I was born a certain number of years ago somewhere in the great southwest. Didn’t wear shoes unless I just had to. My daddy was rich and my momma was good looking. I was a snot and my little brother wasn’t much better. Life was good.
But somebody had X and eventually there was X. There was a lot of shifting around after that as you might imagine. A couple of summers went by and then X. After that things were different and oddly the same, if you know what I mean. More summers and I took up X – I considered it a family tradition. And there were those who thought that I wasn’t X. I hated X. But I loved X and also X. Couldn’t get enough.
There was always a drifter in the cowboy movies, and I wanted to be the drifter. So I became a drifter. I drifted. Lots more X and a good deal of X, too, if I may say so. Then there was X, and when has that ever turned out well.
Lots more summers. Some things changed and some things didn’t.
Other things happened, or so it seemed. And I came to the opinion that the right thing to do would be to stop drifting.
That’s my story.
Somewhere along the line I was assigned a name to go with the story. And now when a letter with that name on it comes to the house where I live I expect that someone has intended it for the guy with my story.
Near as I can tell this all works pretty well. But I can’t help but wonder… if you had my story would you be me?
All morning long I’ve had Reuben’s Train stuck in my head.
Got myself a blade, laid ol’ Reuben in the shade
I’m startin me a graveyard of my own
Now it’s in your head, too.
Are you as confused by all this as I am?
I had told a friend that my next post was not going to be so full of space. Whatever I was going to say I was going to say it straight on so everybody could get back to what they were doing. So I start off. And to say anything I have to go down to the basement where my stuff is and where it’s dark and one thing looks like another, and before I know it I’ve got Reuben’s Train runnin through my head.
I turn on the teevee and all I can find is a college football game and a brassiere infomercial.
I don’t like college ball that much.
I tell my story to myself and then I tell it to you.
I tell my story to other people and they tell me theirs. And between you and me some of them are kiddin themselves – no way some people are who they say they are. So I have my own stories about other people and who I think they are despite who they say they are. They might even have their own stories about me. Maybe you do too.
Not sayin any of this is wrong.
Our fellow creatures only need to make a living. We have to figure out who we are.
The old yogis said we shouldn’t take the stories we tell too seriously. All that drama is interesting, but if you’re on the trail it just gets snagged on the bushes.
So, I take it that when I’ve got Reuben’s Train running through my head I can’t just go along for the ride.
I have to figure out who’s driving.