Sleepless in November

[Michael Brown]

I send you cards, Christmas, Get Well, Be My Friend, that reveal my heart like a sign hanging in a loan company's window, unblinking, but saying OPEN even when it is not. Where can I find you on this dreary November morning? At noon, or thereabout, a few of us are heading out to visit the Space Needle, and then I will have an overview of all the miles I walked yesterday, only to return to my cavelike room emptyhanded. Last night, I heard something on the TV which sounded like, "Anthony needs a recharge," and I thought, "What a coincidence, so do I." Here, where it is dark most of the time, and we do dinner early, I often eat alone, then read for a while until I get tired, but stay awake smoking until my cigarettes run out, and drinking coffee until dawn, when I can go down, unshaved, unshowered to the AM/PM to stock up on more supplies. If other friends did not suggest noontime excursions, I would most likely hibernate through winter, or walk until my feet dropped off, or continue writing out cards with ineffective messages waiting for a true reply.

 

 

 

[Toby Tucker Hecht]

Whether we live alone or with someone or with a whole family, sometimes we all feel like this--utterly lonely. 

[Edward Dean]

I'm ditto to all the others on the opening line Michael. That is a masterful piece of prosaic writing.

As for the rest, it is a word painting that would proudly hang in any art gallery.

There is a catharsis in your recent style that is an absolute grabber.

[Bill Floyd]

I spent a week in Seattle once and I loved the place, but those who require sunshine are gonna be in for a rough ride.  I really love the line about "a sign hanging in a loan company's window...saying OPEN even when it is not."  That speaks volumes.  The descriptions here are gorgeous, the loneliness palpable.  Stay strong, and maybe consider a visit to Sedona... :) 

[Jeanette Cheezum]

Nice 6. I don't whether to applaud or send you a hug. Since I'm a hug monster...(((Hugs))).

[Gita]

Not to be outdone by Teresa, I shall call you Mr. Yellow Shirt, too.  You have a way of describing solitude that tugs at all the empty places inside of me. This piece makes me honestly wonder why anyone woud live in Seattle. Or vacation there!  And then there's this: I send you cards, Christmas, Get Well, Be My Friend, that reveal my heart like a sign hanging in a loan company's window, unblinking, but saying OPEN even when it is not.   You are SO GOOD. I wish I could have seen you write that particular line.  I wish you had vacationed in Alabama. I wish you had someone who loves you madly all the time.

[Teresa]

I really, really, really dig memoir if this is at all nonfiction.  We see ourselves as so far beyond/above the sunflowers and cheetahs, the orbiting planets, excited electrons banging around, but when you really peer into the tiny details of a life and lay them out bit by bit, there are patterns, interconnections.  After a while the patterns start to make sense and for me it didn't really happen until recently but it's there, the "all is relative" truth.  It's actually comforting, and I love to snuggle up to the private lives of others too, partly due to a strong voyeuristic streak, and partly to compare patterns and determine where we are on this map which just might end up being someplace mimicking things like star births and deaths, cell division, photosynthesis.  Love may dance in the same ways atoms spin, etc.  For us it's deep and dramatic, unique to us, a perk of having a "higher" mind.  From deep space, we're just like every other living thing, chasing its tail.  Still, every human tale is fascinating, especially when expressed by a word wizard like you, Mr. Yellow Shirt.  You could write about brushing your teeth and I'd be satisfied.

[Sandra Davies]

Never having lived alone I frequently feel somehow untested, and now it is a skill which I admire but cannot imagine acquiring.   In a way this tells me why I am right to do so.