I'm back

(I am back. The interweb was down at home and I was dashing quickly to the library to check the email. Not fun when you are in escrow, but it's done now. We have a house.)

OK, not that I would ever do it. But after the last couple months I completely understand why people run away from their lives. Just fill a single bag, grab a little cash and head to the Greyhound Station. You stare straight at the tired old guy behind the counter. You are tempted to pile your money on the counter and say, "how far will this get me?" But you don't want to be remembered. So instead, you glance at the board to see what's leaving soonest. San Antonio. OK, new life begins in San Antonio.
On the bus you deliberately sit next to someone who doesn't look all that well. You're hoping he expires en route and you can lift his wallet and identity. This doesn't happen. Instead you hear stories about all the dry wall he's hung in his life and a daughter who only calls when she needs money. You forget the details moments after he says them. But the raspy quality of his voice stays with you.
The San Antonio you arrive in isn't actually today's San Antonio. It's the San Antonio of the 1950's. Which is important because you are able to get a tiny apartment and a job without showing i.d.
The landlady and the folks at the diner know you as "Joe" because it's the most generic name you could think of. You love the lunch rush because it gets busy and there's no time to think.
You hate getting a beer with the waitresses after your shift because all they can talk about is the customers they just served.
It doesn't take long before you wake up in the night and say: "Texas? In the 1950'? That's all you could come up with?"
And it hits you that although you went back in time, your body actually got older. And you're a sixty two year old guy living over a vacuum repair shop. You work right across the street making tuna melts and salads of ice berg lettuce.
You check your pockets. You still have the bus ticket dated fifty three years in the future. Maybe, if you hurry, it can be undone.

I swear

I swear, once we have the keys in hand, I will be better about posting.

Morphing

I've been thinking a lot lately about change and transformation. About how we shed and don different roles throughout our lives.
I suspect -- or I guess more accurately I should say, I hope -- that my very final role in life will be a colorful local eccentric. Kind of a wizzened cross between Linda Hunt, Truman Capote and Oscar Wilde. A kindly old uncle given to long winded anecdotes and occasional inappropriate public behavior (both exacerbated by drink.) I'll probably carry a walking stick. Often greatly loved, sometimes merely tolerated.
But here's the thing, I have at least one, and probably two or three personas to go through before getting there. And I haven't a clue what they are.
If it's clear to everyone but me, and you know the answer, please let me know!