For your pleasure:
David Bindman, saxophone
Wes Brown, bass
royal hartigan, percussion
Art Hirahara, piano
David Bindman, saxophone
Wes Brown, bass
royal hartigan, percussion
Art Hirahara, piano
Saturday, April 4, 2015
When You Can No Longer Remember Shit ...
... make shit up.
As I see it you either turn 60 or you write a truthful memoir, but you can't do both. Because after 60 (or after chemo and radiation or post-partum or terror or other life-changing extended sleep-depriving events) you simply don't care that much for accuracy. You can't, it's an unattainable goal like having the body you sported at 20.
At first, this truth-bending shocked me and I would run down the street chasing some sentence that just popped out of my mouth, like, "Back in 1995 I was working for General Eclectic," hoping to tackle it and smother the inaccuracy before it embarrassed me. And then, when my knees started barking and my hip throbbed in tune to the universe, I stopped and thought, "Who cares?" Who cares if the year and the employer are wrong? I'm tryin' to make a point here, people. Whatever that was. I don't lie with nefarious intent, I simply have decades of memory to sift through and sort out and stuff got mixed and matched in my head and if I waited for my internal fact-checker to get back to me the people I'm talking to would be gone, asleep or dead.
So, onto haiku and aphorisms, scrupulous truth be damned:
Spring in New Haven
Now that the snow has left us
bereft of complaint.
As I see it you either turn 60 or you write a truthful memoir, but you can't do both. Because after 60 (or after chemo and radiation or post-partum or terror or other life-changing extended sleep-depriving events) you simply don't care that much for accuracy. You can't, it's an unattainable goal like having the body you sported at 20.
At first, this truth-bending shocked me and I would run down the street chasing some sentence that just popped out of my mouth, like, "Back in 1995 I was working for General Eclectic," hoping to tackle it and smother the inaccuracy before it embarrassed me. And then, when my knees started barking and my hip throbbed in tune to the universe, I stopped and thought, "Who cares?" Who cares if the year and the employer are wrong? I'm tryin' to make a point here, people. Whatever that was. I don't lie with nefarious intent, I simply have decades of memory to sift through and sort out and stuff got mixed and matched in my head and if I waited for my internal fact-checker to get back to me the people I'm talking to would be gone, asleep or dead.
So, onto haiku and aphorisms, scrupulous truth be damned:
Spring in New Haven
Now that the snow has left us
bereft of complaint.
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