We wander around the house pantless. We eat on sofa cushions. We bite our dentists, scream at cars passing us in traffic, taunt the UPS guy. We take naps during the day, on the floor, like kindergarteners. We read during meals. We show contempt for silverware. We use pillows as sleds, staircases as snowy hills. We only listen to Oldies music and aged opera cassetes. We have shaken hands with Stormtroopers, with Rubin. We sleep horizontally.
“We” consists of myself, my brother (sometimes known as Weiner, for no real reason) and my erratic parents. All together, we account for one hundred and eighteen years of age.
As of three years ago, we are living as legal aliens, as displaced American citizens in a country none of us can claim as fully ours. Struggling to comprehend things that, in a different life, would have made our brains explode. CAN’T COMPUTE, and so forth.
It’s never easy, but it’s happening. Coming along. Little by little.
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