It's been too long!  And yet, alas, I have no new material to share.  Well, I suppose technically that's true, that I have no "new" material to share, but I was cleaning out some drawers today and happened upon this little gem that I'd hastily jotted down some months ago and then immediately banished from my mind.  It's cute, in a dark sort of way, and it made me smile, though more urgently it made me question the mood I was in when I wrote it.  What had just happened?  What (on earth) was I thinking?  I cleaned it up a bit - behold, the PG-13 version!

--

If kissing leads to banging,
and drinking leads to drugs,
and most guys lie and cheat you,
and the rest are all thugs,

If daddy's little girl grows up
to turn tricks on the street,
and all the mamma's boys end up,
by life, just getting beat,

If puppies everywhere are put
to sleep or run away,
Then why would anybody bring
a kid into this fray?

--

Right?  What was I thinking! . . . Mighty catchy little sucker though, ain't she?

He thought you were quite attractive. He told Steve so. He wants to know, are you interested?

What a simple question... this would have been, in my early 20's. Of course! I'd answer, without a second thought, a backward glance, a single hesitation. Why not? Because "why not" was the prevailing logic of those days full of endless possibilities, where mystery and romance beckoned around every corner. When I luxuriated in time's inexhaustible supply. I'd never run out of it.

Now, I hesitate. I consider, balance, speculate. Sure, he's nice looking, but what are the odds we have anything in common? What's the chance this could go beyond a first date, a second, a third? What do I even know about him? He's a bartender. And?

What happened? Where did the time go? I used to think that I could stand still. I could move forward, by actively pursuing an agenda of personal growth and development, by working to enrich my mind and my soul. I could move backward, by engaging in all-too-familiar destructive behavioral patterns. Or, I could stand still. After all, what was the harm in acting a bit mindless and carefree from time to time? The bartender and I could have a few laughs, I could score a handful of free meals, and he would probably comp my friends' tabs whenever we came by for drinks. When the fling had run its course, we'd part ways amicably and I'd be available again to meet Mr. Right. But now I see the truth. There's no standing still. If I'm not moving forward, I'm falling desperately behind.

I remember my first semester of law school. I felt pretty good after my exams, and when I got my grades - two B's and one B+ - I breathed a contented sigh. I fell right in the middle of the curve, and that was alright by me. I thought, Just keep doing what you're doing, and you'll be fine. But I was sorely mistaken. While I spent the next four months perpetuating the same study habits I'd employed first semester, my classmates took what they'd learned and improved upon their past behavior. My calculations were all wrong. I'd failed to account for other people. And I'd failed to account for time. So if I'm behaving like I'm 22 when I'm 22, and I'm still behaving like I'm 22 when I turn 28, I haven't stood still for 6 years. Time's marched on, and I have nothing to show for it. I have, in fact, regressed. So, while my classmates who'd earned A's first semester continued to earn A's, and those who'd earned C's now earned B's, my fellow B-earning comrades had moved up in the ranks, leaving me behind. I'd been overlooked, trampled upon, left for dead. I was a casualty of my own ignorance, my own arrogance, and my own indifference to the most valuable and irreplaceable commodity we're given. I'd underestimated the march of time.

I'm moving away, he's staying here. I'm an attorney, he's a bartender. Who knows how many patrons he hits on like this...

We could have a few laughs, but there's no standing still. And I should move forward. I think it's time.

There is so much goddamn beauty in this world. Some of it, much of it - all of it? - born of tremendous suffering and injustice. For instance, how does this strike you? But for the fact that a rapist was allowed to walk free, the stunning masterpiece that is The Pianist would not exist. It would never have been made. Polanski was looking, searching, combing for that story, and only he could unearth it and tell it as he did.

It's not just that. But for the Holocaust, too. Is that haunting? Certainly if we had the choice we would have selected a world devoid of both Pianist and Holocaust. But, at the risk of alienating somebody - everybody - might I posit:  Ought we to consider the cost? And what if we extrapolate? Follow this thread to its logical conclusion? The question, then, is this:  Would we - knowingly, consciously... contentedly? - eradicate the whole of evil at the cost of the whole of beauty? In the end, I suppose it comes down to who's being asked.

But that scene. Where the crippled old man is roused by German soldiers while eating dinner with his family. They order him to stand up. Gently at first. Then louder, brandishing their weapons. And suddenly, it's happening. We know what's coming but only intellectually, because our throbbing hearts won't be convinced by our calculating minds until we've actually seen it done. The soldiers kick away the surrounding furniture, lift the man by his wheelchair, and heave him over the balcony. He falls to his death, his family clinging, frozen, to utensils and mugs. It happened, you whisper, just to hear the words. You have to will yourself to believe it. It happened.

That scene. All at once you think, I can't go on, and then, inevitably, I must.

It was art, born of horror, made possible by a world in which not all men are created equal. In which bad things, permanent things, unspeakable things happen to good people, and riches are heaped upon men with blackened souls.

Yet somehow, it was beautiful. Despite all this? Because of it? Does it matter, in the end?

Say it. It's true. It was beautiful.

Everything always kind of worked out for me, until it didn't.  And that's when I realized that everything doesn't always kind of work out for anybody.  If it seems like everything is always kind of working out then you aren't even trying.  You haven't even started yet.  The real work's all ahead of you.

I have very few regrets in my life, but if I could do it all over again there are hundreds of things I'd do differently.  Some big, some small, some seemingly imperceptible at the time, but turning out to matter in very real ways I would have never - could have never? - then predicted.

Maybe it's tired, or maybe it's tried and true, but whatever it is, here's my version of the "what I wish I knew" existential epistle to my former self.

--

16 Things I Wish I'd Known at 16

16. You can't, in fact, do anything. Your life was never a clean slate. Myriad factors, many beyond your control, some determined before your birth, will limit your potential and determine the course of your future.

15. Time flies. Every year will feel shorter than the last.

14. Your life will become infinitely more complicated than you can imagine, and in ways for which the preparations you're attempting to make are futile.

13. It is necessary but not remotely sufficient simply to desire anything worth having. You will also need diligence, resilience, and patience in abundance.

12. Nobody will ever love you as much as your mother, but she will never be the person you want her to be.

11. Bad people walk among us. Learning to spot them, without letting on that you've done so, is an invaluable skill.

10. You are entitled to nothing. Not even what you've earned.

9. Reputation is exponentially more important than you can now grasp, and keeping it intact is a daily and unceasing effort.

8. Never, ever convince yourself you have it all figured out.  You never, ever will.

7. The only universe you'll ever be the center of is your own.

6. Nobody gets everything they want, and some people get nothing. But the important distinction is between those who tried and those who never did.

5. Nothing will prove more difficult or more paramount than figuring out what makes you the unique being that you are, with the exception of accepting those inevitably difficult truths you will discover about yourself.

4. Even trees that fall in empty forests are heard.

3. When it comes to fulfillment, it's every man for himself.

2. Others will genuinely want what's best for you, but none of them can know what that is.

1. Life is infinitely more beautiful than you can imagine, and in very different ways than you anticipate.

And sometimes it's just darkness. Where do the children play? I can't be sure if it's Yusuf asking or if it's Cat, but it doesn't matter because I don't have an answer for either one. I think Yusuf was much more at peace so it doesn't seem right that such a thing would torment him but maybe he just put on a good face. Will you keep on building higher til there's no more room up there? I think Yusuf found the answers to the questions Cat asked over and over again before realizing that there weren't any. Answers, I mean. Until he realized that he had to be what he was not, he had to become the other, and only then could he breathe easy. In the end it was never about finding a hard-headed woman. Salvation lay, apparently, in an arranged marriage. Who would've thought? Certainly not Cat.

But I was talking about the darkness. In one quick motion the lights are shut off, the curtains are drawn, the sun sets and for a brief terrifying moment that drags for hours and hours it seems as if the darkness is forever. Is this self-indulgence or just simple truth? Is it just me, or is it all quite stultifying? Am I getting tired of the sound of my own voice? Are you?

Sometimes people take things you didn't give, and they just win, simple as that. It doesn't seem fair, but that's what happens when you're naïve, a bit reckless, and follow the rules. Cat knew this, and so he joined a different game. He didn't try to rewrite the rules, he just left. It's courageous as hell, if not revolutionary. Oooh baby baby it's a wild world, it's hard to get by just upon a smile. Ooh baby baby it's a wild world, and I'll always remember you like a child girl. But suddenly I'm offended because I never was a child and anyway it's all his fault.

How does it happen? One minute you're easing comfortably along, nodding in acknowledgement to the familiar boredom, and the next you hardly recognize your own reflection in the mirror. Was your mouth always so drawn, cheeks so sallow, eyes flecked with such dull gray tones?

And why do they dart, from left to right and back again, so many times in the course of such a short space, as if they know? As if they sense him? That intruder with thick eyebrows and shuffling feet, who just now raises his hand to the knocker before thinking better of it and throwing his shoulder with all his weight behind it against the door.

Longer boats are coming to win us, they're coming to win us. Longer boats are coming to win us. Hold on to the shore, they'll be taking the key from the door.

And never the twain shall meet

THE DREAM:  It's different each time.  This time we're in bed.  It's dark and he's lying next to me on his side, facing me.  I'm lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling, unable to believe he's actually here with me, in my apartment, in my bed.  I smile at nothing, at the walls, at the air.  I whisper, I love you.  He says nothing, but climbs over me and out of the bed and walks to the floor lamp and switches it on.  I don't dare look at him, I just lie there waiting for I don't know what.  He returns to me, to the bed, and sits on the edge of it.  He looks me dead in the eye and pushes the hair out of my face.  Say it again, he says, not yet smiling, but ready should I coax him into it.  I finally look up at him, my heart pounding.  I love you, I say again.  I love you, too, he responds, and before the elation swallows me whole I wake up.  I'm grinning, weightless, free.

THE REALITY:  You watch too many movies, he says.  I'm standing in his office, a few feet from his desk, facing him askew, arms crossed.  It's all wrong, I think.  We're both smiling, but for different reasons.  I'm just happy to be near him.  He, I imagine, is incredulous of my hyper-idealistic notions of romantic love.  I'm merely content to be talking to him about romantic love, about anything at all.  He looks at his watch.  I don't know, I say, desperately trying to buy some time, just a few moments more.  Relationships are hard.  He laughs.  You're telling me, he says, referring implicitly to his girlfriend of eight years, now his fiancee.  I watch him deftly switch off his computer monitor, gather his things.  But you're a veteran! I sputter.  Again, I get a laugh.  That laugh.  So goofy yet entirely self-assured.  I wake up mornings hearing it.  Hardly, he replies.  I'm still learning every day.  I follow him as he gets up, exits his office, walks into the hall.  The passing of time is palpable now.  I'm increasingly conscious that each moment brings me closer to the long stretch of evening I'll have to pass without him.  I fumble for a show-stopper.  So what keeps you there?  What makes you stay?  It's a bold query, but I think I've got him.  He stops.  Turns back to me.  Looks directly into my face.  That's a question without a single answer, he says, after a minute.  It's not one thing, it's several.  Little things.  A lot of them.  He turns back and ambles toward the exit.  I've lost him.  I stand paralyzed for a moment, unable to formulate a retort.  Wait, a retort?  When did this become an argument?  To be continued? I call airily after him, but he doesn't hear me.  The door's already shut behind him.  I stare after him, but not for long.  My feet feel rooted in the ground, and I'm forced to concentrate hard to return to my office.  I sink into my chair, glowering, weary, trapped.

On The End of the Affair, or "My Love Letter to Deborah Kerr"

I just love Deborah Kerr.  Her grace, her elegance.  She always plays a captivating sensual creature with a palpably guarded depth and a haltingly sarcastic wit, though we certainly see the latter more in An Affair to Remember.  There's a dream-like quality about her, and a dream-inducing quality to watching her.  She wears her sadness - or is it her religion? - like a heavy cloak, it envelops her, wraps neatly around her shoulders.  She is loveliness personified.