“The secret of a good old age is simply an honorable pact with solitude.” Gabriel García Márquez
I was thinking. I purposely wrote that, because I am pretty much always thinking. No, I am not Rain Man, guessing exactly how many of my long, white hairs will fall out of my head in a day. Although, I always look for those elusive bastards, when the light is just right on my floor. This thing I do, I have been doing for as long as I can remember.
I have been listening to this silent voice forever, which is what I kind of want to talk about. I know what got me on this jag in the first place and I’ll get there in a second. I have always wondered what you think about, what anyone thinks about?
When I had decided on the name for my worst-selling memoir, Halloween in Portland, it is the subheading that really matters to me. It is, Diary of a Mind. Each time I sat down to write, I knew what I was going to write about, but I let my mind do what it’s always done. It talks to me and we have the best conversations of my life, hands down. Transcribing was a pure joy.
I don’t want to sound like a pompous asshole, when I say that the only reason I share these stories is for you, not me. The shit I write about is stuff rolling around my head and heart. I own it all. Honest to God, I have no idea where I even got the idea I could write a memoir for my grandson. I tell you, love is a funny business. It can make you do shit you never imagined. I never imagined it would become my passion, so many years after those very first lines:
Today is Monday, October 31, 2011, a very momentous day for me and hopefully for you as well. Let me introduce myself to you, Shane, I am your father’s father, which of course makes me your grandfather. My name is Larry Feinstein.
How in God’s name could I have any idea what anyone is thinking or how they are put together? I don’t know if I made a conscious decision to be as honest as I could with you, or I simply wasn’t smart enough to bullshit you. Yeah, I have an ulterior motive or two about my writing. Every word I write is for my grandson, from me to him. After that, I hope at least one person gets just one thing from any of my stories.
I have been sensing a change in that voice, my internal, inaudible companion. My voice never fell off a cliff in puberty, from choir boy to cave man. It’s always been the constant two of us, always familiar. The internal voice and the 100% agreeable and captive listener. We are the best of friends. We are never alone, although I really know better, but don’t say anything.
I now sense a real distance in my interior view. I am thinking in landscapes, with a feeling of immensity. When I look around inside, I sense these panoramic pieces of an infinite puzzle. I think I could be having an IMAX moment.
The path of the passage of time gets narrower and more singular as it climbs. Sometimes, I feel like my life language is getting harder to translate, because of its creeping singularity.
I have been going off by myself way more than usual. I have heard so many conversations, repeated so many times in my life, I feel like I don’t want to hear them anymore. My patience is thinner than ever. At the same time, I understand the risk this poses for me and my upward climb on that damn path.
Somewhere in all this, I thought about being like an old house. It’s been around a long time, which is quite obvious from its appearance. It looks like it has so much more to say than a brand new one. The longer you’re here, the more stories you get to wear, externally and internally and it shows.
Life is not always about what’s said and seen. No one could ever hear my conversations with myself, because they have no voice. They are forgotten as quickly as they form, flowing one to the next. It’s like the interior of this stoic structure is filled with magical memories and neon colors of a life-time spent trying to figure out what the fuck this is all about.
I find I am withdrawing more and more into that internal, one-way conversation. Trust me, it’s a weird place to be, now, in my life, because it feels like it has no precedent. How could it? I have never been here before. The older you get, the more cards you have in your hand. The odds inevitably increase for a royal flush as your final shuffle. I don’t care what you think, I like that idea.
I guess I am learning to embrace that idea of solitude, but maybe not what you think. It has such a rich feel to it for me. Sometimes, I find myself trying to piece together some of the incredible things I’ve been privileged to experience in my life. It is such a wonderful feeling and I don’t know who to thank.
I am also not quite done yet.
Thank you.