21 July 2020
Close is the time
when you will forget all things; and close, too, the time when all
will forget you. Having lost the restaurant's name, I put out a
call to recollection. Memory
by committee works,
eventually. It was the Garrett. A
waiter gave me a free beer
after
Joaquin Andujar of the beautiful name melted
off the mound. One
friend says the place was
upstairs; I don’t remember that. Another says he was there for Game
6, but I don’t remember seeing him. Only John Lynch, kneeling
on the floor, crucified by
Bill Buckner’s error. I remember basketball games, but not
where I saw them. A psychologist told me John Dean had more confidence than good memory. You can’t
see the faces of Feds in camo in Portland. We identify the man with
the broken hand by his NAVY sweatshirt; he approached them to talk,
and one hit at him
for the fences. “Marcus’
period as emperor was dominated by confronting serious external
threats to the boundaries and stability of the empire.” Authoritarian regimes pull their border agents in to
the central cities, Timothy Snyder writes. In the
name of Jesus, a
Black woman throws black
paint on the the yellow letters, BLM.
A friend demands his family call him Jesus, and I wonder why they
don't. John Lewis called his enemies “brother.” What is most
sacred is counter-intuitive. A little boy asked to touch the scar on
his head and Lewis knelt to offer it.
Marcus Aurelius, Meditations. Oxford UP.
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