So many of
us lonely.
First snow:
a sudden brightening. The sky no longer gloomy grays, the air, a new freshness.
Open mic in
Marquette: a man walks to the front of the room, says he wants to recite a poem.
Then begins his life story, growing up on a farm, pumping well water, taking
care of his younger brother. Then Vietnam, a soldier he killed who was trying
to hide behind a tree with only a few pieces of grass as camouflage. How he
earned his first ribbon for bravery. Then his work in the circus, in the prison
system. For thirty minutes, he tells his life story. Not a poem. Something more
like loneliness.
Finally,
someone cuts in, asks the man to let other people speak.
“I guess you
can tell I’m pretty lonely,” he says, walking slowly back to his seat. “If
there’s time at the end, maybe I can get to my poem?”
Time at the
end: his brother’s daughter who died as an infant and comes to him in the
night, his grandfather’s friendship with Attila the Hun, how together they
conquered India. He talks and talks, no poem in sight.
My head
swirls trying to keep up. The uncertainty in his walk, his mismatched clothes.
I run through a list of possible diagnoses : dementia, PTSD, some sort of
psychological break with reality. Then chide myself: loneliness. Who doesn’t
want a moment on stage? A moment to tell our life bigger, grander, more
important than it ever will be? Who doesn’t want an audience to listen, nod
their head, tell us we’re meaningful?
I stare at
the darkened window reflecting his gestures, the jerk of his head, his lean on
the podium. First snow: a loneliness. So many of us afraid.
Planet of the Blind 