February 27, 1994

"Yes, Kilgore Trout is back. He could not make it on the outside. This is no disgrace. A lot of good people can't make it on the outside."   Kurt Vonnegut Jr. - Jailbird

It has been a white winter. Although I am surrounded by snow, all that I see is bleak and black. Over the past two decades, I have spent countless hours here, at the East entrance of the Cape Cod Canal - usually sitting at the end of the jetty, lost in dreams that were never realized. They were dreams that never had a chance of coming true, simply because I could never make it on the outside. I have spent a lifetime seeking shelter in seclusion, alone with my thoughts - dabbling in dreams, frolicking in fantasies. And I have spent a lifetime failing to make it on the outside.

My life has become pathetically painful. Although there is a light at the end of my tunnel, I know that my journey will not be pleasant. The days ahead will be punishing and precarious. But as quickly as my life passed, so, too, will the days and weeks ahead. My day of hope will arrive bathed in the light of death.

But I have not come here to Sandwich to wallow and weep. I have come here, as I've always done, to escape - my parents' summer house is down the street and all my memories of this place are peaceful and all the moments happy.

One of my favorite activities was to spend Saturday and Sunday afternoons sitting on the retaining wall at Shawme Pond - where I would spend hours drinking beer and feeding bread to thr ducks, geese and swans. Today, there are signs posted beside the pond stating that it's against the law to feed the water fowl. Jesus, what a law! Only in Massachusetts is it acceptable to send a five year ole to bed without supper because of a poor report card - and unlawful to feed a hungry duck. Before I go back to Chatham, I'm going to buy a loaf of bread and feed the ducks one last time - it will bring joy to my heart.

In today's Boston Globe there were a number of stories about the Red Sox. It's spring training time, a season of hope's illusions  soon followed by customary heartbreak. Last summer my brother and his kids wore Red Sox T-shirts commemorating the 75th anniversary of their last World Series Championship in 1918. During my lifetime the Red Sox have come close three times, only to lose the seventh game in each series. One of my disappointments is that I'll die without seeing the Red Sox win the World Series. Both of my grandfathers experienced the joys of 1918. My father and I still wait for that magic moment, but now only he has a chance to witness such a Red Sox victory.

There are many reasons why I couldn't make it on the outside - my beliefs are one reason. I believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, too.  Little girls with big brown eyes and guardian angels to guide wandering boys back home. Minstrel shows, carnivals and mistletoe. Fairy tales and nursery rhymes, make believe and pleasant dreams. Happy endings and birthday wishes. Girls that know all too much, boys that know not enough. And a halo of innocence on a guilty face.

This is no disgrace, this is no disgrace.

3:30pm   -   Town Neck Beach  - Sandwich, MA

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