THE MOOSE HEAD

Dreamed of Valkenswaard where I used to live last night. Not a particularly pleasant dream. High school. Which were the years when we became sort of adults, but not wise. The world seemed more open, but was still opaque. I left there when I was eightteen, and have fairly regularly looked back.

Less than ten years after that I was swilling lattes and cappuccinos in North Beach, reading books in the basement of City Lights, and developing a distaste for the Beat Poets.

That, too, was an era of change.


I am not happy with some of my past selves. In hindsight, we human beings take too long to develop. And the organism is too fallible to be a reliable vessel for all of that. But at that age one still thinks that one will live forever, limitations are temporary and unclear, and the future seems endless


Growth has not stopped, the process continues. I don't really like the person I was one or two decades ago. Hindsight is clearer than it ever was, and there is far more of it. Two constants in the past, tools for shimmering remembrance, are tastes and smells, which bring back whisps from long ago.

PETRICHOR

Yesterday Hector said something which brought back in my mind's eye and ear an entire episode of Fawlty Towers, which was a short British comedy series with many extremely painful moments if one felt for the main character.

Having heard my own voice in recordings recently, I can identify with him.
Also with The Major, retired British colonial service.

Also, some frightful English food.


Horrors of the past.



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