I'm sorry, but the numbers matter, they
really do. You can't hammer a perfect world out of a few happy
incidents. Things have to add up: demand has to meet supply. The
numbers are inexorable.
-----
The panic of being stranded away from
one's tribe: when I arrived, it was all pale skin, tee shirts with
eagles and American flags, belt buckles, bill caps. I was wearing
jeans and suspenders too, but the suspenders were in a
harlequin-check, and there were sandals on my feet, and I wasn't
fooling anyone. Deep relief when some brown-skinned people showed up,
and men wearing what we used to call Bermuda shorts. (What do they
call them now, I wonder? I haven't heard “Bermuda shorts” for an
age. Maybe just they're just “shorts” now?) In aggregate, the
tribal markers are overwhelming, even when all intentions are benign.
I must remember that, when I'm in the heart of Portland, among my
own, and I meet an outlander: special kindness and attentiveness is
called for.
-----
Much to do today: the end of summer and
the advent of the rainy season are looming. If it's not painted in
the next few weeks, it's not painted till next summer.
Maybe I'm trying to change too much at
once. But I'm so tired of temporizing and shilly-shallying. I just
want to point the boat in its final direction and row, row till I
drop. Still that deep respiration, under every other sound. And the
years are too short.
2 comments:
Lies, damn lies, statistics.
You get what everyone gets, you get a lifetime.
Every year, those of us in the great North (well, we aren't in Labrador, but it's pretty far up there for the U.S., those in the Pacific like yourself, and me here in the Atlantic, Maine) get fitful and peevish this time of year for all we didn't get done in the past 12 weeks.
I just wanted to let you know I hear you, brother, and I'm glad you're writing about it.
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