I played with the baby version of you. She was seated on her grandmother’s living-room carpet. A watchful German Shepherd lay next to her. Her grandmother was preparing snacks in the kitchen. I set up a pile of play-cubes, and she tore them down with glee and joy, again and again.
I hereby submit to you another pile of play-cubes for you to tear down joyfully:
To Beat The Beatles
A soaring seagull told me you are into The Beatles, those beetles of beat.Their arched begging eyes trigger motherly love.
They need to be cared for to regain a more joyful expression.
Behind their eyes they were children just like the rest of us.
They explored the world around them and found music.
And drugs.
They stumbled upon success, too much for a regular human critter.
They wrote as they saw the world at that time.
They wrote what they wished for or dreamed or hallucinated.
After them, many children listened and grew up to their music.
They mixed those musical grains of sand into their playground’s sandbox.
They are musicians now, making their own music and writing their own lyrics.
They are the present.
The beat of The Beatles is the past.
Comedians have a way of finding grains of truth to sell as laughter.
Woody Allen, a child with his own problems, like all of us, found one.
He explored it in the film Midnight in Paris.
If we travel to a beloved past we encounter people in love with an even more ancient past.
Time-travel machines are not a reality.
Not yet, though.
You are the present.
Are you among us?
If not, where is She?
Your Seagullese grand-uncle,
António
