Shedding light on the various and sundry.  Image copyright Bianca Dorso

There are times when I pause to consider all that is going on in the world, all the wonderful opportunities that exist to learn and grow, to be of service and assistance to my fellow man, and at the same time all I can think is that it's all too much and what I really need is some peace and quiet to collect my thoughts.  I don't actually know what collecting my thoughts looks like, you understand, as either an activity or a final product, but I think it would be immensely helpful.  Then I'm distracted by some bright and shiny object and my attention is directed elsewhere, and life goes on.

Speaking of people who have actually used their time and energy wisely, please note that the very talented and adorable Christopher Rice  will be reading from his new book "Blind Fall" next Tuesday (details in the link) here in town.

On the art front, I encourage all of you to visit the exhibition of new work by the also very talented and equally adorable Aaron Smith at the Koplin Del Rio Gallery in Culver City (details in link).  

Regarding my recent discovery of a fellow traveler who hails from Fremont, Ohio, and my memory retrieval of that time and place, (details in a previous post) my sister wrote to me the other day:  "I am surprised," she began, "that you don't remember more."  She then proceeded to recount her own recollections.  It was a remarkably short list, culminating with "standing in the aisle of the school bus holding a violin case."

Both of us being musically inclined, at least as far as taking lessons was concerned, I was the one, however, who frequently failed to make it to the bus stop in time, leaving my father no option but to drive me into town instead, after leaving my younger sibling to brave that ride on her own.  I can see her clearly now, struggling in a precarious balancing act of book satchel, gym bag, lunch box and the infernal violin and darting looks at the insolent rural youth seated around her, while praying a pot-hole doesn't wipe her out on that rutted country road.

I should have been there to protect her.  Sadly, however, my talents as a a big brother were dubious at best.  It was every man for himself in my book at the time and in the selfish spirit of budding adolescence.  Children are cruel creatures, in my experience.  Self-interested to the point of exclusion of everyone and everything else.  Compassion is a grown-up thing. 

In my dotage I try to get out of myself, of course, and find interest in what the rest of you are up to. [Tell me everything!]  But I am not surprised by how much I've blocked from those years in Ohio.  Oh sure, I was doing the best I could, I was just a kid, and a delicate, sensitive and musically inclined one to boot, but in retrospect I wish I'd done more.  Did I toss my poor sister to the wolves?  Then I try to imagine what that brutish, loud-mouthed throng of farm boys would have done to me on that bus ride, given the chance, given what they were capable of when they did manage to get their hands on me...

The horror, I think.  The horror.