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Notably, O'Kibosh doesn't face child pornography charges.Instead, he's charged under lesser-used federal statutes related to sexual exploitation of children, obscenity, and immoral travel (the Mann Act)—offenses related to recent congressional bills on warrantless email snooping, police wiretapping, and online publishing, among other things.But cheer up: if I reverse things and cover my right eye, there you are, back again. Well, pretty great, unless I’ve forgotten to take a couple of Tylenols in the past four or five hours, in which case I’ve begun to feel some jagged little pains shooting down my left forearm and into the base of the thumb. Like many men and women my age, I get around with a couple of arterial stents that keep my heart chunking.If I take my hand away and look at you with both eyes, the empty hole disappears and you’re in 3-D, and actually looking pretty terrific today. I also sport a minute plastic seashell that clamps shut a congenital hole in my heart, discovered in my early eighties.
And the Stop Enabling Sex Traffickers Act (SESTA)—a misleadingly named bill that actually hinders efforts to stop sexual exploitation—would amend Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act to deny legal immunity to websites and services whose sites were found to enable certain sex crimes.
Decline and disaster impend, but my thoughts don’t linger there. Why do they sustain me so, cheer me up, remind me of life? In the days before Carol died, twenty months ago, she lay semiconscious in bed at home, alternating periods of faint or imperceptible breathing with deep, shuddering catch-up breaths. Intimates and my family—mine not very near me now but always on call, always with me.
It shouldn’t surprise me if at this time next week I’m surrounded by family, gathered on short notice—they’re sad and shocked but also a little pissed off to be here—to help decide, after what’s happened, what’s to be done with me now. ” they kindly cry when they happen upon me crossing the street or exiting a dinghy or departing an X-ray room, while the little balloon over their heads reads, “Holy Let’s move on. Terriers aren’t water dogs, but Harry enjoyed kayaking in Maine, sitting like a figurehead between my knees for an hour or more and scoping out the passing cormorant or yachtsman. Then, in a delicate gesture, she would run the pointed tip of her tongue lightly around the upper curve of her teeth. I’ve forgotten, perhaps mercifully, much of what happened in that last week and the weeks after, but this recurs. For almost a year, I would wake up from another late-afternoon mini-nap in the same living-room chair, and, in the instants before clarity, would sense her sitting in her own chair, just opposite. I can’t do this and it eats at me, but then, without announcement or connection, something turns up. My children Alice and John Henry and my daughter-in-law Alice—yes, another one—and my granddaughters Laura and Lily and Clara, who together and separately were as steely and resplendent as a company of Marines on the day we buried Carol. Laura, for example, who will appear almost overnight, on demand, to drive me and my dog and my stuff five hundred miles Down East, then does it again, backward, later in the summer.
It must be this hovering knowledge, that two-ton safe swaying on a frayed rope just over my head, that makes everyone so glad to see me again. A smooth fox terrier of ours named Harry was full of surprises. Back in the city, he established his personality and dashing good looks on the neighborhood to the extent that a local artist executed a striking head-on portrait in pointillist oils, based on a snapshot of him she’d sneaked in Central Park. Not a ghost but a presence, alive as before and in the same instant gone again. I am walking on Ludlow Lane, in Snedens, with my two young daughters, years ago on a summer morning. Hours of talk and sleep (mine, not hers) and renewal—the abandoned mills at Lawrence, Mass., Cat Mousam Road, the Narramissic River still there—plus a couple of nights together, with the summer candles again.
Wildly sociable, like others of his breed, he grew a fraction more reserved in maturity, and learned to cultivate a separate wagging acquaintance with each fresh visitor or old pal he came upon in the living room. Harry took his leave (another surprise) on a June afternoon three years ago, a few days after his eighth birthday. This happened often, and I almost came to count on it, knowing that it wouldn’t last. People my age and younger friends as well seem able to recall entire tapestries of childhood, and swatches from their children’s early lives as well: conversations, exact meals, birthday parties, illnesses, picnics, vacation B. I’m in my late thirties; they’re about nine and six, and I’m complaining about the steep little stretch of road between us and our house, just up the hill. Then I say that one day I’ll be really old and they’ll have to hold me up. Stuff I get excited about or depressed about all the time. Perhaps with a blog recently posted on Facebook by a woman I know who lives in Australia. Friends in great numbers now, taking me to dinner or cooking in for me.