Going on… Many Mansions  John 14.v.1-3 Including my own defeated and ruined fortress, but still with a view of sea and sky. Preface This book is inspired by a hasty response I made at a low point to my step-step-daughter when she was urging me to pray. I said, “All done for the night. Not in the mood for Jeeesus right now.” Contrary to my whole view of Christianity. Which is that if you claim, want, to be Christian you are. I don’t have to agree with your interpretations of the gospels; if they give you balm I accept your faith at face value. But I do feel a need to explain the Jeeesus citation. It struck a chord. One I can’t ever unstrike, given my life to date. This book is about my own relation to Jesus, which is personal but no more intimate than that of God to man.  Chapter 1 I wrote a huge book called “The Boomer Bible.” It sold nearly 100,000 copies over 30 years. I learned some things in the writing. Things only writers learn when they are trying to live ...

  Not too good at the moment. I really am at low ebb. I have so many websites to rescue and correct. And not the energy to do it. I’m 68 and feel 88. The only thing energizing me is this diary idea with you. I have in you the one person who hasn’t heard all my stories. Better (worse, whatever), the stories are great stories. I was once, many times, a hero. In many disciplines, moments, contexts, times. And now I can barely walk. My wife is estranged. Because I have learned she is not on any side but hers. I still love her fiercely, but she is Boudica and I am only King Arthur.. She hid from me the fact we were $50,000 in debt. Until they started closing down the electric and phones. So I fixed it. We declared bankruptcy. Which we are still in. I had been thinking we were okay. Never was looking for a palatial retirement. But then she bombed me with penury. Okay. I can live with too. Somehow she is not responsible. Legally, I no longer exist. Pat owns everything. Why there will nev...

 Which is the direct opposite of what I’m saying. I understand everybody. What a burden that is. I left my family on the awful expanse of the Leonardo da Vinci ballroom and went and stared into the abyss. The ship was going to die. And I looked it in the eye. Deep. Hard. And I won.

The hard thing for you to remember. The hardest thing. I was always a Freak. A Freak distorts every experience around him. I wrote The Naked Woman and invented the concept of the 20,000 IQ, because I had one. I understood quantum mechanics before they devised it. I have messed irretrievably in your life because I am in it. Old psychic from Yellow Springs, Ohio, told me I was a scary guy, fifth century AD, who came back, not willingly, but because he had some wrongs to right. They were scared of her. Witch of Yellow Springs. What they called her. No kidding. YShe was scared of me. Made her husband withdraw from me. Well, I have no one else to tell. Only you. You want to hear? Reluctant returner or incredible idiot? Your choice.

After your mother threw me out, I went into a funk. I was drinking a lot. But I was still writing, some of my best work (more about that later). We didn’t talk much. She had a favorite TV show that was always on when I visited her of an evening. Murder She Wrote. She couldn’t follow the plots. We exchanged pleasantries. I didn’t usually have to help her off the toilet. But when she needed it I did that too. But God has always been tapping on my shoulder. He did again that night. I woke up suddenly. There was no electricity. No reason for me to know that. My bedroom had no lights, along with no sheets or other niceties. But there was no sound from the street, no light. My customary silence and darkness had roused me. I ran downstairs.  Her breathing apparatus was not functioning. I removed the ones that weren’t working. I found an oxygen bottle and attached it directly to her face mask. She continued breathing. Then I went back to bed. Then she started boasting I’d saved her life. I...

  Mostly a true story . Trying to get you to talk. It’s a pretty long list. Didn’t talk to most of them. You and I grew up geographically close, the Reeve house in Greenwich. The Samuel Tyler house was only a mile away. Where I grew up. But we lived very different lives, and I didn’t tell you much about mine, because I was the evidence of failure making your dinner and wanting you to believe you could still have a happy ending to yours. I was wrong. I should have told you. Jimmy Stewart, Jack Lemon, Gloria Steinem, Jimmy Dean, Muhammed Ali, Stevie Tyler, Mick Jagger, Isaac Asimov, Barry Goldwater, Ronald Reagan, Bud Collins, the BeeGees, and the roommate of Frances Scott Key Fitzgerald. A story goes with every sighting. Anyone you want to know about?

 He started this way… 8 Comments David Solin What circuitous journey have we travelled in the past 200 years, to get from “Ain’t I a Woman” to “I’m not a biologist”? Life is exactly like this. A FB friend, a Yalie, still doesn’t get it. Nobody gets it. Thinking you maybe do.