Smoking your socks
...plus my profound gratitude
In the late 70s, when I was in my late 30s, spaceships kept landing in small-town America.
That's why Richard Dreyfuss had a close encounter of the third kind, why 10-year-old Elliott found a cute extraterrestrial in his garden shed, and why one night in 1978, two oversized eggs landed on the outskirts of Boulder, Colorado.
One contained Mork, who was sent by his Leader to study humans. Fyi, the second egg contained Mork’s suitcase. He was planning to stay for a while.
Mork was befriended by Mindy, a young journalism graduate, who let him live in her attic. She also agreed to teach him human manners. Manners were likely more prevalent then than they are now.
At the end of each show, Mork reported to Orson, as in Welles, to explain human customs, reproductive practices and electrical appliances. Orson couldn't believe what he heard and, reprovingly, asked him if he’d been smoking his socks again.
Imagine a 3-dimensional object shaped like a brain, made of soft plastic pieces that come apart. That’s my brain on brain damage. Raise your hand if you’ve ever felt like you’re not good enough, you’re not smart enough, or tough enough, or quick enough or something-or-other-else enough. Then add a TBI.
History is one part memory and two parts whose voices are heard, whose lives are recorded, whose lives people care about.
Brain damaged people don’t record or get recorded, don’t remember much, don’t write books, don’t win awards, and don’t make history. Yet in the last few weeks, my work was nominated for Best American Essay and for The Pushcart Prize.
I am very deeply grateful to the judges and to you, my readers, too. Thank you.
I am honored by your words.
Thank you so mucb for your words!