I mentioned it weeks ago, when Aaron my friend made it OK to listen to Enya again. I think I mentioned it.

In an aisle of the Goodwill in Albany he flashed me ShepardsmotherfuckinMoon. NO. I said.

His poise authoritative amidst the color-coded sweater aisles. It clearly was not up for discussion. And so I’ve been living in a perpetual musical dead zone ever since. This shit is like a lullaby for my 11-year-old self. Which in fairness I feel I deserve right now, all things considered.

1991! The year Donnie Walburg is arrested for allegedly setting his hotel room on fire in Louisville Kentucky. The year Eric Clapton’s son fell to his death, 49 stories from a NYC apartment. A year of Desert Storm.

Strange to realize you’ve lived through history; written already...sent to the publisher years ago. History books now outdated, boxed in storage or already on the shelf of a Goodwill. On a long walk this evening I found myself wanting my childhood back. Or at least an afternoon to visit my 11-year-old self. An opportunity to be my own mentor. What would I say? Lighten up.

Recently I notice my ability to produce a genuine smile at the grocery store checkout. I was not always capable of that, so I mark this as progress. You ever see someone’s smile fade right after they turn around? Waitresses are good people to catch in that.

Listening to Enya on headphones. Waiting for life to happen. Or Homeland. It’s 9:56pm.