When I was young, I wanted to be three things; a ballerina, an astronaut or Charlie Bucket from "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." A ballerina because at the time, they were what I considered the most graceful and beautiful example of a female, an astronaut because being in space and seeing what no one else has seen was more exciting and beyond my own imagination than I even knew, and as for Charlie Bucket, he was the best, nicest and purest character I had read in a book. Still is. When I would draw pictures of the universe in class at school it would include the planets from our solar system, some stars and then the rest was just empty, finished at the end of the paper. I would stare at it, thinking about how could a universe have an end? I would think about the edges of the universe when I was 8 years old and then lie awake at night trying to stretch my mind's limited imagination (still do.)
There is proof that the universe is expanding. Well, now there is proof that human hearts are shrinking. I did a lot of crying last night. Some from the actual pain in my body, some from the metaphorical pain in my heart. I watched the Republican Convention on television and from what I see and hear, I am their enemy. If the top of the ticket gets their way, everyone under the age of 55 would be thrown off the Medicare and Medicaid roles. Sure, that might be hard to do with a big D senate, but isn't the big dark question that they want to do it at all? I have had some people tell me that I am "one of those people" that deserve the help I receive, that I am somehow more special. Everyone else fits nicely into the big Cadillac 25 baby daddy drug pushing cell phone juicy wearing refuses to dig ditches category. Problem is, I am everyone else. You throw me off, I am homeless, or dead.
Also when I was young, I had a most favorite album that I listened to so much that I had it memorized. Still do. "The Count's Countdown" from Sesame Street, voiced by Jerry Nelson that passed away on the 27th. This record is such a part of me, it has become everyday conversation, either out loud or in my head.
Pieces of my youth are falling away, either the illusion of a finite universe, the delusion of Charlie Bucket and infinite goodness and the facade of the body as graceful beauty. Yet somehow, all this does is make me want to crawl into my Mother's lap, and listen to 45s.