My writing is born from the gestation of quiet days reliving the screaming memories and realities looping in my mind. Writing are small moments in time where I throw on the page musings of this and that. All the dusty bric-a-brac of a mind fighting to find meaning and purpose. Fighting to have a place at the table of humanity.
When the piece is completed the button called publish is tapped, the words are alive and vibrant. In that moment. The words are a selfie pose flashing the victory sign and frozen in a static moment. And then, time moves over, under, and around the words smoothing them without changing them. Time changes, the words don't. For all intents and purposes these new words are locked in the amber of that moment. Relevant to that moment alone.
I thought it would be an exercise for no end or purpose to look at writings/post from 'then' and examine them in the 'now'. All with the idea, does then resonate within me now? What has changed? How to characterize that change?
November 2018 "The Idiosyncratic Nature Of Grief And the Benefits of Solitude" was posted. The word solitude caught my eye since it's nearly two years into pandemic and this was posted November 2018 well before our collective cluster fuck. That post was examining Teri Gross's (Fresh Air) interview with Fenton Johnson essay about 'Going it Alone and the Importance of Solitude'.
"So what does solitude offer and give to Johnson? Clearly he misses the sex of a relationship but not the act as much as the before and after the arguments and bickering. And asks what can replace that? A quiet room, the autumn light, silence at the core of being that is his/ours. To live for the changing light seems enough he pens. Can I do that? Can I find peace at being at peace? For me I miss the challenge of someone smarter than me. I miss Donna's ability to cut to the point, find the perfect something, and make me laugh."
He brings this essay to a close with the reality that solitary’s journey is not free of pain and suffering. Freedom, liberation, and peace runs through suffering. “The self is the vehicle, that boat that takes us from loneliness to aloneness—that takes us on the journey to solitude.” I agree, my boat is my loss and all that surrounds it."
I ended the post with this:
The smallest measure of success is to find a way to write meaningful posts with out the struggle. Second, to find a way to live and not shut myself out. Third, actively participate in my life each day with me. These are simple moments and ideas but they need to be applied and measured and examined. Sitting here and writing. Sorting this out to be published is my vow. It is my mission and goal.
Here I am November 2021 three years after this post. A year and three quarters into the pandemic, forced isolation, and the false god of solitude. My mission and goals from 2018 are side eyeing me.
Durning this 'solitude' I become a crisis counselor and found a voice to help those struggling. My voice is well regarded in a community that embraced and loved recklessly all who entered. A year and half later meh. The community is just employees on the 29th floor of a glass enclosed corporation. Posters of meme's litter the break room walls self aggrandize the corporation, look how amazing we are. Please abide by our SOP. Shrug. Those struggling in a crisis who may benefit from my voice as beacon to help them find a path is reason. Reason enough to continue without corporate validation. Though I am finding slathering myself with affirmations is wearing thin. I mean it's like trying to get up off the sofa as you age ungracefully. A challenge not dissimilar to seeking meaning and purpose again.
I am writing another book or longish story which has so many triggers for others it will remain in my possession until it's read after my death. Then any triggers are someone else's problem.
My solitude (with all of Johnson's associated benefits) is isolation plan and simple. I do have friends that I can call. To say what? I'm going to see friends if the pandemic will allow. I go to concerts, plays, and volunteer. I push to be relevant to others and myself. I'm told I am but, my brain says differently. What I believe is meaning and purpose for me is in truth compare and despair. When I do hang with others I’m blessed to be part of something that resonates joy in me.
Time that flowed over my original words brought me to here and now. To this state of non-being. This place of nothing matters. The anger at being me. The original post is accurate and filled with hope and promise. Has the measure of hope and promise changed with the movement of time and my own self-awareness. Perhaps is it more to the point that Johnson makes "stories of solitude that is neither tragic or bad luck but a part of who they are" and I am my isolation.
"The Goldfinch" by Donna Tartt has this quote that just points to what I wrote then was a quant history.
"But depression wasn't the word. This was a plunge encompassing sorrow and revulsion far beyond the personal: a sick, drenching nausea at all humanity and human endeavor from the dawn of time. The writhing loathsomeness of the biological order. Old age, sickness, death. No escape for anyone. ...boring jobs and ruinous mortgages and bad marriages and hair loss and hip replacements and lonely cups of coffee in an empty house and a colostomy bag at the hospital. Most people seemed satisfied with the thin decorative glaze and the artful stage lighting that, sometimes, made the bedrock atrocity of the human predicament look somewhat more mysterious or less abhorrent."
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