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July 13, 2002 sense and sensibility It is my birthday. I was born on Friday the 13th.  I've made more bad decisions than all the decisions made by all the Camp Crystal Lake counselors combined.  And I've had some manifestation of Jason Voorhees chasing me since I was twelve.  While Jason has caught me and cut me, he's never held me long enough to chiffonade my soul.  So I'm still here, functioning on a level that ebbs and flows like the tides, without the predictability. Unless they depict strangers, I'd prefer not to look at photographs.  I'm particularly uncomfortable viewing photographs of my former life, especially when my children were young.  Either I have no memory of the captured occasion or I remember it and I wish I didn't.  Come to think of it, the concept of Fond Memory is foreign to me.  Either there's no memory or it isn't fond.  My memories come in only one flavor:  Bad. Increasingly, I am convinced that human compatibility, like the compatibility of all animals, is a function of smell.  The emanations which please one olfactory bulb or excite one rudimentary brain stem may, in others, trigger a "fight or flight" response.  Moreover, pheromones can change over time and shift from alluring to putrid.  We try to deny the importance of smell because we associate it with lower life forms.  But to ignore smell, in the social context, is to waste time. Life is pounding irony.  There is no constant but flux.  And a man can destroy himself failing to forgive the unforgiveness of others.

©  2002 by the beastmaster