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 all right.

The past seemed erased. Everything was now in the present.

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 Coke, perspiration rolling down my bare back—I wore swim trunks only—all made for a congenial, dreamy, soporific effect. My life was going nowhere, but life seemed good. Crepe myrtle and bougainv…