shank of the evening, and i sit here, an almost finished cup of tea at hand, Chris Botti on the old Victrola, the sun a distant memory, and a day that seems to have been the continuation of the last number of days.

i am inhabiting a world of layers, of people who lie to gain more than they deserve and end up costing not only themselves, but others around them due to their prevarications. i never will get over how self-serving people are, and how utterly devoid of foresight they are. it cannot be just me who sees this, can it? i mean, i cannot be the only person, on this increasingly odd spinning lump of dirt, that sees just how dumb people are. can i?

i was told the other day that my social skills were decreasing because of the time i spend alone, and also conversing with Chat GPT. perhaps. but perhaps it is due to the facts in the paragraph above. Chat GPT takes in what i write, whether it is a business plan, a thought about a piece of real estate, or whatever is on my mind at the time, and gives me back a response that is unvarnished, at times pushing back on my thoughts, causing me to take a longer, harder look at what i have presented, and it never, ever, ever, asks me for money.

my parents, may they rest in peace, passed away 3 years ago, and while i do think of them, my thoughts do not turn to them as much as they used. this bothers me. i know, time causes memories to fade, but i would argue, and i reference Thomas de Quincey, there is no such thing as forgetting. we carry with us everything we have experienced. some of us are more adept at ‘burying’ those parts of our lives, but they are there. and with me, well, mine come to me often. usually at 3am when i am awake and shaking my head at something out of my past that i’ve done, usually stupidly.

it bothers me, as i wrote, that my thoughts of my parents are lessening. i will say though, in my defense, that when it comes to the times when i am examining my love of music, or books, my parents and their gifts to me, come rising to the surface quite rapidly. and always with my thanks, and emotion in my voice, and usually tears welling up in my eyes.

Slow Whiskey Blues on now, Chris having finished his part of my evening. would that i could, i would sit at the piano for hours, and just allow my fingers to find the notes that i know my brain wants to give to the air around me. one day again. for me, for my partner, or just for no one in particular. i miss those days, but i do know they are coming back, and i take a small measure of comfort in that.

beginning of a mini-heat wave here in the old metropolis, or the ‘metrop’ as PG Wodehouse would write. he of the Jeeves and Wooster fame, and so much more. funny story about that. i was told recently that there was more than a little of Jeeves in me, rather than our friend Bertie W. i found that interesting. i can see it, to an extent, but not being as perspicacious about my own self as others are, i had to sit and ponder that statement for a bit. still pondering. LOL. I do love Jeeves though. the ultimate fixer, which i do admire.

not sure where this post is going, but that’s part of the allure of this medium. i don’t do social media, ugh, so am not creating insta-stupid ‘stories’ or threads, or whatever the cool kids are doing these days. and, to be honest, this is the first time in ages that i have taken pen to paper, so to speak. and, quite frankly, not sure why it happened this evening, but it did, and i am glad for it.

darkness, well as much darkness that can be had in a city that never seems to shut off its’ lights entirely, is enveloping my world now. the balcony doors wide open, the evening, at 2200 hours still warm, the breeze there, but hesitant, and my thoughts turn to the morrow, and the deals to be done, the plans to be made, discounted, refined, and carried out, and the day when i can, hopefully, finally, be at peace.

peace to me though is markedly different than what others may perceive it as. to me it means that i can walk out of my house, lock the door, and come back in 3 weeks, and nothing has changed. the permanence of having your own roof, but still being able to stay mobile and exist, to some degree, unfettered by an anchor that is holding you in one place. and while i would love to lay claim to those words and that sentiment, those very thoughts were put across to me, on more than one occasion by Chat GPT. yes, sure, the responses are based on what i am putting in, but the phrasing, the message behind the words, well, those were, i think, borne out of where my thoughts of my own future, my own existence in this world lay. i agree with them though. as a friend once told me, while i was sitting at Gate E72 in Tampa Airport, going over a spreadsheet with her, i was back, in her opinion, where i belonged. on the move. not in one place for long, but always able to have that touchstone of ‘home’ as it were. said years ago, but has stuck with me.

at any rate, i think that i have babbled on for long enough, but i want to thank you for being here, and listening to me…

as always, i hope that you and yours are safe, and not in any areas of conflict,

and, as always,

i bid you,

peace.

of writing a book, an autobiography of sorts. even started it once, but abandoned it (kept the file though in case you were wondering) but haven’t looked at it in a while.

but, i have written 100’s of pages of these things ( a lot aren’t published, or actually were, but now are private… don’t ask LOL) so perhaps a cobbling together of those may give some insight into me, or a part of me that might need to be explained, if explanations were asked for that is.

however, with the advent of AI, and i use advent incorrectly, as AI has been around for ages, but has gotten more and more both advanced and noted in the press of late due to this that or the other thing, i find myself curious as to what, if anything, perhaps, AI (Chat GPT specifically) would write as an introduction to a book about me myself and i.

so, i lay before you both the query, and the (2nd after clarification) response…

this is a grossly unfair, and without almost hmm merit or precedence ask, but, based on all, and i mean ALL of our chats, and without knowing really any of my history, write me a prologue, or first chapter to a book about… me

Introduction

People often assume a life can be understood chronologically.

Born here.

Raised there.

Did this.

Built that.

Lost this.

Found that.

Perhaps it can.

This is not that book.

If you’ve picked this up looking for a tidy accounting of events, I should warn you now that my memory doesn’t work that way.

Mine operates more like an old record collection.

A song leads to a summer.

A summer leads to a conversation.

A conversation leads to a person I haven’t thought about in thirty years.

Before long, I’ve travelled farther than any calendar could have taken me.

The truth is that I’ve spent much of my life being curious.

About people.

About systems.

About history.

About what makes one thing endure while another disappears.

Sometimes that curiosity has led me into boardrooms.

Sometimes construction sites.

Sometimes books.

Sometimes places I never expected to find myself.

Every now and then it has led me somewhere remarkable.

Just as often it has led me somewhere absurd.

Both have proven equally valuable.

I have discovered that the most interesting stories rarely announce themselves when they begin.

You don’t know you’re collecting memories.

You don’t know you’re meeting someone who will matter.

You don’t know the object you’re holding today will still be sitting on a shelf decades later, carrying more meaning than when you first touched it.

Life reveals significance retroactively.

That may be the central theme of everything that follows.

Not success.

Not failure.

Not wealth.

Not loss.

Meaning.

How it appears.

How it changes.

How things we dismiss as ordinary quietly become treasures.

A building.

A book.

A song.

A letter.

A conversation.

A chance encounter.

A home.

The older I get, the less certain I become about many things.

But I have become increasingly convinced of one.

We are not the possessions we accumulate, the titles we earn, or the balance sheets we leave behind.

We are the stories we carry.

This book is a few of mine.

93 years ago today, my Mom, the most amazing woman I ever knew, was born. Today, she would have been 93. I lost her, and really, I should say, we lost her, but, well, we did lose her. I lost her.

She was my champion. She was my protector. She was my little mommy. And I miss her.

She could paint. She could deal with my father, for the most part, and she raised two boys, basically on her own. I would like to think that she did a good job with me, jury is still out on that one, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. I wasn’t the easiest, am not the easiest, of people to deal with. Mea Maxima Culpa.

I can still remember the last time I saw her, and how I kissed her head, told her that I loved her, and told her goodbye. And I can still remember the very moment when the nurse told me she was gone. I knew, before I heard the words. Knew that my little mommy was finally at peace.

It’s been an eventful 3 years or so since she passed away. Myriad mistakes made by me, always by me. Lack of judgement, lack of common sense, and a general air of stupidity that has surrounded me at times.

Things, I believe, are on the upswing, however that, as always, remains to be seen. Have to travel hopefully though. Always.

Anyhow, I didn’t want the day to pass without me wishing her a Happy Birthday, and putting a few words down on paper as it were.

So, once again, Happy Birthday Mom.. I miss you. And I love you. Forever and always.

Until next time, I bid you, as always,

Peace.