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THE RULES-POLONIUS REVISITED How I hated them when I was your age, yet I learned there was a ridge of them anyway I turned, surrounded, so here: first, you are never going to make money off this, bury that reason like a dead dog, deep enough to keep live dogs away. Two, your relevance will fade, so work the razor hard against the window, give your gut the wheel when you can, memory will never save you from sins of omission. Three, run with the wolves if your heart will let you; they know the scent of the meat; they are yellow-eyed and stirred, abrasive; they will not outrun destiny or each other, but they will forget they are slaves before it's over. Finally, to thyself be blue, only if you are blue; truth is slow, unbeaten, too. RAY-1973 He was a photographer of some disreputable sort; he had a three legged shepherd named 'Cid, a dark-eyed friendly mutt who wore jangling "dogtags" from field days in Nam. We visited for reefer purposes, mid afternoons in his rented down town loft; we lied about our high school exploits; he lied about everything, yet he was too cool to be a narc, too out there somehow. Ray taught us to roll perfect joints, the biker lingo, what a man might call selective ambition; he said he would marry a rich woman, and one day he did. |
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Tim Peeler |