I write because I live.
It takes a special sort of optimism to bring children into the world, particularly in times of trouble. The more educated you are, the more you know about the world at large and the forces crashing around it like icebergs speckled with political lice, the more daunting it is to try and project for the future. My parents started with me and my siblings in the early 1980’s, so they didn’t have the Internet to feed them a constant flow of doom and contrast, but since both of them had had parents with military and intelligence backgrounds reaching back to the second world war, they had enough to go on to know that the world at large was neither safe, nor sound, and that interesting times were ahead.
Through Cracks in the Sidewalk
October is not a friendly month to be outside. Not, at least, in the city. Ask anyone, and they’ll tell you that sitting on cold concrete is not a pleasant thing to do, but any normal person doesn’t do it for all that long: to really understand the cold you have to be sitting behind a little sign that sums your existence up with pleading black sharpie on the inside of a liquor box. You needed your spine up against the unyielding, spiritless rock, and your tailbone parked uncomfortably on a fold in your jeans, trying to find some variety in the numbness that a thin nylon sleeping bag won’t provide. The real cold doesn’t kick in until you don’t have an option to get away from it, and it takes on that broody, seductive whisper telling you that it’s here for you now, that it will hold you while you fall asleep if you let it, and if you wake up, it will be there waiting.