what i didn’t learn at swarthmore

I didn’t learn anything at swarthmore.

I did not take a class on logic there whereby I gained an ivy league sense of rationale.

I do not know if the IV league was once a football circuit. Where perhaps brawn was conflated into the elite narrative. The one that keeps evolving.

I did not learn that people are simple and wholly defined by their pareto optimality and then undone by the sheer limits of homo economicus. On paper.

I did not learn to see complexity — be drawn to it — and then stumble upon the reality that it is best — most seriously — used as an excuse for how things have to be.

I did not learn to accept such realities at swarthmore. That patience would bring me back around to rationale and I would keep a place open in my heart for the rape of money.

No, I learned that the hard way.

I went to Rutgers, the state school of New Jersey, in Camden. I lived across the river briefly in Philadelphia, but never got to visit Swarthmore, Pennsylvania.

Not a sports fan, I never even saw a match with the scarlet raptors emerging the victors. But I suppose they could have if — on their game — when pit against a superior football league.

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We first chatted on Facebook. We were perhaps ‘friends’ who didn’t actually know each other. I may have seen him on Grindr or a sex app, but not so sure. I have seen him at at least 20 dark parties si

I’m writing a book on my mid-life crisis it would seem. A mantra for the second half-life has begun to emerge this catharsis: Talk to who you get to talk to (relate to them) … and try not to get hurt.

A friend and colleague once asked me a few times, why I care so much? I was recently home to Tennessee and I was reminded of the mega-computer of DNA. That I am my father’s son. As much as I don’t wan