My father once told me about when he was a young man, riding the subway from home in the Bronx to the dances in Manhattan. When he would dance with a young woman he would strike up a conversation and ask where she was from. If she lived not-too-far away – the Bronx, Manhattan, Queens – he’d keep dancing. But if the answer involved Brooklyn or Staten Island he’d excuse himself, go to the men’s room, and then search for another dance partner.

My mother was from his neighborhood.

I take for granted the accomplishments of people in the past.

Sometimes I think we have no new ideas, that all our ideas are variations on what came before. Even the language we use came before.

But our variations are new, sparked by the electro-chemistry of other’s brains mixing together inside our heads.

We broke up on a street corner in Murray Hill. I feel horrible, like what recovering from surgery must feel like. From the center of my chest to my tongue is tight and heavy. I want everyone to feel love, but there are so many intentions in the world, and not all of them result in peaceful evenings sitting on the couch watching television.

Do we ever grow beyond the 2-year old who throws a tantrum to get what he wants? The President starts wars. Corporate takeovers. I run away from a certain but unsettling future.