I was almost perfectly relaxed, tranquil, even. I had no job, no plans, no prospects, no vision for the future, but everything was going to be alright.

I wanted the serenity and security of Bertrand Russell. Bertrand Russell wasn’t forcing me to go bowling and drink beer, then spend the rest of the day in a deep existential fog. Maybe there was still time to cancel, I thought. Maybe I could back out.

BERTRAND RUSSELL AND MY SUMMER IN THE SUN BY STEVEN MCBREARTY 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 61

Slathered in suntan lotion, supplemented by an occasional targeted spray of OFF, I sat in a recliner chair reading Bertrand Russell’s History of Western Philosophy in the backyard of my family’s pink-brick ranch-style home in suburban San Antonio, TX., in 1975. It was summertime, late morning, getting hot already. At just this moment in time, I was almost perfectly relaxed, tranquil, even. The fact that I had no job, no plans, no prospects, no vision for the future, seemed somehow to produce a bubble of serenity that everything was going to be alright. The past seemed erased. Everything was now in the present. The book, a hearty swig of canned Cok…