This has been my one trick, throwing bricks at the past.
My reptilian brain doesn’t heed or need the past, only the steady stream of supply and demand; what fed me yesterday will feed me today, and so it will again. But the human brain, God bless, parses the cosmic elegance. The years may erode my architecture, but the basic geometry is still here. The luster of boyhood is still somewhere, salting the shade of a hickory tree, and stockpiled inside my old Rambler V-8. And my people? Sure, some frowns have grown their own flesh, but at least their old grudges have stayed country-fresh. The scars are recited by rote, and the tempers served up like fruit cocktail floats. And on and on. Those old stories, at least, never grow yellow, except through the drunkenness of the drunk tellers.
The past is on pause, and I can watch it later, when I have the want. But I don’t have the want, because I’ve moved on.
And that is some fierce kind of bullshit, right there. Why is it so hard to remember that the past is the same dog that always runs us, and, God bless, we all run out of time and we all run out of bricks.