I don’t know how things happen.
I don’t know how I came to have a grandson without having any children.
I don’t know how I came to play piano without having a single lesson.
And the songs, the poems, the stories?
How do they happen?
I don’t know how I’m going to get my “real” tire fixed before my “donut” spare wears out.
I don’t know how it will happen but I know it will happen.
Just like my coming to Florida happened.
Just like my getting sober happened.
Just like my marriage happened.
Just like my divorce happened.
I don’t know how they happened.
I just know they happened.
I used to go to 2 or 3 high schools in the area and talk to problem kids about their problems.
I’d say, “Hey, so why are you here? What’s your problem?”
And, almost in unison, they’d all say, “I didn’t have no problem till he (or she) started fuckin’ with me. That teacher’s my problem.”
Instead of arguing, I’d say, “Know what you mean.” And then I’d tell them a little bit about my life, who was “fuckin'” with me and how I had no idea how any of it had come to happen.
And most of the kids would say, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
Then, they’d tell me how it all happened, the stuff in my life.
The stuff I had no idea about.
And, then, they’d go and tell me why it happened.
All that stuff.
They’d say, “This is how it happened.”
They’d say, “This is why it happened.”
And I’d say, “Sounds good to me. What should I do?”
And they’d give me advice and I’d say, “Sounds good to me. Thanks. Now, it’s my turn.”
And they’d say, “What the fuck do you know?”