Introduction

Artist friend of dad's take on 3 year old me

“Life can only be understood backward, and can only be lived forward." This truism has for me been both a source of inspiration, and as well a somewhat constraining force which has at times hampered my writing. I am possessed of the belief, whether correct or not, that constructing text is an act of life-affirmation, of creative forces that seek growth, not regression. Writing to me has been a practice of living forward, and so I have managed to dance around the “backward understanding” in my process. I feel though that these omissions have been virtual dead spots in the texts I have constructed in my body of work. Though I may be speaking of an event, fictional or real, from some point in the past, my description is not fully vested with the authority that actual memory can grant. This is the interweaving between one’s memories and fantasies that is capitalized on by prolific writers such as Steven King. So many of his works are clearly drawn from bits and pieces of his early life in Maine, and though by now it certainly has an “ad nauseum” feel to it, it is a comfortable familiarity and of course an amazingly successful one. By contrast, a read of my attempts to bring past events to life seems placed in a sterile, sanitized hospital-like environment. My bad, or as the Romans put it more eloquently, Mea culpa.

This series of writings is my act of contrition for the offense of not fully embracing who I was, no matter how uncomfortable or outright embarrassing some aspects of it may be. For better or worse, these events shaped me into the middle-aged persona I now bear. There is nothing magical about turning 60, any more than say 58 or 62, but it does make available a certain organizational strategy that dovetails nicely with my goal of coming to terms with my history. My first fully-fleshed memories of life are from the age of 5. The concept of this series is, beginning with my 5th year in 1963, I will advance the narrative forward one year each posting, so that - given that some later years of my life can be combined - by my 60th birthday there will be around 50 pieces, and in the process I will have constructed a sort of autobiography.

Along the way, I will hopefully entertain prospective readers with not only the facts of matters, but as well with my ironic spin on life and the philosophies underlying these human situations and these takes will hopefully elicit a chuckle here and there. Events of extreme strangeness which may seem alien to most will be described, and make of these what you will. If the MPAA were to rate this missive, it would most likely be given an "R" rating for language and depictions of drug use and mild sexuality - even if the acts in question were anything but mild. I will spare no sensibilities in the process as I gradually describe my arc of evolution from liberal to libertarian conservative. Hint: If you are a fan of identity politics, it is best to take a hard pass on my story.

My older blood brother the Hopi artist Richard Hinzo who left us many moons ago, framed best the tension between telling a story factually and telling it artfully by this pearl of wisdom:

"In every story there is a concotion of your truth, the other's truth, and what actually happened. In the end, they all become soup anyway, so just make it taste good." 

My hope for those brave ones of you who soldier through this life story is that your stomachs may be full and your palate satisfied.

My writing has always been more of a tsunami event than a steady flow of a country stream. Past attempts at forging some kind of discipline with creating text, other than panicked deadlines when I was in college, have all run aground. But hope springs eternal, failure though stinging is no longer a monster I run from, and I have surprised myself before, so maybe this time …

On with the show!