Pulse.

It’s a funny thing, someone frozen in time...born and raised in those decades that we read about as children, with WWII and Sputnik and rock n roll, coming of age in the decades of social change at the perfect time, having a family as the 70s and small town life reared its safe, familial head, with Little League games and Sunday dinners throughout the 80s. To someone like me, perfectly framed. Shelley Duvall’s clothes in The Shining, McGurk mystery books in the back seat of the family Impala. “The Great Brain” series, Cowboys games on perfect autumn days. The local radio on snowy school mornings, beef stew that’s there every howling winter night, Sunday dinner slowly unfolding. Every decade I knew growing up, years framed out perfectly by memories/life, building decades that made sense. Meant something.

Now?

Stumbling. At best. Every year since is formless, wandering. Disconnected. I should’ve been a goddam artist.  Roll me away.  Home isn’t where the heart is; the heart is where home is. Whatever, it doesn't matter because you suspect the heart’s a myth anyway and the one thing you do know for a fact is you’ll never see home again.  Not that one.  It's frozen in time, far away, and as lost as a boy without a mother.