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John Palcewski's Journal

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Ultimate Defense

On Thanksgiving I finally yielded to grim acceptance that my children—and four or five grandchildren—are permanently out of my life. Their choice, not mine. Whose fault it is, and whether I deserve it or not, are irrelevant speculations. This just IS, and apparently was meant to be.

Usually in this kind of event I’d be tapping out a torrent of curses and obscenities, but instead I was on a bus, taking shots of a deserted Newark Airport, then later of people and scenes I encountered as I wandered the streets of the city.

It’s peculiar: I felt Thursday and feel now no anger, no regret, no self-pity, no sadness, nothing. A numbed state—the ultimate defense.

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They will love the pix -- you're a brilliant photographer.

All any of us -- members of that scattered league of fallen angels -- can do is learn from our mistakes and resolve not to repeat them.

Kind of you to say, thanks. Yes. Resolved, determined, because payback's a bitch.

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