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Breath: The Only Requirement

I wake up pondering. Doing it for months. Reminding myself I'm going to die. It's positively unrelenting. Starting right after a young man on the subway calls me elderly, while chastising everyone else in the car for not offering me their seat. When I’m of the mind, I’m doing fine. Getting out of bed on my own. Working around being trapped inside my birth-date. Of which there’s no getting out. That makes me mad. I'm still breathing. And since breath means life;count me in.

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Your Future's Truth

It’s amazing. Once you understand yourself. You revel in the fact you are you. Stepping out like a new born from inside your head. Free at last to join the human race. You pay your forty dollars and go right ahead and apply to the New York International Fringe Festival. Sending them your sixty-minute solo show script, “A Coffin Turning Clockwise: A Comedy in Real Time.” Where you mine your eccentricities and have performed it twice. Without dropping dead. Proof; you're your future's truth.

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a dose of self reliance 

Standing on my own two feet takes me decades. Arriving. In form proof positive. In my dotage. While I'm still breathing. October 31, 2017. Inside the Madrid Airport. At 6:30 in the morning. The second person on the Value Added Tax line. Waiting for my 26-dollar refund. From purchasing one orange and one green sweater. When a mix of twelve Chinese men and women. All carrying Gucci, Prada and Chanel shopping bags. Cut in front of me. Without saying a word. Put down their packages. Take out their receipts. Chat in their native tongue. To the woman whose back is in front of me.

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transmitting hope(part four; el fin)

I consider myself a three- dimensional character. I’ve the attributes. Height. Width. Depth. And being of a certain age, I’ve a personal story. A history with failings, contradictions, ambivalence, values, flaws. Yet in Spain. I'm two-dimensional. Exhibiting simplicity. As a beginner. Learning Spanish. I show frustration. As the extent of my emotional life. I’m a bore. And it’s Saturday. Following the Friday. That ends the first week of school. Forty of us. All Spanish language students. From all over the world. Are boarding a motor coach. On our way to Segovia and Avila. It’s 8 AM.

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transmitting hope (part three)

I’m not a small talker. I discover this by listening to other people conversing about best selling books. Children’s shenanigans. The dropping temperature. Uncontroversial subjects. A perfectly fine form of social bonding. Which I'm not good at. Flirting with reality's surface. I want to excavate emotions. Get out of artifice. Into the root. Figure out what makes us do what we do. I'm thinking. That first Monday. 7 AM. As Miranda smears jelly on a dry slice of white bread. Hands it to me. Saying, “Tengo nauseas. No como nada.” I’m nauseous. I eat nothing.

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