“It’s amazing what you can get done by yourself, and with the help of friends. In fading light, the majestic peaks eventually go dark, but what is remembered are the times all of it seemed secure. How I miss certain phases of my life, when the illusion of joint purpose came on to me, as love. And we do use each other. If that’s bad, I don’t know, but it’s as human as apple pie, in the wild west of existence. None of it will ever be accurately measured, or fairly calculated, that I did this for you, whereas you did this for me, and the net result was thus and such. No. Our memory of things comes in pictures. Your hair hanging down across your face, as you dug into a guitar solo. The soft gestures of your arms swooping & lifting in a dance of meal preparation, as I sat with my drink, and watched, entranced. The way you strode the car lot, to talk to a mechanic, and took charge of my repair. Or brought me flowers, embarrassed, from Shaws. I’ll never forget the sound of your skis, as I gave you permission to leave me behind, to take the hill at speed. You all cared enough to ask, to worry, to fret on my behalf. As if my frailties counted. They did, for a while. Then, the inevitable, returning of objects. Guitars left in trust, sentimental keepsakes, odd ball family heirlooms, the expensive gifts that felt wrong to keep, but felt wrong to give back. Your daughter’s plastic doll couch, the ugly house plant dating back to your dead mother, an overpayment you made to me for something I never did. I feel it all. I plan to shake it all off, but at least honor the things you didn’t get from me. The hopes I dashed, the ways I fell short. All the years & years I was unable to stand by your side, or defend your position. Walking north, while others flocked south, it was never my intention. We’re wired, and it’s karmic. We’re wired, and if you thought you knew me, I was just an iceberg to you peeking up over a vast ocean, timid and mute as you misunderstood who you were dealing with. And as I’ve mentioned before, dragging furniture through the snow a few feet at a time feels unjust in some ways, like a violation, like subterfuge, and well, like no one cares. And exactly because of this I will not mind my own business & forget, but rather hold one or two scoundrels accountable for their unremarkable crimes. So don’t be surprised that I take advice selectively. When I couldn’t reach anyone I used to know before COVID, because they all circled their wagons, I had to rework my universe. I tried to reach a few legislators. I got a yurt, a new wood stove and some balls that I guess I didn’t have already. These seem to be working for me now.”
