Space

Hey there. Yeah you. You, taking a peak at this here. Do I know you? You're wondering what's being offered on this page, no doubt.

What were you looking for? The thoughtful, the inane, the insightful, the morose. I do 'em all. Some more skillfully than others. Call it.

Are you wondering, by any chance, what I'm looking for from you? That's easy. I'm hoping you're a decent human being. I haven't found many of them in the news of late and it's skewing my view of humanity.

So tell me you're a kind soul.

What's your life been like? Think you and I will ever meet? Strange, isn't it, how you'll go through your life and I'll go through mine and we'll never talk, never shake hands, never learn of what the other had to face over these many years. It's odd that we're at peace with that.

Do you think about death much?  When you die I probably won't learn of it. I won't get the word. And you'll grow cold and stiff and ultimately decompose and disintegrate, and what will that short run have been about?

You ever think about how fast you'll be forgotten? I mean, it may take a couple of lifetimes, but pretty soon you'll be forgotten. No one on this earth will ever think about you again, ever mention your name.

The writer Jim Harrison, in his memoirs, wrote the line, "What is the meaning of one human life?" He had just completed hundreds of pages detailing highlights of his own existence and yet, at the end, had a tough time answering his own question. What is the meaning of one human life? I can't say.

Oh, I must leave you now. I want to write to someone else. Someone reading this at home, in the kitchen, in Nordeast Minneapolis. She's wearing jeans and a U of M sweatshirt. She's barefoot and sipping decaf. Up until now she's been bored, hasn't felt these words were written for her. Now they will be.

Your boyfriend asked for a little space this week. God, I hate that term. He's not coming back, is he? He's done. It's not space he wanted, it's distance he's created. I'm so sorry. It's physical pain isn't it. In the chest. Three years you guys were together. Damn.

How many of these horrors can a woman handle in one lifetime. Two, three, four, five? How many hard falls? No wonder you run into so many single women who seem to have resigned themselves to living alone. The heart has its limits.

I knew a woman who found her artist boyfriend in bed with another woman and, while he was staying with his parents, took a router to his recently completed canvas paintings. Her hurt translated into a rage that, frankly, terrified me.

Hey, hold it. You, over there, eavesdropping. Why the wry smile?  Just home from work are you? Feeling kind of serene. You have the day off tomorrow. Job's going well, wife is still your sweetheart. Did you know you have an aneurysm set to finish you off late next month. What you don't know can hurt you, pal. It'll happen quickly. No pain. She's going to struggle though. But, believe it or not, in three years she'll remarry. The guy won't have your sense of humor, but he'll listen to her a little more, and talk a little less. Anyway, hope you make the best of that day off.

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, writing to the tearful U of M grad. Call your girlfriends, kid. Get out of the house tonight. You're just going to spiral down sitting there like that. Quit reading this and put something together for this evening. Don't be alone.

Somewhere, on the other side of the universe, all is still, and quiet, and has been for eons. When I get exhausted my mind drifts there. But right now I'm in the thick of it. With all of you.

Look, an old guy putting up plastic sheeting on his porch screens. See how the wind fights him. That's poetry. Watch the way his old legs wobble on that paint stained step ladder. The wind keeps pushing the wrinkling clear plastic over his face. He can't get it stapled down. He must be close to 80. Doesn't he have a son who could handle this for him? Got to give him credit. He keeps at it, never growing frustrated. The patience is admirable.

And there's a policeman on the corner talking to a nervous teenager. The kid has a bike that may not be his. The cop is loading the bike into his trunk and the kid's now getting into the back seat of the squad car. I think I'll write to this boy.

Young man, you stole the bike didn't you? It was exactly like the bike your Dad promised you before your last report card. But he was livid when he saw that D.  Of course, that was nothing compared to how he's going to feel when the officer pulls up with you in the car. How did you think you'd get away with it? Where were you going to keep the bike?

Dad's out front already. Cop must have called him. Uh oh, here comes mom. Your body sweats like its dog days in Greensbourgh, and time is standing still. Believe it or not, there's a day waiting, way down the line, when you'll smile and tell your own son about all this, and it'll seem so inconsequential, so unimportant, to who and what you eventually become.

Well, I've seen enough for one day. I've reported what I could, addressed what caught my attention. Time to sleep and get rested for another day. Time to let the world move through the lens of its ancient kaleidoscope, allowing people and events to fold into one another in layers of fading color and light.

In the distance, all the words, and all the old questions, waft through the ether unfettered.

It's a masterpiece.