No, wait. Life is a thread being wrapped around the spindle of birth. No, wait. Maybe the thread is being unwound from the spool. A few knots along the way. Oh. Maybe life is a wheel, hitting a few bumps in the road. Or a vinyl platter, playing along nicely — grooves — till it hits a scratch and you have to bump the needle arm to jump it into the next groove.
I can’t tell you how long I spent trying to boil down the patterns and rhythms of my life into a clever graphic. What you see above is only semi-clever. Since my story is about “grand exits,” look, it starts at the center with the exit from my mother’s womb. Follow the trail through Childhood, till I exit home in 1967 and bump up to the College Era. Keep squeezing out the toothpaste (or tube of cake icing) till, in 1971, leaving Chicago bumps me into the Blooming Era. On and on.
The pie slices correspond roughly to the S-Curves of Life I wrote about before>>>.
Why am I straining over this? What possesses me to neaten up and categorize my life? Of all things. Why do people labor at writing a memoir? I have a few stories to tell, yeah. And once I tell them, they will be mine forever. Even if I forget. My stories, my way, my voice.
There’s that loose thread dangling off the edge of the spool… I guess that makes me ask: Where do we go from here?