Sippican Cottage

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A Man Who Has Nothing In Particular To Recommend Him Discusses All Sorts of Subjects at Random as Though He Knew Everything

Spinning Alone In Space

It’s a strange world I inhabit.

In my head, I mean. My mind does not seem to function as it did before. It may be just that, seeming, but it may be a shift. I don’t know. I don’t care.

I used to be a little filing cabinet. Annoying or delighting adults to taste. I imagine my mother way back when, with her back pressed firmly on the bathroom door, eyes closed for a long moment, while my little chrysalis paced the tiny hall of our equally tiny house and waited to launch into it again. Everything I knew, all at once, in a row.

Things are different now. I don’t see things. My head is full, or empty, I’m not sure which. I am passing into a world of metaphor and ghosts and stories, and nothing else.

I took my little boy to the Farmington Fair. It was as close to fun as we could muster, for him and for us. There is no fun for me, but his. I stood there, slackjawed like the stranger I am. The locals perhaps mistook me for a stranger because I am not yet, and will likely never be, from here. I’m not sure I’m from anywhere. That wasn’t what made me a stranger there. I was a stranger to them, and all mankind. There was nothing factual and real there for me. Only metaphor.

If there was a purpose to the steady disassembling of this world, with nothing to replace it, I do not see it. And the vision of the last child spinning alone on a shabby carnival ride haunts me still. A creature that does not wish to replicate itself doesn’t deserve to live.

5 Responses

  1. Come to where I am. There's too many of us, all trying to get not just on the same kitschy carnival ride, but the same car on the same ride. Just for the wanton pleasure of getting something before the next guy does. All those available cars, and everyone jostling to the same one, and they all just go in the same little circle, anyway.

  2. Life is often a dreary mess. A muddy dooryard full of racoon torn garbage bags.

    I am consoled by one thing. God wins in the end.

  3. But you are a loving dad, and even if you felt like !@#$, your wonderful kid will remember the expedition with you.

    That Pink Floyd yowl about
    "Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way" applies to what a lot of us feel, especially as the shadows of the year lengthen and the leaves pulp.

    You're a wonderful writer, no matter how much you may feel that life sucks. Seeing things as they really are can isolate one, so thank God for your beloved family, and remember that we all think you are great.

  4. I'm going to be presumptuous here and say that the last time I heard you write anything like this you were quite ill. I hope all is well with you and yours and wonder if there's anything we your readers can do for you. I know there are many others beside myself who regard you quite highly. We might as well all hang together as twist in the wind all alone.

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