So what does my life consist of? — I ask myself as I stare out the window of Lookout Joe’s, watching the eternal traffic on Mt. Lookout Square. Berkovits’ book, held in my hand, smells of dust and rag paper and looks like it came in contact with actual printing presses, with raised type, back there in the sixties and seventies when they still used to make books like, well, like they used to.
Am I really so similar to the hordes of domestic goddesses I just plowed through to get to the Apple store to get the laptop’s power cord replaced? Yes I am, and also, where in hell do I get off being so snarky and uppity about a bunch of… whatever. Here in the midwest, it is too easy for people to have a cookie-cutter look about them, as if they are generic Brand X humans, doing their level best to keep to the norm — the mean, median, and mode, all at once.
At some point, such a choice has to be conscious on a person’s part. None of us is completely identical to any other. The choice to be “normal” above all else has to be a sin.
white pebble 