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You know how when you get a wonderful new thing, like a car or a DVD player or a computer, it always comes with a very extensive instruction manual that says on its cover something like, "Important: Read This First." If you have any sense at all, you know you should read it because it probably contains essential information and warnings about the operation of this New Thing. Some part of your brain knows that if you read this manual you will be able to avoid all of the stupid and potentially fatal mistakes that might be lurking in your imminent future. And so you sit down, thumb through the sucker, and maybe even read a paragraph or two; but, while you're doing that, this fantastic shiny, fresh, straight-from-the-factory New Thing sits over there calling out to your soul, "Come Play With Me!" Happiness requires you to do just that, so the instructions fall to the floor and you jump right in. Well, that's sort of what today was like - only I didn't get to play. I had to read the manual. To translate, "reading the manual" today meant sitting through a morning of meetings with significant school personnel who managed to be welcoming and friendly and helpful. They said a lot of good, wise, and useful things to help us new teachers get our bearings. We took a tour to discover important places. I was happy to learn these things. But a big chunk of my brain was wondering, "Where are the kids? When do we get to play?" And a smaller part of my brain was whispering, "You shouldn't have to be doing this. You shouldn't have to be starting all over. You should just already know where the bathroom, copying machines, and computers are located. And you would know, if you had only...." At that point I told my brain, "Shut up. I just don't want to hear it; I've heard it too often for too long. It's time to dump these bitter recriminations, these stupid regrets. Sure, we're stuck here reading the instruction manual again, but that's a small price. Look, we still get to play! Listen, this great New Thing is singing real pretty." Today is another August birthday. My brother Chuck is 46 today. He's probably not reading this, but I wish he were. Most people would say he's mad as a hatter, completely nuts. He rides around town on his bike talking to or yelling at people only he can see, but they may be us. He is intensely, clinically paranoid; and he has woven almost everyone and most of his family into those evil schemes, but he has managed a life of his own. Happiness in life is a shifty proposition under even the best circumstances. Like any of us, like any of those we know as "mentally ill", he exists as a child of God in this world. My faith helps me to know that despite or because of his suffering, despite or because of his wounded humanity, this world is a better place because he is in it. Happy Birthday, Chuck. |
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William Burroughs |