The Act

Never trust a god who’s broke.



If, at certain times you can’t “go it alone,” I’m not at all sure you can ultimately “go it” at all.



The other night, I heard this City guy whine, “My life has been not unlike a toll booth with my best ideas and loved ones reduced to catching quarters in their mouths, and me struggling to keep New Jersey on my right, and at bay.”  His southern cousin chimed in, “Know how you feel, say, I know how you feel.  At times Alabama completely overruns my front yard and highest ideals.”  And from a distant coast, a distant aunt added, “I know, tell me about it while I suffer tremors in my vineyards and valleys.  But in my steely resolve I no longer worry about slipping into the sea; my fear now is of slipping into me.”



In the City, things remembered and things discussed are always things unfinished.



And always remember:

It’s ALL an act.  (And for god’s sake don’t make me define “all.”)