At one time or another I have known them all: big time dope dealers on the lam, two bit starving artists, half-baked evangelicals, would be rock and rollers, heathens and whores, the black sheep sons and daughters of the well-to-do, the code slingers and world burners. I have known them all and more. I am one of them. Daniel Portillo Harsh, high rise ledge walker, time and space traveler, empressario of experience at your service. Danny Boy.
In another life, I might have been a writer, a poet, perhaps. This life, however, is the only life I have ever known. And in this life I haven't had the courage or the single mindedness for literary pursuits. I have experienced poetical moments of course, times of intense passion, of True Living, and at these times I have written about them, occasionally sharing my efforts with friends and lovers, who, like the victims of some incomprehensible perversion more often than not have responded with pained, almost imperceptible nods. I have always assumed that they must pity me for the meagerness of my talent, and over time I have learned to keep my musings to myself.
I think, however, we are all similar in our yearnings to share our innermost thoughts with some one else. We are like bottles stuffed with messages, cast out into an ocean clogged with millions of other bottles filled with millions of other messages. Against all odds, we seem programmed to hope that someday some special audience will randomly connect with us, that this special audience will be transformed by the messages we contain, and that we in turn will be transformed too.
On the other hand, how often such miracles might occur and how transformative they might be, I am in no position to say. Sadly, I am allergic to brine and tend to avoid the shore and the detritus that litters it, no matter how insistent, or attractive, the invitation is to spend time there.