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Tell me your story.

December 6, 2015

Photo on 2-9-15 at 8.56 AM

December 6, 2015

My ideal story would go something like this:  A boy grew to be the child of enlightened parents who knew how to help him develop his finest, most human, qualities:  intelligence, scholarship, physical strength, wisdom, kindness, grace, friendliness, good will, courage, loyalty, and a sense of humor.  His attributes were many more than that.

Then when he was about 14 he entered puberty and he was attracted to the girls his age.  He masturbated often.  He had embarrassing erections, but his parents counseled him to apply himself to his studies and athletics.

Were they crazy?  They must have been.  He joined his peers in the pleasures of the flesh:  alcohol, marijuana, loud thunderous music, sexual adventures, rebellion, freedom.  His parents no longer approved of his doings.  Hell, they didn’t know his doings. Not a clue.

Lost and on his own, he joined the circus to make his way in the world.  Circus life was harsh.  A man he worked for boasted of shooting vulnerable people.  After being arrested for stealing food, he found out that the girl he loved had run away with another.  He felt depressed.

Sad, in jail, broken, alone.  Then homeless.  The lesson for him was that the street is a strict master.  He learned the street rules.

Bit by bit, his personhood returned.  He found succor in the folk magic, available to everyone, practiced by the homeless people of his day.  He learned to eat at the Rescue Mission, to sleep in doorways, to keep his possessions in a shopping cart that he parked in front of the doorway, like a gate to protect himself.  Death was no longer a stranger; he witnessed a man get his throat slit by a coward who was afraid to ask for money.  This memory gave him nightmares and fits of tearfulness.  For years to come.

Eventually love and life returned to this brave soul.  Although he wanted to return to the life of debauchery, he could not.  Instead, he became a parent, then a grandparent to a 16-year-old lover of other 16-year-olds.  The beat goes on.

That is a version of my ideal story.

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