In the land of purple ponytails

I passed through the age of anxiety late last night, never to return.

The vector was with me, the vector being the point when my life experience was surpassed by my memory of my life experience.

There was my nice old father, teaching me the difference between a bow tie and an ascot. He was so patient. He told me that he'd never eaten sushi, so I gave him a gift certificate to a Japanese restaurant.

My mother, now there's a whole other story! Sweetest lady who ever lived, even though she breast-fed me powdered milk. She didn't know any better, it was the era she was in at the time. Mother was not known for her cooking, but she did pioneer the concept of the monochromatic meal. One of her Thanksgiving dinners made the cover of a national magazine--canned corn, Mac and cheese, turkey breast marinated in Dijon mustard, and lemon jello for dessert.

Yesterday, sitting around the kitchen table with the group of refugees who've taken me in, I came to the conclusion that it's quite possible I'll never be understood. Certainly, much greater people than me have lived happy and productive lives without ever being understood. Being understood by another human being is not only impossible, it's highly overrated.

And WH Auden, Wystan Hugh to you poets, was wrong! It's not that we must love one another or die, it's that we must love one another and then die.