Thanks Jeff your life's history is inspiring! <br><br>Yours most sincerely,<br>-Kelly (fellow traveller in the turnip truck of yore)<br><span style="font-family:Prelude, Verdana, san-serif;"><br><br></span><span id="signature"><div style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;color: #999999;">-- Sent from my Palm Pre</div><br></span><span style="color:navy; font-family:Prelude, Verdana, san-serif; "><hr align="left" style="width:75%">On Sep 10, 2011 8:17 PM, Jeff Davis <email@example.com> wrote: <br><br>On Wed, Sep 7, 2011 at 12:11 AM, G. Livick <firstname.lastname@example.org> wrote:
<br>> Boy, what rock did you grow up under?
<br>In my tykeness, my parents chanced to drive of an afternoon along one
<br>of the many gently arching skyways that skirt the edge of the box. As
<br>the road curved gently to the left, a turnip truck directly in front
<br>of my parents, filled with young Republicans, swerved uncontrollably
<br>to the right. Striking the guardrail, it resumed a reality-based
<br>trajectory, but the shock of impact and the sudden unnatural movement
<br>to the left, triggered a spasm of ideological purity in one of the
<br>occupants, who threw himself out of the truck, bouncing and
<br>cartwheeling along the roadway until he disappeared under the front
<br>bumper of Mom and Dad's psychedelically-painted vw bus, affectionately
<br>dubbed the "Karmic Comet".
<br>Deeply engrossed in a discussion of the iconography of Rankian
<br>Philosophy and its parallels in the works of Eric Hoffer, the folks
<br>hardly noticed the momentary turbulence as Rocky the Republican
<br>Raccoon, rolling beneath the bouncing Comet embossed his body plan in
<br>the warm asphalt. Only later, did the dots connect, when a Reagan for
<br>President "68 bumper sticker was discovered affixed to the Comet's
<br>["Sad. Sad and tragic", you might say, but fear not. Rocky suffered
<br>only minor scrapes and bruises, protected by an elephant's hide and a
<br>cranial vault of near solid bone more robust than those of Icelandic
<br>poet kings of yore. In fact, the experience set him on course for his
<br>successful career as human speed bump in a nearby gated community, and
<br>later as a Fox News traffic reporter. In retirement, he retreated
<br>from public life, plagued, as he described in his memoirs, "Turnip
<br>Spelled Backwards is Patriot ", by an unshakable fear of Vegans.]
<br>I was not so lucky. When the Birkenstock Baby Trailer behind the
<br>Comet -- my assigned transport vehicle -- met the future professional
<br>speed bump, yours truly, my perambulator, and the bedclothes made
<br>entirely of organic, free-range, 300-count, homespun hemp fabric, went
<br>Up, up the long delirious burning blue, I topped the windswept edge of
<br>the box with easy grace, and sailed with dizzying uncertainty through
<br>the Mists of Maya into a future of authenticity and boundless
<br>optimism. Then, as the wheels of my baby carriage struck the earth
<br>with a jolt, and the whole she-bang plunged ballistically down the
<br>rocky slope all Odessa steps, my life of mere months flashed before my
<br>eyes. Several billion years of ontogeny in the warm, weightless dark.
<br> A tightening embrace, the light at the end of the vaginal tunnel,
<br>uncalled-for extrusion, bright lights, loud noises, and breasts, ...
<br>Then another rude impact. The front wheels of my carriage crashed to
<br>a stop against a rock too large to be impressed by my momentous
<br>self-absorption. Once again, on wings of hemp, I found myself
<br>airborne. Luck, my life's protector, was again at my side, as I
<br>landed, the blow softened by a loaded diaper, and skidded (believe me,
<br>you don't want a detailed explanation) gradually, but finally, to a
<br>rest in the shadow of a very large rock.
<br>There, beneath that rock, I was taken in by the locals, two moles, had
<br>as friends a squirrel, and a moose, and in their fellowship, far
<br>outside the box, grew to robust -- howsobeit feral -- adulthood.
<br>Across all those years, in the evenings, before sleep would overtake
<br>me, I would gaze intently into the distance at the pale blue light
<br>flickering on the canopy of clouds above the box, and listen for
<br>distant, attendant murmurings. But I was too far outside the box to
<br>make any sense of it. To this day it remains a mystery.
<br>Sadly, regarding your original question, the distance of years has
<br>erased from my memory any particular name or number associated as an
<br>identifier, with my sweet sweet rock of home. Of course, I remember
<br>with deep affection my adoptive family: the two moles -- Russian moles
<br>actually -- were Comrade Boris and Natasha, my squirrel friend was
<br>Rocky, and my moose buddy Bullwinkle.
<br>If that's of any help.
<br>Best, Jeff Davis
<br> "We don't see things as they are,
<br> we see them as we are."
<br> Anais Nin
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