Each with its own charm and allure.

Then exhausted, I just prefer to come home. To rest. To take stock. And to depressurize. The Industrial Revolution (scale) and the Information Revolution (access) push us relentlessly from 24/7 time to virtual time (neither Sun nor Moon regularity).

Just the hum of florescent lights, the tap on the keyboards and the final signature on death certificate. Hands left un-held and memory unrecalled. Life as an arrow? Not so fast. You’ve got to let the morning last.

Milk it out. Make it last . With spare moments as reservoir to reflect. Before coming back in full circle. To an alley where it all started. Analog obviously.