The Same People Who Tell

Without Even Knowing It, We Are Assaulted By A High Note Of Urgency All The Time. We End Up Pacing Ourselves To The City Rhythm Whether Or Not It's Our Own. In Time We Even Grow Hard Of Hearing To The Rest Of The World. Like A Violinist Stuck Next To The Timpani, We May Lose The Ability To Hear Our Own Instrument.

We Are Told That People Stay In Love Because Of Chemistry, Or Because They Remain Intrigued With Each Other, Because Of Many Kindnesses, Because Of Luck. But Part Of It Has Got To Be Forgiveness And Gratefulness.

I Am A Member Of A Small, Nearly Extinct Minority Group, A Kind Of Urban Lost Tribe Who Insist, In The Face Of All Evidence To The Contrary, On The Sanctity Of Being On Time. Which Is To Say That We On-timers Are Compulsively, Unfashionably Prompt, That There Are Only Handfuls Of Us In Any Given City And, Unfortunately, We Never Seem To Have Appointments With Each Other.

How Many Of The People I Know - Sons And Daughters - Have Intricate Abstract Expressionist Paintings Of Their Mothers, Created Out Of Their Own Emotions, Attitudes, Hands. And How Many Have Only Polaroid Pictures Of Their Fathers.

I Have Never Been Especially Impressed By The Heroics Of People Convinced They Are About To Change The World. I Am More Awed By Those Who Struggle To Make One Small Difference.