that overlooked the water and the incoming sailboats.
“So what's the big announcement? Have you finished, are you submitting, what?” my mother asked, fiddling with her wine glass.
Tristan leveled a gaze at both of us and said, “I am done. I mean, I gave it up. What a relief too. I didn't know it was possible to feel this bad.”
My mother and I stared at each other. Finally she said, “What do you mean you gave it up? Not your work…you don't give up your work.”
“That's what I thought, but it turns out, it's easy. I boxed up everything I had and stuck it in the closet. I cleaned off my desk and there it is. I have started packing to move out. That should make you happy,” my brother said, frowning.
“I don't get it,” I said.
“I don't either,” my mother interjected, bumping her wine glass as she leaned toward him, sloshing some of the contents onto the table top. “I never said anything about you living in the basement. What will I do without you? Who will help me prune the trees, burn the trash, what about the rose bushes…”
“Where will you go? Are you getting a job?” I asked.
“I think the next step will be to figure out where I belong.”
“So you are going to teach!” I clasped my hands. My mother looked confused. I plowed on; she could catch up. “Here or in Seattle? Or maybe you could look for a position in some cool location, oh, like how about some fancy European boarding school! You could call it a vacation! I would come visit you, even help you move.” I felt relief and excitement at the possibilities available for him.
I turned to my mother whose expression was still skeptical, but she was going along. “Or what about The University of Montana? They would love to have you back.”
Tristan's expression did not match my growing excitement. “I'm not going back to teaching. I'm going to have Uncle Curtis send me a chunk from the trust for a down payment. Probably get a small place in the city, maybe near you, Slug.”
“That would be cool…you could crash on my couch while you look for a place…but why don't you want to go back to teaching, or is it because you're going back to music?” I said this last bit hopefully, but his face didn't change. It was sinking in that he meant giving up more than writing—he was giving up everything that made him creative or even useful. I flashed to an image of him sipping out of a paper-wrapped bottle under a grimy overpass, his beard and hair tangled and clotted with bits of detritus. “How can you just quit? A break maybe…not giving it up.”
“You're dipping into your trust again?” Mother was displeased.
“Last week I felt really good, it was like I was channeling the universe and everything that worked was there. It was so easy, Slug, you wouldn't believe it, then I woke up this morning and was reading it all over again, twenty-five brand-new pages, and I saw it so clearly, it's all shit, nothing has changed. This is just like song writing. The problem is still me.”
“Are you high?” I asked, joking but watching his eyes as he responded.
He laughed and then grew serious. “There is no more color in the world. It's all fake, like the whole world went gray, or worse, it always was and someone came back and tried to put color on top of everything so it would look right but now I can see that it's just…” he moved his hands in front of his face like a magician would, opening and closing his fingers, “an illusion.”
I turned to my mother. “He's high.” How could I deal with this level of disconnection? My vision of working him toward a reimagined teaching career seemed incredibly lame next to the way he looked now; disconnected, very wrong, too peaceful, too accepting, too easy.
“I am not high…not yet.” He gave me small grin. “I'm thirty-six now. I am just finally seeing everything the way it really is and something has to change.”
I woke up the next morning with a jolt, out of a vague dream about
“So what's the big announcement? Have you finished, are you submitting, what?” my mother asked, fiddling with her wine glass.
Tristan leveled a gaze at both of us and said, “I am done. I mean, I gave it up. What a relief too. I didn't know it was possible to feel this bad.”
My mother and I stared at each other. Finally she said, “What do you mean you gave it up? Not your work…you don't give up your work.”
“That's what I thought, but it turns out, it's easy. I boxed up everything I had and stuck it in the closet. I cleaned off my desk and there it is. I have started packing to move out. That should make you happy,” my brother said, frowning.
“I don't get it,” I said.
“I don't either,” my mother interjected, bumping her wine glass as she leaned toward him, sloshing some of the contents onto the table top. “I never said anything about you living in the basement. What will I do without you? Who will help me prune the trees, burn the trash, what about the rose bushes…”
“Where will you go? Are you getting a job?” I asked.
“I think the next step will be to figure out where I belong.”
“So you are going to teach!” I clasped my hands. My mother looked confused. I plowed on; she could catch up. “Here or in Seattle? Or maybe you could look for a position in some cool location, oh, like how about some fancy European boarding school! You could call it a vacation! I would come visit you, even help you move.” I felt relief and excitement at the possibilities available for him.
I turned to my mother whose expression was still skeptical, but she was going along. “Or what about The University of Montana? They would love to have you back.”
Tristan's expression did not match my growing excitement. “I'm not going back to teaching. I'm going to have Uncle Curtis send me a chunk from the trust for a down payment. Probably get a small place in the city, maybe near you, Slug.”
“That would be cool…you could crash on my couch while you look for a place…but why don't you want to go back to teaching, or is it because you're going back to music?” I said this last bit hopefully, but his face didn't change. It was sinking in that he meant giving up more than writing—he was giving up everything that made him creative or even useful. I flashed to an image of him sipping out of a paper-wrapped bottle under a grimy overpass, his beard and hair tangled and clotted with bits of detritus. “How can you just quit? A break maybe…not giving it up.”
“You're dipping into your trust again?” Mother was displeased.
“Last week I felt really good, it was like I was channeling the universe and everything that worked was there. It was so easy, Slug, you wouldn't believe it, then I woke up this morning and was reading it all over again, twenty-five brand-new pages, and I saw it so clearly, it's all shit, nothing has changed. This is just like song writing. The problem is still me.”
“Are you high?” I asked, joking but watching his eyes as he responded.
He laughed and then grew serious. “There is no more color in the world. It's all fake, like the whole world went gray, or worse, it always was and someone came back and tried to put color on top of everything so it would look right but now I can see that it's just…” he moved his hands in front of his face like a magician would, opening and closing his fingers, “an illusion.”
I turned to my mother. “He's high.” How could I deal with this level of disconnection? My vision of working him toward a reimagined teaching career seemed incredibly lame next to the way he looked now; disconnected, very wrong, too peaceful, too accepting, too easy.
“I am not high…not yet.” He gave me small grin. “I'm thirty-six now. I am just finally seeing everything the way it really is and something has to change.”
I woke up the next morning with a jolt, out of a vague dream about
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