T R U T H

This starts with a dream, switches to fantasy and ends with the point.

We all got in the backseat of Dad's '47 Chrysler straight eight which was a big backseat. He drove us past our school, past the edge of town and along the road that leads to the murkie purkie, a river as brown as dirt itself. I was afraid to jump in the water so I waited until my cousin brought the big inner tube to the edge of the river bank and I went in. I still had fear of the water from the time I went to the bottom of the lake when I was 3 or 4. And who could forget the time my sister and I were almost dumped in a canoe by horny guys showing off for her attention but because I cried like a little girl, they didn't. When we headed for home it was in the Plymouth Plaza with fender skirts, not the Chrysler. Now that I'm home, what I want more than anything is to just stay here. I have a mental illness. It needs more than a diagnosis. I'm happier than a functional illiterate except that I'm fully capable but choose to not see the world first hand. I don't have to eat my meat first before I can get any pudding. Now here's the point: skittish as a little boy becomes reclusive as a veteran. It all makes sense and sorry about the lack of drama.

still hi 8s praying for relief from jaw pain back east and leg ache here.