PART ONE: THE FIRST WEEK (1) SATURDAY NIGHT AROUND ELEVEN
A long time ago I heard a song that starts off: “My story is muchtoo sad to be told.” It’s been years since I heard it. Lately I findmyself silently singing that lugubrious refrain over and over again. I’mwondering why I’m continually doing this. Do I think it applies to me?Is my life a story that’s “too sad to be told?” You know, had I faced one tragedy after another and things werestill dismal; or, you know, even if they turned out good, it may be a sadstory but not so much as to prevent its telling. Lots of stories are likethat.Or supposed I lived on Easy Street every day sipping wine andsmelling the roses and then the bottom dropped out on me. That’salso sad, but not too sad to be told.If my story was one of not reaching my potential, like TerryMalloy’s in the movie On the Waterfront when he said to his brotherCharley, “I could have been a somebody,” it’d be a little sad butcertainly a story that could be told. All Terry was saying was that like alot of us, he could have been better than he turned out to be. Thinkingof it, that’s not even sad since it’s so commonplace.So why is it that my subconscious is telling me that my particularstory’s too sad to be told?I think it’s because lately, or probably for a while now, when Ilook into the mirror I see a jaded, bitter and implacable strangerlooking back at me who has decided to take up living with me. She’smorose and unsmiling. She brings an icy chill to my soul when I seeher. She casts a gloom over me, darkens my living space and myattitude to life. I don’t particularly like her. Actually, more and moreI’m getting to despise her. Perhaps I abhor her.