Once Upon A Lonely Road

Recently I received an e-mail from a man who lives near the small town of Sandy, Oregon, about 20 miles east of my home town of Portland, where I lived for some 55 years The man, who identified himself as George Porter, and a complete stranger to me, related that he had recently come upon a computer thumb drive lying at the side of an all but unused road behind the plant nursery he owns in Sandy. Thinking at first that it may be his own, and curious in any case, he took the drive home and plugged it into his laptop. Though this revealed the existence of some files, both photo and text, he was unable to open the files on first attempt.

I thought about just giving up and tossing the thing, Mr. Porter wrote, but then something told me to keep on trying.

He did so, and ultimately, after tinkering around with several programs and options, he was able to open one of the text files on the drive. What he found was the entire text of a book I had written some four years ago.

And this is where things begin to get a bit eerie.

In the first place, I have no recollection whatsoever of having put the book on any storage device other than the one I have in my own possession, tucked securely into the pocket of my laptop case. Such was my conviction of the same that I checked the case just to be sure -- and sure enough, there is the thumb drive, and thereon the copy of the book. The book, though three years with an agent, has not been published, and so does not, for all practical purposes, exist at all, other than in my hands and in the hands of the agent. And now in the hands of George Porter as well.

So how in the world could my book have gotten onto another thumb drive, and how could that thumb drive have ended up on a back road in Sandy, Oregon? I have not been in Oregon, or anywhere in the world other than Bali and Singapore, for almost two years. What then has been the career of this mysterious thumb drive? How has it remained intact for at least two years? How long did it lie on that road -- two years? Or have its travels been wider and involved more people in transport?

Or is this some kind of scam?

That, quite frankly, was my initial suspicion, given that internet scams are so common these days. We’ve all received them in various form -- from the unknown recipient of millions who desires for some reason to share his wealth, to the beautiful woman (photo included) who lives in Africa, has come across your profile somewhere on line, and feels that you and she will make a perfect pair (if only you will send her some money for a plane ticket).

What was the scam in the case at hand? I could not imagine -- but of course that’s the point. A good scam does not betray its nefarious nature, but relies on the human inclination to trust, to be curious, to believe and to bond. I replied therefore to George‘s mail, reticent, guarded, yet captivated by curiosity.

And I found that Mr. Porter wanted nothing at all. He had no plan, no agenda, no rabbit up his sleeve. He offered in addition only that he had seen one of his drivers walking on the back road where the drive had been found, and said that he would do his best to contact this man to try to determine whether it might have been he who dropped the drive.

But there’s more to this story. What I have said so far is skeletal only, without meaningful substance or animation, a mildly curious coincidence.

Here then is the kicker: The book that I wrote, which somehow got onto a thumb drive, which itself somehow ended up on a back road in Sandy, Oregon where it was found two years down the path of time by a man named George Porter, is the story of my life after being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in the spring of 2007; and the man who found the drive, who brought it home, who plugged it into his laptop and laboured at some length to discover what was on it, had just recent to that very day lost his friend of almost forty years -- Mike by name -- to the contributory effects of multiple sclerosis.

Here is where coincidence becomes cohesion, here is where a fluke becomes a twist of fate -- for the reason that George was writing me at all was to share how meaningful my book had been to him, how comforting my words had been and how informative about the disease that had taken his friend. He had written, in short, to thank me -- and, as it happens, to encourage me as well. One writes, ultimately, to connect, to share; one writes for the ear of an invisible reader with whom he hopes to find a fellowship of living. It may seem sad in some way that this book over which I had expended my heart had ended up in the gravel on a lonely roadside, and yet the miracle that brought it to the hands of this single reader is encouragement beyond the common pale of life, and a a gift of rarest, most rewarding amazement.

Busy Having a Cold

One good thing about being sick with a cold is that one has a lot more time than usual to write. Always wanting more time to devote to this, right? Well, there ya go. The Lord does provide, amen?

Of course the downside is that one feels too shitty really to apply his mind toward any sort of concentration or invention, so this kind of undercuts the aforementioned blessing.

Instead of writing, therefore, we observe, and then record the thing that is observed. A young man sitting beside me for instance, a Russian to judge by his appearance and his clothing (and also because this particular Starbucks is patronized mostly by Russians in the evening). He is waiting, without patience. He has perhaps been here for a time already, was meaning to meet someone, and someone failed to show up. He is lost in his thoughts, perhaps insulted, perhaps angry. He looks toward the window again and again, as if yet holding out a hope against hope.

And then he leaves.

Another Russian, a young woman, waits in her white dress for her coffee. It is a dress that an American would not be likely to wear unless she were a bridesmaid or a ballroom dancer. But this is the way Russians dress, even for a trip to Starbucks. She is perhaps 17, perhaps 21, and there is an elegant sort of glow about her, as if she had just taken herself out of a display case. She makes me think of Natasha in War and Peace, and of Anna Karenina. I wonder will she also be tragic some day.

Because I am sick, coughing, feverish, and unable to walk for any practical purposes, my family--the wife, the stepson, Roy the Japanese exchange student, and Abdul the Saudi student--have all gone to Cinco de Mayo without me. At Cinco de Mayo they will walk about in the rain, listen to Spanish music, and buy food that would make me even more sick than I already am.

Nonetheless I have the sense of missing out--just like I missed out yesterday when Roy and Abdul went ice skating for the first time. Seems that the older I get, the more precious things like single days and hours become. One begins to realize in a real way, and for the first time, that there are only so many ticks left on the clock.

Put me in coach! I'm ready to play.

Ask for nothing. Receive what is given.

These are the words I am determined to ride out on, when the white horse finally comes, when the rider thereof beckons. And I think that all things then will finally be crystal clear, and I shall meet myself at last.

And I will give him a white stone, and on the stone a new name written which no one knows except him who receives it."
--Revelations 2:17

A Letter to My Agent

Dear Neil--

I don't want to seem pushy, but you simply must sell my book to a publisher soon, if only so that my wife will stop bugging me about "wasting" my time at Starbucks (which is where all these profundities--those already in your hands, and another truck load since--are put to paper, in anticipation, of course, of posterity).

If you are having trouble with the big houses, try approaching a less prestigious firm, or maybe even one of these fly-by-night deals. Anything will do, for you see it's not the money that concerns me so much as appearances. In short, I need credentials.

It may interest you to know that I already have another book underway. This one is called The Mysterious Blob Near the Dawn of Time. It is about this ancient Japanese queen called Himiko. It may sound a bit obscure, but I think it will sell, as long as the first one sells. That's where you come in.

As far as advances go, I will accept anything that will cover two cups of Starbucks every morning. Without the Starbucks, you see, I could not do the writing, and without the writing I cannot long continue to consume the Starbucks.

It's a pickle, as you can see.

Best wishes,


RW

The Lost Post

Well folks, you're just going to have to take my word for it . . . earlier this morning I wrote a post of absolute genius and beauty, eloquence and wisdom, a post to end all posts, the mother of all posts . . . It was about God and life and destiny and meaning . . . but it disappeared before I was able to save and publish.

I'm blaming this on the computer. I need a new laptop. I am blaming this on the failure of laptops to perform as well as a pencil and paper. I am blaming it on MS, because I have no idea what happened to the post or where it went. I only know that my wonderful bit of wisdom for the day is gone forever. And because of MS there exists nary the smallest word of the thing any longer in my mind.

All I can ask is that you just try to imagine it. And enjoy.

To Blog Or Not To Blog?

Blogging seems to be a fairly lonely sort of business. One is alone with his thoughts, as is the case 99 percent of the time anyway in life, and the only difference here is that he is for some reason writing them down. Why? So that he can be clear about what he himself is thinking?

No, I don't believe so.

Why write then? Why blog?

One suspects that an audience is either anticipated or imagined. Perhaps it is someone loved. Perhaps someone lost. Perhaps it is a group of like-minded friends. Perhaps it is a group having something in common. Like MS, for instance.

Perhaps we simply want to speak, and to hear a voice in return. Society seems to become less and less a community, more and more a scattering of isolated fragments, buck shot, trying to remember not only what barrel they came out of, but what the original target had been.

We set our fingers to the keyboard, we direct our thoughts into hyperspace. We say, essentially, Is anyone there?

And we wait. And we listen very closely. And we think anew.

There are observatories devoted to listening to space. There are devices that listen to the nearest star, to the nearest galaxy, to the asteroid belt and the rings of Saturn, and to planets and solar systems that are no more than theory.

And what is the answer, what sound does it make?

It is the sound of one hand clapping, I suppose.

It's The Ambiance

Clearly I need to purchase my own table at Starbucks. They could do that, couldn’t they. Kind of like the way people used to buy pews at church, and then slap on a brass placard bearing the family name.

The three problems with Starbucks are these:

1. There are not enough tables.
2. There are not enough wall sockets.
3, If you frequent the same Starbucks often enough, you end up making acquaintances with people who would otherwise be perfect strangers, and therefore find yourself compelled to actually visit with these people instead of applying yourself to the main purpose that brought you there (which, in my case, is to write questionably worthwhile blog entries).

I have tried to expand my area of coverage, as well as to explore new options, but my success has been minimal.

At one Starbucks location I very often end up helping Tseng, a middle-aged Laotian man, with his English. He has been studying English grammar for a while now (about 30 years, I believe), and continues to have some trouble. I am a good teacher, he says. It’s kind of like when I tell my dog that he’s the best dog in the world, both of us knowing full well that he is the only dog I own.

At another Starbucks I consistently run into my stepson’s old girlfriend. I think she lives there. Or maybe she works there. And I think she holds a torch. I haven’t seen or talked to my stepson for quite a long time now, so we run short on material. For this reason, I’ve taken to making things up. That Preston is going into NASA, for instance, or that he just got back from Manchuria, or that he’s dating the bearded lady from the circus currently passing through town. I don’t fault myself for this. After all, for all I know, these things could be true.

The problem with some of these places has not so much to do with people, but simply with location. The Starbucks on Gleason, for instance, crowds so closely to the busy road that I was actually splashed by rain water once—while sitting at a table inside, mind you!

On the West side of town there is a Starbucks that is very large indeed—plenty of room—with easy chairs and cushioned footstools, comfy looking communal areas, and lonely tables lurking in corners for unsociable people like me. But where are the wall sockets? They are on one wall only, five of them, lined up beneath a high counter. One sits on a bar stool in order to reach the counter top, feeling rather as if he is on stilts and ought to have a foamy Budweiser at hand. Not to mention an ashtray.

My wife and I went to the same Starbucks, to the same church, and frequented the same nightclub long before we actually met one another.

Strange.

Perhaps you will say that I ought to just stay home, drink my own coffee, sit at my own table in my own chair, and compose these pearls of wisdom and profundity in the comfort and solitude of my own domicile. And that may be right. It may be so.

Still and all, it wouldn’t be quite the same. Would it?