“the last thing that you said as you were leaving…”

The morning I left Pennsylvania, I drove south without looking back. There was no final, bittersweet, last visit to the pub. There was no final walk through the town. There was no final look at the Penn State campus, with people just beginning to realize their dreams. There were no goodbyes; there was no one to say goodbye to. I left the same way I arrived: with a car full of books and clothes, and a mind full of hopes, ideas, ambitions, and dreams. I left with little; I left with the things I came with. I left with the things which can never be taken away.

So now I’m going back again
I got to get to her somehow
All the people we used to know
they’re an illusion to me now
some are mathematicians
some are carpenters wive’s
don’t know how it all got started
I don’t know what they’re doing with their lives
but me I’m still on the road
heading for another joint
we always did feel the same
we just saw it from a different point of view
tangled up in blue*

If you’re busy enough and manage to distract yourself enough, you can convince yourself that you’re not homesick and that you don’t miss the people that you love. At least, not that badly. There’s always a holiday coming up, some time off from work, a long weekend to look forward to. There’s always something to hold onto. But someday, no matter how strong you are, those dates on the calendar are no longer enough. You need to see them more often: the people that you love. And when it comes to children, you cannot help but wonder: do they still love you? I thought about that as I was leaving…and I realized that I just didn’t know.

I can’t remember the last thing you said as you were leaving
and the days go by so fast**

Through Maryland and West Virginia I wondered. As I finally entered Kentucky, I still wondered. I didn’t know if my sons would welcome me back to Lexington, or if they would view my return as another retreat and failure. But this time, I had a story to tell and a book to write, and it wasn’t going to be written in Pennsylvania. I was coming home with a purpose, and that, I hoped, they would understand. If I was to become the writer I always wanted to be, first I had to come home.

Hemingway, in A Moveable Feast, wrote that distance is essential in writing of closely held emotions and experiences: “…in one place you could write about it better than in another. That was called transplanting yourself…and it could be as necessary with people as with other sorts of growing things.”

Substitute emotional distance for geographic distance, though, and you essentially accomplish the same thing. The key for any writer is maturity, perspective, and command of your material. That I have. So it really doesn’t matter if I write in Pennsylvania, Kentucky, or Katmandu. I remember the old question: who, after all, is a writer? One who writes…of course. We make this alchemy seem too complicated sometimes, I think. Words turn into pages turn into chapters into books. It’s not that difficult, is it?

No. It’s really not. And it’s much easier when you can simply drive across town and spend time with the people that you love.

*Bob Dylan, “Tangled Up in Blue” (from the album Blood On The Tracks)

**Counting Crows, “A Long December” (from the album Recovering the Satellites)

“it’s all right, ma, I’m only bleeding…”

It’s rather…odd. It doesn’t seem to matter how reclusive or shy or hurt I feel when I’m alone, because when I do venture back out into the world I seem to naturally adopt the swagger of the very young man who used to work the room at million dollar fundraisers and always seem to know exactly what to say and when to say it. All of which makes me think that of all I’ve lost, some part of the person I was and wanted to be yet remains.

Darkness at the break of noon

Shadows even the silver spoon

The handmade blade, the child’s balloon

Eclipses both the sun and moon

To understand you know too soon

There is no sense in trying*

I’m writing about depression, of course. Which I certainly don’t care to do, as talents as diverse as Mike Wallace, William Styron, and Adam Duritz have written or spoken extensively of their own experiences. There are many causes, of course, but the effect seems to be the same. After a while, though, it seems that the greatest challenge is simply to walk out the front door. After that, everything else is…cake. You just need to get going. You just need to walk out into the world.

It’s okay, you know. I’m only bleeding.

And if my thought-dreams could be seen
They’d probably put my head in a guillotine
But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only

*Bob Dylan, “It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding) from the album Bringin’ It All Back Home, 1965

a sort of homecoming

Aaron and I raided the bookstores yesterday morning in Lexington, and had, I think, a nice time (at least I think he had a nice time). He bought some German textbooks and dictionaries at Barnes and Noble (just think, I was the one originally studying German because of my fascination with Rilke) and that evil bookstore across the way at Hamburg; I picked up U2′s new No Line On The Horizon (and yes, Lanois and Eno still have the good mojo as producers) and a first edition of Kenneth Lynn’s Hemingway biography. Supposed to hook up with Adam, too, but it didn’t work out this time. I miss them both in a way that no one who isn’t a parent could ever understand; my eyes still tear up thinking about it.

U2 No Line On The Horizon

I’m hoping for good news from Pennsylvania this week that will mean I’m close to getting my career back on track. I either get the invite to fly up or find myself out of the running; not difficult to figure out which one I prefer. The position would be in State College: I have visions of cool bookstores and cafes, restaurants and shops. College town. I like college towns. 

The U2 album is rather strong, although I don’t believe it has the joy and the surprise of the “back to basics” approach of All That You Can’t Leave Behind. I especially seem to like the title track (which is basically irresistable), “Unknown Caller,” (reminds me of something from side two of War…and yeah, I’m thinking of vinyl) and “Magnificent.”

Only love, only love can leave such a mark
But only love, only love can heal such a scar

And browsing around just now, I found out that Dylan has a new album coming out in April. The man is amazing in every possible way: historically, melodically, lyrically, musically. What’s that old saying, slightly twisted for the occasion? If we didn’t have Bob Dylan, we’d have to invent him (so God bless Jack Frost–and if you don’t know who Jack Frost is, you got no biz reading this blog). But we do have Dylan, or should I say, he’s the one who has us. And something tells me he likes it just the way it is.