After stepping off a commuter train this morning, I was astonished to lay eyes on someone I once briefly knew on another part of the platform. I hadn’t seen him in more than 10 years, and whenever I run into people I haven’t seen since Y2K, there’s usually something a little different about them, even if it’s just a hairstyle, or wardrobe trend, or energy level. But he’s still the spitting image of who and what he was, strutting around in full prick regalia – on a suburban train platform at 10:30 a.m. on a Sunday. The only prop missing was the half-empty Perrier bottle he used to entertainingly clutch. I’ve read reviews and excerpts of the book he published not too long ago, and it sounds like his decadent life and times have changed as little as his physical front.
The rest of the day triggered a much different remembrance of things past. At an Easter celebration that was a lot like the kind of extended-family holiday gatherings my own family once hosted, I began to understand why so many people choose to stay or relocate near their original home base.
Whenever something or someone worthwhile has come into your life, every reasonable attempt should be made to hold onto that experience or presence for as long as possible; most influences and situations that don’t feel legit should be weeded out as swiftly and firmly as possible. The problem is not always being able to appreciate how good you’ve had it until long after it’s no more; or how bad you have it until you’re already in, knee deep.
Dear Santa . . .
23 hours ago