longer than you have â¦Â especially when they have something to say thatâs still important for you to hear.
So I regret that part of me was always wondering how much longer I could sit in the chair across from him without jumping up, moving my body somehow, screaming. I regret that part of me was always wondering how I could come up with an insightful, coherent, or even relevant response when so much of my attention was always being wrestled back to earth by this weight I was carrying.
Iâm sure my mother had made some reference to my bafflingly fragile state in one of their occasional phone calls. But Iâm equally sure that he would have considered it an affliction that, while troubling in someone you love, should simply be overcomeâwhetherthrough medication, hospitalization, or preferably, sheer will. Certainly, he had more to be depressed about than I did. Most of his comrades in arms had died. Most of the citrus trees that surrounded him and my godmother Lil when they moved there, had been replaced with developments.
That was, of course, the last time I saw him. I donât regret forgetting the stories. Iâm terrible at remembering stories. I just regret not really being able to be there.
I know full well that this regret is more for myself than for him.
March 21, 2006: Phoenix, Arizona to Santa Monica, California. 402 Miles
. The trouble with listening to books on CD is that if I miss a single sentence, I have to go back and play it again. And again. And again. Until I can keep my attention there for the entire five seconds it takes to comprehend it. A combination of obsession and a tenuous grasp on the literal.
Susan Orlean has traveled more and to stranger places than I ever will. And writes about them better:
Thereâs nothing that has quite the dull thud of being by yourself in a place you donât know, surrounded by people you donât recognize and to whom you mean nothing. But thatâs what being a writer requires â¦Â I know where Iâm heading. Iâm heading home. But on the way there, I see so many corners to round and doors to open, so many encounters to chance upon, so many tiny moments to stumble into that tell huge stories that I remember exactly why I took this particular path
.
I hear that, burst into tears, pull into the next rest area, and look at the display maps of Arizona Highways, hoping that somehow theyâll tell me where Iâve been and where Iâm going.
Something in me just hasnât surrendered yet. Thereâs too much to take in â¦Â too much to know. You canât know every little thing. You canât be aware of every little thing. I have a Talmudic brain and Iâm trying to grasp instead of experiencing. Iâm trying to rememberthings without even seeing them. Iâm worrying my way across America, trying to parse out the lives of all the people I see â¦Â and mine. What are they doing? Why? What am I doing. Why?
Most of the time I donât know where I am. I donât know where Iâm going to sleep. I donât know where Iâm going to get a cup of decent coffee. I donât know the names of the plants. I donât know the names of the mountain ranges. The people in the cars passing and being passed feel so insubstantial.
Itâs a foolâs errand. But who better?
March 22, 2006: Santa Monica, California
. I emerge from the Arizona desert late in the afternoon, white-knuckle the van down various LA expressways at rush hour and find my way to my cousinâs house in Santa Monica. The next morning we take a walk in the Santa Monica hills with her jet-black retriever.
Like most geographically-distant relatives, we rarely see each other, but are inexpressibly close. Once we get past the basicsâin particular, what our kids are doing and how they should meet each other someday but probably never willâwe get down to the serious business of our shared
So I regret that part of me was always wondering how much longer I could sit in the chair across from him without jumping up, moving my body somehow, screaming. I regret that part of me was always wondering how I could come up with an insightful, coherent, or even relevant response when so much of my attention was always being wrestled back to earth by this weight I was carrying.
Iâm sure my mother had made some reference to my bafflingly fragile state in one of their occasional phone calls. But Iâm equally sure that he would have considered it an affliction that, while troubling in someone you love, should simply be overcomeâwhetherthrough medication, hospitalization, or preferably, sheer will. Certainly, he had more to be depressed about than I did. Most of his comrades in arms had died. Most of the citrus trees that surrounded him and my godmother Lil when they moved there, had been replaced with developments.
That was, of course, the last time I saw him. I donât regret forgetting the stories. Iâm terrible at remembering stories. I just regret not really being able to be there.
I know full well that this regret is more for myself than for him.
March 21, 2006: Phoenix, Arizona to Santa Monica, California. 402 Miles
. The trouble with listening to books on CD is that if I miss a single sentence, I have to go back and play it again. And again. And again. Until I can keep my attention there for the entire five seconds it takes to comprehend it. A combination of obsession and a tenuous grasp on the literal.
Susan Orlean has traveled more and to stranger places than I ever will. And writes about them better:
Thereâs nothing that has quite the dull thud of being by yourself in a place you donât know, surrounded by people you donât recognize and to whom you mean nothing. But thatâs what being a writer requires â¦Â I know where Iâm heading. Iâm heading home. But on the way there, I see so many corners to round and doors to open, so many encounters to chance upon, so many tiny moments to stumble into that tell huge stories that I remember exactly why I took this particular path
.
I hear that, burst into tears, pull into the next rest area, and look at the display maps of Arizona Highways, hoping that somehow theyâll tell me where Iâve been and where Iâm going.
Something in me just hasnât surrendered yet. Thereâs too much to take in â¦Â too much to know. You canât know every little thing. You canât be aware of every little thing. I have a Talmudic brain and Iâm trying to grasp instead of experiencing. Iâm trying to rememberthings without even seeing them. Iâm worrying my way across America, trying to parse out the lives of all the people I see â¦Â and mine. What are they doing? Why? What am I doing. Why?
Most of the time I donât know where I am. I donât know where Iâm going to sleep. I donât know where Iâm going to get a cup of decent coffee. I donât know the names of the plants. I donât know the names of the mountain ranges. The people in the cars passing and being passed feel so insubstantial.
Itâs a foolâs errand. But who better?
March 22, 2006: Santa Monica, California
. I emerge from the Arizona desert late in the afternoon, white-knuckle the van down various LA expressways at rush hour and find my way to my cousinâs house in Santa Monica. The next morning we take a walk in the Santa Monica hills with her jet-black retriever.
Like most geographically-distant relatives, we rarely see each other, but are inexpressibly close. Once we get past the basicsâin particular, what our kids are doing and how they should meet each other someday but probably never willâwe get down to the serious business of our shared
Similar Books
