Shadows of the Past, II
I follow Garin’s summer cleaning of spring skeletons, without the courage to look at them. Those early, embarrassing menstruations flowed from a place where the follicles were active but the hair wasn’t there. Thus do I utterly disavow anything to be found under my name in Google, that heartless biographer, which isn’t linked to in my archives page here. The only bearable memory I have of my high school editorials is, “Thanks to Clinton, I beg your pardon is no longer such an innocent phrase.” I guess that line’s okay, but it’s Al Franken okay.
It’s impossible to exorcise our past, but we can at least declare haughty superiority to it before anyone else gets the chance. And we can follow by thanking God that dubious metaphors are immune from maturity.
