Since he has a verified account symbol, Nate must have name recognition. Perhaps I've done the beatnik circuit with his relatives. A look at his capsule biography puts that to rest. At the same time, my mind flips through my involvement with Athol Fugard's work at the Wilma, remembering I used to orbit the anti-apartheid clique with perfectly self-righteous conviction, and now, in my old age, not so sure. I am thinking about tolerance, in conjunction with the way I've delineated Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, and most of North Philadelphia in public, and candidate Oliver, to his credit, reached across the aisle. Maybe he senses that my real issue is the sense I am being shilled by these women unfairly, given my history with the killing fields of Protestant do-goodism.
I do not have contemplation in hand to get into it this morning. I'm just letting my guard down: I'm scared.
Presby has no legal ability to shuttle me to Inglis, but they are doing to me, at a much younger age, what they've done to many others in my 21 years of observation, and I cannot stay much longer, whether I push back hard or meander and duck. I'm angry enough to get arrested at eight thirty, if necessary, but that only hastens Pennsylvania's crushing brutality against me, unforgiving of failure, and I have to find a space to camp. Then perhaps another.
But if Nate threw his hat in my ring, then I can whisper "Hang on..." and hold tight. Thank you Nate.
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