Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Letter to a Boy Unknown
Though I asked around, no one could remember who you were or (as we say of children) who you belonged to.
I have a message for you anyway: a message, and a blessing.
In the photo, you're five, maybe six years old. You're curled up on the couch next to young Damien, arm slung around his neck, cheek pressed to his.
You are radiantly happy.
Ah, young Damien: beautiful son of perfectly ordinary-looking parents. Leading-man looks, and indeed, his acting career took off from there. I gather that he's still doing stand-up these days.
Damien. He does look a tad embarrassed by your unabashed adulation. Seventeen, eighteen, maybe, at the peak of his shine; does he understand what's really going on here? Regardless, he receives it magnanimously, bless him for it.
And you. I look at your picture, and I think: 60 years ago, that would have been me.
In any given place, you seek that beauty, and when you find it, you gravitate: as water flows downhill, as a wandering planet draws nigh its fated star. Why, you don't know; it never occurs even to ask. But when you see it, you fly to it, as by nature. Given a place there, you rest content. From here, as Plato would have it, all the rest of the good unfolds.
You'll be a young man by now. I hope life has been kind to you.
Live well, live free. May the Beautiful always lead you to the Good.
Happy Pride.
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