It’s been a year. and a half…

It’s like time is a bandit, and it ransacked my house and stuffed all my happiness in one of those bags with a dollar sign on it, only I guess it would be that yellow smiley face instead of a dollar sign, and it’s running. Time is. Time is running with my happiness in a bag, it’s running away from me. And it tosses out bits of memories at me, so I have to deal with knowing that I didn’t appreciate the good things I had when I had them. Music is in cahoots with time, I’m convinced. It serves as a scrapbook. Heaping regret and nostalgia and longing on you. Sometimes when a song is perfect to underscore a moment you have to ask yourself, “do I really want to ruin this song for fucking ever?” And Facebook. Come on. Timeline happened so that people could more easily see how much greater two years ago was. Mark Zuckerberg isn’t a genius, he’s a sadist. He ruined the world. Does he get that? He ruined the world. Sure I’ve reconnected with hundreds of friends from my past, but at what cost. At what cost.

Time doesn’t seem like a thing until you catch up to it a bit and see how much it’s been passing you by.

My vagina doesn’t look like it used to. My boobs are different. My hair is turning gray. Sometimes my fucking knee hurts. My knee. It just fucking hurts for no goddamn reason.

And 5 years from now, I’m going to be nostalgic for my now-vagina and my now-boobs, and my now-hair. And my knee will hurt worse.

The times I smell the best or feel the softest or sing the prettiest… are when I’m alone and it’s like… come the fuck on. Really? Everyone missed this.

All time has taught me is that my heart is an idiot, we should be better to our good moments, and my period makes me insane (though time being the brain rapist that it is, I’ll probably even miss that when it’s gone.)

On Empathy

I work at a convenience store. Let’s get that out of the way.

I also live in a small, isolated community in the Rocky Mountains, so the cast of characters is recurring. Many are cordial, if not quirky.

As an example of one of the “good ones,” one man comes in to use the soda fountain about twice per day, every day. He looks like Squeak from BASEketball if you add a lazy eye and twenty or thirty years. He’s always friendly, always polite, always laughs at my cheesy banter. He’s so soft-spoken, I have a hard time hearing him, but he usually asks me if I’m staying out of trouble. I try to have a sarcastic response ready.

Most people, if they’re not good, they’re at least acceptable.

A lot of people—not most people, but a lot of people, and certainly too many people—suck so much ass.

Take the woman who wanted Marlboro Lights a pack of Marlboro Gold. Most people, who can be forgiven for neglecting to smile or say hello at the outset of this categorically human-to-human interaction, simply state the addictive life-hastener they’d prefer to purchase, and in exchange for reasonable proof of age and money in an acceptable tender, I provide their requested product.

This woman, however, was short on money. She wasn’t, however, short on theatrics. The following is an excerpt from her one-woman show, entitled Marlboro Lights are the Only Smokes for Me:

Oh my God. It’s been such a terrible day. Oh my God. Can I please, please get a pack of Marlboro Lights? Oh God I hope I have enough money. My ex-husband took everything from me; I just need some cigarettes. I’m so sorry. I’m just going through a really horrible divorce right now. My ex-husband is such an asshole. Today I found out that he was stalking me. Yeah, I caught him outside my house with this giant camera. It’s like, what the fuck, you know? I just need my cigarettes. It’s just been such a hard journey for me. What’s that? My card was declined because I only have, like, five dollars? (aside to audience) I already knew that. (winks) (to cashier) Oh if only someone would pay for my Marlboro Lights on this, the worst day of my life. No other brand will do it for me. My nerves are wild horses that will only be broken by the snap of the finest cancer sticks… What? You are not moved to pity? You won’t front the extra two dollars for my preferred brand of cigarettes, even as I am nearing emotional collapse? Well that sucks. (exeunt)

She left, only to come back with scant change she gathered from patrons in the parking lot. It still wasn’t enough. She left indignant and worked up.

Why did I share this person with you, and not, say, the three drunk college bros who crammed into our bathroom to piss all over the toilet together? Because I’m not supposed to feel empathy for drunk bros who piss all over someone’s bathroom just for fun. Instead, I’ll secretly hope that homophobic comments on their Facebook’s party photos come back to haunt them when they try to get jobs as high school gym teachers. I’m supposed to empathize with people with real problems.

The problem with problems is everyone has them. And problems aren’t all equal. Some are unavoidable; others we seem to create for ourselves whether we realize it or not. Frankly put, some of us have easier lives than others—and some of us deal with life better than others.

Knowing that, how am I supposed to feel about the middle-aged woman begging me for her favorite brand of cigarettes? Obviously I’m in no position to help her out or even care about her personal life, seeing as I don’t know her, and I’m only paid to sell things to customers, not buy things for customers. Still, should I feel bad for her? (I don’t, honestly.)

There’s a nice woman who comes in fairly regularly. Always smiles, always greets me. One day I noticed she was missing her right index finger. It even took me a couple encounters and over-the-counter, hand-to-hand transactions for me to realize this. You could call me unobservant, but I tend to collect details like that in my scrapbook head. (To be sure, it’s an eclectic scrapbook head, but it’s got a lot of stuff in it.) And while it’s pretty well acknowledged now that she’s missing her finger, we’ve never discussed it. She’s never opined at the difficulty of getting her wallet out or wishing to smoke with her preferred fingers. It’s a “problem” she has, and I’m reluctant to call it that because she’s probably figured out how to work with it by now—if you figure out a problem, you can’t really call it a problem anymore.

In a way, that makes her more like me: here is someone with an idiosyncrasy—an abnormality, a problem—and she’s dealing with it. I can empathize with someone like that. I also have problems that I deal with, and because I deal with problems myself, I can empathize. It’s as if attending to your own problems is a way of preemptively empathizing with others.

I can’t empathize with someone who would beg for a pricier brand of smokes. Or someone who would shoot up heroin in a convenience store bathroom then try to start a fight with an employee. Or a 22-year-old who gets upset when I ask for his ID. Or a single guy who goes to swingers parties (seriously, you don’t go to a potluck with no casserole). Basically, I can’t empathize with someone who has no empathy.

Empathy is being honest with yourself. It’s realizing that if you were raised in the Bronx instead of Boston, you’d most likely be a Yankees fan instead of a Red Sox fan. It’s knowing that if one tiny area of your brain ended up being just a little tinier, you might be working in a meat packing plant instead of an advertising agency. If your skin were a different color, you’d probably feel completely differently about politics, religion, music, clothing, food, or even the right height of trees. Had circumstances changed just a little bit for you—had biology flipped just one switch, or had fate loosened one bolt—you’d still be the same person, but completely different.

Given the nearly infinite possibilities for interruption and individualization, imagine how many people there are in the world who are, independent from circumstance, just like you—who are, in a word, human.

Remember that the next time you treat a convenience store employee like an obstacle to the rest of your day. It’ll be appreciated.

Why Being A Vegetarian Makes Me A Better Person (Than You)

Not really.

Almost a year ago, I spent a couple days with some friends at their family’s mountain cabin. As you would expect, most of the food was meaty in nature and roasted over fire. Problem? Not for a well-prepared vegetarian such as myself. I was stocked with faux dogs and hmm-burgers to more than sustain me for the short duration.

Wow, you’re still reading? Not turned off by the V-word and the inevitable holier-than-thou, animals=people diatribe? You must be related to me and therefore willing to endure a few hundred words of my snarkiness. Thanks, mom.

Anyway, when I presented these suggestibly-similar-to-actual-meat food-things to my friends’ parents to… cook?… the standard questions came in.

QUESTION THE FIRST: HOW LONG HATH YE BEEN A VEGEMATARIANIST?

This is always the first question. Whether it’s intended or not, I infer from the interrogator, “How serious are you about this crap?” or, “Are you some hippie flake who saw a video last week about a turkey’s true feelings? Will you cry if I ask you about it?”

I guess it’s getting pretty serious: coming up on four years meat-free. Which leads me to the next question.

QUESTION TWO: SO DO YOU EAT CHICKEN?

Chickens are animals, so (checking the rule book…) no.

QUESTION THREE: WHAT ABOUT FISH?

Only the rapists and murderers. Just kidding. No.

QUESTION FOUR: DO YOU EAT EGGS?

Now this is usually where some wise guys try to trap me. You see, some people (mostly males) seem to think that when they buy a dozen eggs and don’t eat them by the expiration date, they run the risk of one day looking in the fridge and finding hatched and chirping baby chicks. Ipso facto, I’m killing unborn baby chickens to make my omelette. What a surprising number of people (again, mostly males) don’t realize is that eggs aren’t always fertilized—what you’re eating is not a scrambled chicken fetus. You’re eating an egg. My response to the egg wise guys is usually this question: when you jerk off, does the gratification of committing genocide bring you to climax?

Think about it.

REACTION: WELL GOOD FOR YOU.

Or something. Maybe a good-natured ribbing, something like, “Will u b mad at me 4 eatin a cheezburger lolz?” And that’s usually when I get the opportunity to explain that  I really, really don’t care what you eat. I have my personal beliefs, and everyone else has everyone else’s. Sure, I believe in certain universal human rights, such as the right to free speech and the right to representative governance, but within those beliefs, I think we’re all allotted our own personal beliefs, such as whether it’s appropriate to surgically remove the tip of a penis, whether it’s appropriate to wear a protective tip on a penis, or where it’s acceptable for the tip of a penis to penetrate.

When I had made sure that my friends’ parents were properly prepped for grilling my consumables, I went back to the circle around the soon-to-be-assembled bonfire and made a revelatory statement:

“Being a vegetarian is the closest thing I have to a religion.”

“How so?” someone probably asked more or less.

“It’s the most irrational thing I believe.”

“Irrational” in the sense that I constantly have to explain what it means, justify why I do it (I honestly hate telling people I just feel bad for the animals), and practice it despite knowing full well how delicious meat is and how dumb animals are. It’s a moral choice, and I must acknowledge that it’s a choice I’ve made apart from other people—meaning no one can be held to my own unique standards but me. No judging people for eating steak. No getting upset at parties where there are no meatless options. No being offended by people who make fun of me, even if they wouldn’t award me the same comedic leisure. There is no victory or justice (other than the prospect of karma) for people who simply live up to their own morals.

That being said, you’re all terrible people, and PETA is never wrong about anything ever. Isn’t that what you wanted me to say?

Dear Snoring

What made you?

To me, you’re the sonic representation of the GOP: A repetitive nuisance without rhythm, an unprovoked invader of bedrooms. You deny women their right to choose sleep. You don’t support universal health-care.

You’re a thousand times everything I hate.

You are a thousand babies crying.

You are a thousand 12 Days of Christmases

You are a thousand shrill midwestern voices saying “irregardless”

I hate that I can’t stop you without hurting someone I love, or at least like enough to be trying to sleep next to.

I hate that you’re a thing at all. Why are you a thing that exists? Where is your mother?

She should be ashamed.

Once and for All, Religion

What it comes down to is, we don’t know what happens when we die. What we know ends, and something unknown begins. And that unknown something might be a nothing. We’d like for it to be a something, though. The problem is that there’s absolutely no reliable assurance from anyone that the unknown will be anything, which tips all the evidence (or lack thereof) in favor of death with no dessert.

That’s a very hard assertion to accept. Especially when we grow up hearing that the afterlife’s cheesecake is to die for.

My own struggle hasn’t been the grand dilemma of either believing in something or presuming nothing. Rather, I’ve had the most difficulty understanding why it’s important.

And that’s where I cause contention. Not to know what happens after we die, wouldn’t life be meaningless?

Well, maybe.

So what would stop us from doing terrible things to each other if life were meaningless?

Nothing, I guess. What stops us when we have meaning?

It’s a fair criticism to note that I’m young, and mortality (particularly my own) hasn’t yet given me pause. Maybe the inevitability of death hasn’t occurred to everyone my age, but without going into too much personal detail, I’ve considered the consequences of death and have even thought I wanted to die. And when I thought about what might happen if I died, the only thing I knew for sure was that it would be different—most likely different for me, but indubitably different for everyone who knows me.

So, without knowing what comes after death, without knowing what comes before birth, without knowing life’s meaning—the one definitive shred of accessible cosmic rationality that I currently know of is this: some other people would be sad if I died. So as long as I can help it, I’ll try not to die.

***

Above the break is what matters. Here’s what doesn’t:

• God(s)
• Bible(s)
• Da Vinci Codes
• Jesus
• Mohammed
• Pictures of Mohammed
• Heaven
• Hell
• Satan
• Angels
• Demons
• Et Cetera, Ad Infinitum, Ipso Facto, Carpe Diem

Regardless of whether or not you believe in any of those things, evolution almost certainly happened/is happening, the universe is a few billion years old, the earth is nearly spherical, the earth revolves around the sun, and gay people can’t help it. These things are nonnegotiable, even though that’s a pointless statement when bounced off those still invested in ancient fables and fairy tales.

Other than that, I think I’ll stop short of telling you you’re wrong. But with seven billion breathing opinions, what makes yours the right one? We’re all standing on the same speck of dust—do you really think you were given the unique power to make out even one more faint star than the rest of us? I can’t prove you wrong, but be weary of the kind of confidence that proves everyone else wrong.

***

God, religion, faith—it doesn’t matter to me. Frankly, I wish it would go away. All I know is no one wants to die and disappear. Sometimes, we kill each other just to live forever. And of course heaven must be perfect when we get there. I wonder if we’d settle for anything less. What if eternity were just slightly duller than life? Would we be content just to go somewhere after we die, or do we want it to be just right, with the exact right religion and the exact right admission requirements? I’m reluctant to make my friends and family sad when I go, but maybe it would be easier if they knew I was going to some other place. Not necessarily a better place. Some other place.

Knowledge is all we want. Knowledge is a real, comprehendible thing, and when it’s attainable, we are instinctively inclined to seek it out. The tragic joke is that we tend to assume all knowledge is attainable. Do you see the gap between what we know and what we seek to know? It’s the space between two infinities, and you want to fill it with a three-letter word? I won’t stop you from trying.

Maybe next time when your thoughts turn fretful over mortality, think about what you know—think about the world that would continue to exist after you’re gone. If we’re honest with ourselves, that’s all we have to work with right now, and we’d be a bit foolish to use it as a dress rehearsal for a play that might never open.

I am a person. Everyone else, merely people.

I used to go to the park with my friend Erik and make up stories about people we saw.

Bob likes to go fishing when it’s cold out. His wife is dead, and he’s all alone.

Tina and Greg have been married for ten years. They go on walks and talk about what they would name their baby if they ever have one.

Ryan and Erik are snoopy little bastards with binoculars and too much time on their hands.

I think it’s called “people watching”—as if people are always on display for your amusement and you yourself are immune to becoming someone else’s observational plaything. As if you’re the only one with a human conscience, wondering what the hell Bob is doing fishing in this weather.

But that’s how you tend to see the world when you’re a teenager: a watcher, invisible—important and perspicacious but never properly acknowledged as such.

And then you grow up, and you’re still an idiot.

For instance, I work at a popular convenience store. Most days, I end up seeing several hundred people come in and out of the store. Some of them expect me to remember them. Sometimes I do.

There’s the old fat guy who comes in and microwaves his meals every day. Doesn’t buy anything—just microwaves food he bought somewhere else for cheaper. One day, he microwaved the piss out of some chicken and nacho cheese, and, with mysterious accuracy, it recreated the smell of someone vomiting all over my family’s Chevy Astro. Then he joyfully departs with a hearty “haveagoodun,” and we still have to sell taquitos somehow. And the other day, he microwaved fish.

I saw him sitting in his pickup truck in the grocery store parking lot most recently. He was just sitting there, reading the paper. I don’t know his name. I don’t know if he has a job or a family or even a house. For all I know, he’s a millionaire. But it took him years of fiscal discipline to earn that one million dollars. He lived in his truck for years, never married, never had kids. He slaved away at the cheese factory, where his olfactory senses gradually dulled. He saved every penny by buying cheap lunch meat at the grocery store then heating it at free microwaves in convenience stores. And just days ago, he retired. He bought a shiny house up in the mountains, fully furnished with a brand new microwave. The house smells great, but he wouldn’t know it.

But it’s hard to break from routine. It’s hard to sit in a shiny house in the mountains all day when you’ve spent your whole life toiling in the valley. So instead of the Schwan’s-delivered lunch meats that stack up in his fridge, he buys the cheap meat at the grocery store deli. And instead of using his chef-quality, precision-heating microwave of tomorrow at home, he prefers the dirty, overused microwave of yesterday at the local convenience store—if only to stop by and say “haveagoodun” to the friendly employees who tolerate his smelly cuisine. Then, instead of sitting in his brand-new orthopedic chair, he sits in the parking lot of the grocery store to read the local newspaper, just so he can sit and watch the curious-looking people walk by.

But I might be getting ahead of myself.

Still mourning the Philadelphia Phillies

The Philadelphia Phillies season ended 20 days ago. I am still depressed about it. And when I say depressed about it, I don’t mean depressed as in “I feel bad if I think about the Philadelphia Phillies.” I mean depressed as in, “My entire life seems to be shrouded in some ominous cloud, and all things that were once good and luminous are blunted and dulled by some ennui.” The only comparable pain is the unexpected end of a relationship - a good, long lasting relationship. For those of you who have experienced this, it’s a very distinct pain - a deep wound or chasm that possesses a gravitational field strong enough to swallow everything in your life. This is how I feel, 20 days after the Philadelphia Phillies lost 1-0 to the St. Louis Cardinals in Game 5 of the National League Division Series. Like a girl I love has broken up with me.

For those unfamiliar with baseball, the Phillies are, obviously, the baseball team in Philadelphia. They’ve been on a very unusual and sustained run of success these last few seasons. They’ve won 5 straight division titles. They’ve even won a World Series, back in 2008. All this winning is foreign to Philadelphians, and Phillies fans in particular. The Phillies have lost more games - well over 10,000 - than any professional sports team in the entire fucking world. We expect them to lose. This expectation has made this whole run of success all the more enjoyable.

Even amidst all that success, this season seemed destined to be different, more remarkable, the season of all baseball seasons. The Phillies steam rolled through the spring, summer, and early autumn. They won a franchise record 102 games. They won buoyed by an historically good pitching staff, a staff built around home grown ace Cole Hames, best-pitcher-of-his-generation Roy Halladay, and the deeply beloved Cliff Lee (why is Cliff so beloved, you ask? Because he returned to Philly even after we traded him, spurning a larger contract from New York.)

On the offensive side of the field, the Phils were led by a troika of aging, but still dangerous stars - Chase Utley, Ryan Howard, and Jimmy Rollins. Although the pitching garnered most of the praise, Chase, Ryan and Jimmy are the proverbial heart of the team. Each player was drafted by the Phillies and has worn a Phillies uniform his entire career. They are our guys. We watched them develop, we watched them grow, we watched them become some of the best players in baseball.

The feeling in Philadelphia was inevitable: The Phillies were going to win the World Series. We were too good not to.

And then we didn’t. And we lost the final game at home, with Roy Halladay on the mound. I wasn’t the only person sent in a cataclysmic depression. Five days after the loss, the Philadelphia Daily News ran a 3 page cover story that was - I shit you not - an actual interview with an actual psychologist instructing people on how to get over the Phillies loss. Multiple friends of mine continued to call me for weeks after the game, re-hashing details, lamenting a lost opportunity, talking about how empty and hurt they still felt.

From the outside looking in, this must seem ridiculous. Hell, from the inside it seems a little ridiculous. It’s only baseball, after all. Why are we so affected by it? I can only speak for myself. I love the Phillies, and I don’t entirely know why.

I wasn’t even born in Philadelphia. I adopted the Phillies when I moved out here in the summer of 2000 as a way to feel more rooted in my new home. My love for them grew as the aforemention players - Jimmy, then Chase, then Ryan and Cole - developed into better players and transformed the team from mediocre underachievers into one of the finest teams in baseball. As Philly felt more and more like home, instead of just a place I was living, the Phillies became the embodiment of that newfound pride. All my friends loved them, too. And when we all dispersed during, and then after, college, the Phillies became a bond that tied us together despite geographic distance. We called each other to discuss games. We re-united for the most important games. The Phillies were, and are, the major subtext of almost all my male friendships. Lastly, this particular team has endeared itself to the city in an extraordinary way. Not only did they finally win us a title, but they’ve also been extremely active in the community. That activism is rooted in the same place as our love for them - a deep and abiding affection for our city. They haven’t just played here, they’ve lived here and fallen in love, and they’ve given back. Because of this, we feel like we know them. When speaking of the team, everyone I know refers to the Phillies not as a ‘them’ but as a ‘we.’ We refer to all the players by their first names, as if they’re long time friends. A big part of this familiarity is the nature of baseball - the seasons are so long and monotonous, that the game becomes a part of your natural rhythms. You watch the game after dinner while doing dishes. You listen to it on the radio while reading. And night after night, you spend three hours with guys that you feel you know, guys that you want desperately to win because they love the same city as you.

So when they don’t win, it hurts. It hurts in a stunningly deep and long lasting way. And yes, it’s ridiculous. It’s a game, after all. There are wars and famines and genocides, and I’m upset over a game? Preposterous, I know. But I can’t help it. I love the Phillies as much as I love some of my closest friends - and none of my friends would be hurt by that sentiment, they would echo it. And I love them becase they tie me together with those very friends, because they bond me to an entire city. When the Phillies won the World Series in 2008, I was downtown. I hugged more people that night than I’ve probably hugged in my entire life - nearly all of them strangers. It was, unequivocally, one of the greatest nights of my life. I hugged thousands of strange people and we shut down the streets of our city and we sang at the tops of our lungs until three in the morning. Is it ridiculous that it takes a sporting event to rouse such passion, such unity? Absolutely. But  anything that can cause so many people so much joy can’t possibly be a bad thing. So yes, I’m still mourning the Philadelphia Phillies. And I will be for a long time. Why? Because I love them.

A Rambly Ode to Bloomington (IN)

It was recently noted of me that memories have an unusually strong pull on my emotions. And it’s true—a memory can touch me like a hot spike.

For instance, right now I’m thinking about a deer I saw on the campus of Indiana University in the middle of the night. The deer and I were alone for the most part, and he/she allowed me to get within fifteen-or-so yards. I was alone because everyone else was sleeping, and I couldn’t. The deer was alone because deer don’t go on campus. We both seemed to be in a place we didn’t belong, and I made a note of it, which is why I remember it now.

When I remember such things, my impulse is to relive it. And that’s when the aching starts. It’s a nostalgia at first, then a sadness—a realization that no matter how badly I want the past, I have to sell it to buy the future. It’s gone. Irretrievable. Nonrefundable. Some days, I want to walk around that empty campus again. I want to sit and read in the Union while a homeless woman naps on a couch. I want to run laps on the dark gravel track around the soccer fields. I want to rent an early John Waters movie from Plan 9 and eat too much pizza. Sometimes, I even want to be lonely again.

Why? Why do I want to be lonely again? What did being lonely give me that having friends doesn’t give me?

It’s possible that I happened to be lonely in a place that was really nice to live. If I lived in heaven but had no friends (which isn’t out of the question considering the character of some of my friends), would I stay sane? I’d probably love heaven at first and feel really fortunate to be there. I’d soak in all of the beauty and diversion. I’d take long walks and explore every magical corner, with every day lending the potential for adventure if only I’m willing to snatch it up. But as time would pass, I’d start to notice that none of the souls have a face for me. I’d become desperate and confused. I’d start to feel like I was put there, in heaven, by mistake. I wouldn’t know where I belong anymore. So I’d start taking long walks in the dark when all the blessed souls rest their faceless heads. And I’d see a deer—a deer far from his/her own home, avoiding my advance, but perhaps comforted by the scent of my own feelings of displacement. Or unplacement. And I would remember that moment after I fall from heaven and land on my feet—as if I’m supposed to keep moving after all that.

I am distrustful of memory. It strikes me as odd, that a recollected image, scent, phrase or sound can have such a soul shaking mood enhancing or destroying effect.It also has a habit a deserting you at opportune moments.

 Unsettling. In Marcel proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu, he describes the profound effect that the scent of a Madeleine has upon his person and the instant journey it takes him on:

And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea.

Now Mr Proust, I may not put it in exactly as lah-de-dah terms as your good self, but I know what you mean. I only need to see someone, slide forward on icy ground and  I am instantly taken back to being seven. My mother has locked the front door and is about to walk me down to school. We’re a bit late, so she gets a move on , starts to shovel on the coal, to use horse racing parlance. She skips down the path, rounds the corner and bang. But that doesn’t do it justice. Just consider the sheer ballet involved.  Her leading right foot goes down, solidly enough and just as she’s about to bring her left down to make a bit of progress…her right slides forward, maliciously. Before long the added impetus brought about by bringing the left into play has sped up the recalcitrant right’s illicit path along the deck. By now, my mother has recognised that something is wrong, that there is something is rotten in the state of Denmark, that there is treachery afoot, if you’ll excuse the pun, and a look of panic has taken over her face. But mum, I’m afraid it is too late. There is nothing you can do now. The left joins the right, and together they both skid merrily forward until the pivot is exahusted and the continue their journey into the air. For one brief glorious yet fleeting moment my dear old mum is lying down, flat, in mid air. But then, she becomes yet another victory for gravity, another scalp of Newton’s. And I laugh. Like I’ve never laughed before. And that is exactly how I’m laughing now. And how I sometimes find myself laughing alone in the street or occasionally in meetings at work when I really should be being concerned by the parlous state of the government or some other such trifle. Involuntary memory. How strange.