John spent the next couple of weeks exploring Kentucky, and felt he was coming slowly back to live exploring the hills, mountains, and hollers of this strange and mysterious state. He spent most of his days hiking and exploring the countryside, and most of his nights sampling the various bourbons from all around the state. He was feeling much better during the days, but at night the demons would come creeping back in and make sleep very difficult for him. As Mark Twain had once said, “In my age, as in my youth, night brings me many a deep remorse. I realize that from the cradle up I have been like the rest of the race- never quite sane in the night.”
At the end of his third week in Kentucky, John was beginning to feel that perhaps it was time to move along. He had grown quite comfortable with the people and places here, but instinctively felt that there was more he needed to do to complete this odd and deeply personal healing quest he was on.
He decided that he would hike back up to the top of his little mountain again and say goodbye to this little corner of the world that had been such a comfort to him. The temperature had dropped considerably in the time he had been in Kentucky, and he had added a few small additions to his wardrobe as he has progressed. He had left Chicago looking in a suit and a tie. Now he looked like something out of an LL Bean catalogue.
He walked slowly to the top of the mountain, thinking as he did about the idea of mindfulness, and how much he had preached about this idea to his clients over the years. Was it true that there was nothing except the present moment in this life? He certainly had voiced this opinion over the years, but now he thought again how the past and the present seemed to exist in in a kind of mystical dance where one kept informing and changing the other. If you had asked him 2 months ago, he would have said he had a glorious past, as it culminated in finding his wife and daughter. Now, in severe pain, h felt like his past was a kind of a curse he would have to spend a lifetime overcoming. Neither version was the truth, yet somehow, they were both completely true in their own way. Time was a very fluid concept.
As he reached the top of the peak, he looked around and heard the birds and the leaves and the wind, and felt that somehow everything must be connected in a way he just didn’t understand. He allowed for the possibility that this could change. His life had certainly changed before, and he knew it could again.
He opened up a bottle of Knob Creek whiskey he had purchased for the occasion and took a small swig, savoring the taste and enjoying the complexity of the flavor. He had learned quite a bit about Bourbon over the last few weeks, and was learning how to sip his drinks again after weeks and even years of gulping down whatever it was that was n front of him. He realized his relationship with alcohol was a dangerous one, but right now addressing that particular issue was not high on his list of priorities.
He thought about Katie and Brian as he sat at the little picnic area at the top of the small mountain. He had been both impressed and jealous of their lives together, and found himself thinking about all of the time he had wasted in his life before he had finally met Stephanie and found happiness. Why hadn’t he been willing to take a chance on love in his life? Was he too picky? Too damaged? Or was it that Stephanie was his soul mate and that it had taken a lifetime to find her?
As the sun started going down he found himself remembering the lyrics to an old Kentucky folk song he had learned about in a class he ha taken way back during his life as an undergraduate. It was called “High on the Mountain” and it had a haunting and wistful quality that John had always been drawn to. He sung the lyrics quietly to himself,
“High on the mountain, wind blowing free,
thinking about the days that used to be,
yes, high on the mountain standing all alone
wondering where the years of my life have flown.”
and slowly drank his Bourbon as the sun gave way to night.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Chapter 11
Before John approached the kids, he found himself lost in an old memory. He felt like Billy Pilgrim from Slaughterhouse Five, and wondered if he had gotten unstuck in time. In this particular memory, he was 24, and he was driving an old Volkswagen Bus to Glacier National Park to work for the summer. He had set up a camp next to a couple of kids a little younger than him, and they had spent the night talking and laughing and drinking beer.
John hadn’t thought much of the encounter, until years later he was at a party at his girlfriend’s house in Kentucky and felt a tap on his shoulder. It was the same guy from the campsite, and he had remembered John and the conversation they had had that night in Montana so many years ago. It was a stunning coincidence, but not the end of the story. The kid had gone on to tell John that he had become a teacher because of the conversation they had that night. It had been a turning point in his life, as he for the first time began to realize the true power of making a real human connection with someone really was.
So here he was again, an aging Billy Pilgrim remembering that the words he chose to share with others did have some meaning, and that he therefore had an obligation to choose them carefully. Despite how broken he felt right now, this concept seemed clear to him for the first time in quite a while. He took it as a good sign.
Approaching the kids, he saw that they were smoking a joint, and he immediately hoped that they might share. He was getting tired of drinking, but still found the idea appealing that he could feel something else for a while.
“Hey guys, don’t mean to sneak up on you,” John said as he approached.
“Jesus man you sacred us. How long have you been up here?”
“Not long,” John replied. “I’ve been hiking all day and didn’t see anybody, so figured I was out here by myself. It’s amazing up here, isn’t it?”
“It really is,” the young woman said. “We go to school in Colorado, but we’re both from Kentucky. We’ve been coming up here since we were kids. Colorado is beautiful and all, but for us there is nothing like Kentucky in the fall. What brings you up here?”
“Well, I drove threw here when I was a little younger, and I never really forgot about the colors I saw.” John continued. “I always promised myself that one day I would make some time to come back here and really explore it a little more. It’s so quiet. So peaceful.”
As John spoke, the young man reached and offered him a joint, which John gratefully accepted. It had been a number of years since he had smoked marijuana, and the first hit was met with some coughing and discomfort.
“Damn guys, it’s been a while since I smoked. Sorry for the amateur hour,” John said as he laughed. “I really appreciate you sharing. I could use a little mental piece and quiet right now.”
“Oh yea?” the young man asked. “Why is that? What do you for a living that is so stressful?”
“I’m a psychologist,” John replied. “But right now I’m just a guy who needed to be somewhere else for a while.”
“A psychologist?” That’s what I am studying.” The girl replied. “My name is Katie and this is Brian.” He studies sociology. We talk all the time about what we are going to do when we get out of school. What advice would you give to yourself if you were just starting out like we are?”
John thought long and hard about the question. His career as a psychologist had been a successful one. He had written books and been on TV and on the radio more times than he could count, but none of that defined success for him until he had fallen in love and met his wife. He wanted to give an honest answer without discouraging them.
“Let me ask you something,” John replied. “Are you in love? Do the two of you have the kind of relationship that truly deepens your life? If so, savor every second and every moment, because you truly may never pass this way again. That may not seem like an answer to your question, but it’s the best one I have right now. Live your life as deeply and as richly as you can, because one day these things will all inform the choices you make as a therapist.”
“We’ve been dating since we were five.” Katie replied. “Everyone says we’re crazy to tie ourselves down to one person, but for us it has never been a matter of choice. We just belong together.”
“Let me ask you something,” John began, knowing he was in real danger of sounding morbid but unable to stop himself. “What you are describing makes it sound like the two of you are soul mates. What would happen if, God forbid, something should happen to one of you? What kind of life would you want for the other person?”
“I don’t know you, but I’m guessing you are asking us that because you lost someone, is that right?” Brian asked.
“Not just someone,” John replied. “The only thing about this world that ever made sense to me. I haven’t talked to anyone about it yet. I guess I’m afraid that’s gonna make it real. So I’ve just been traveling the country and trying to remember to keep breathing in and out.
Brian handed the joint back to John, and he again inhaled deeply, this time adjusting to the smoke and taking it in smoothly. The three of them fell into a peaceful silence, and sat there for a while until the sun began to go down on what had been an important day for John in beginning to put the fractured pieces of himself back together.
John hadn’t thought much of the encounter, until years later he was at a party at his girlfriend’s house in Kentucky and felt a tap on his shoulder. It was the same guy from the campsite, and he had remembered John and the conversation they had had that night in Montana so many years ago. It was a stunning coincidence, but not the end of the story. The kid had gone on to tell John that he had become a teacher because of the conversation they had that night. It had been a turning point in his life, as he for the first time began to realize the true power of making a real human connection with someone really was.
So here he was again, an aging Billy Pilgrim remembering that the words he chose to share with others did have some meaning, and that he therefore had an obligation to choose them carefully. Despite how broken he felt right now, this concept seemed clear to him for the first time in quite a while. He took it as a good sign.
Approaching the kids, he saw that they were smoking a joint, and he immediately hoped that they might share. He was getting tired of drinking, but still found the idea appealing that he could feel something else for a while.
“Hey guys, don’t mean to sneak up on you,” John said as he approached.
“Jesus man you sacred us. How long have you been up here?”
“Not long,” John replied. “I’ve been hiking all day and didn’t see anybody, so figured I was out here by myself. It’s amazing up here, isn’t it?”
“It really is,” the young woman said. “We go to school in Colorado, but we’re both from Kentucky. We’ve been coming up here since we were kids. Colorado is beautiful and all, but for us there is nothing like Kentucky in the fall. What brings you up here?”
“Well, I drove threw here when I was a little younger, and I never really forgot about the colors I saw.” John continued. “I always promised myself that one day I would make some time to come back here and really explore it a little more. It’s so quiet. So peaceful.”
As John spoke, the young man reached and offered him a joint, which John gratefully accepted. It had been a number of years since he had smoked marijuana, and the first hit was met with some coughing and discomfort.
“Damn guys, it’s been a while since I smoked. Sorry for the amateur hour,” John said as he laughed. “I really appreciate you sharing. I could use a little mental piece and quiet right now.”
“Oh yea?” the young man asked. “Why is that? What do you for a living that is so stressful?”
“I’m a psychologist,” John replied. “But right now I’m just a guy who needed to be somewhere else for a while.”
“A psychologist?” That’s what I am studying.” The girl replied. “My name is Katie and this is Brian.” He studies sociology. We talk all the time about what we are going to do when we get out of school. What advice would you give to yourself if you were just starting out like we are?”
John thought long and hard about the question. His career as a psychologist had been a successful one. He had written books and been on TV and on the radio more times than he could count, but none of that defined success for him until he had fallen in love and met his wife. He wanted to give an honest answer without discouraging them.
“Let me ask you something,” John replied. “Are you in love? Do the two of you have the kind of relationship that truly deepens your life? If so, savor every second and every moment, because you truly may never pass this way again. That may not seem like an answer to your question, but it’s the best one I have right now. Live your life as deeply and as richly as you can, because one day these things will all inform the choices you make as a therapist.”
“We’ve been dating since we were five.” Katie replied. “Everyone says we’re crazy to tie ourselves down to one person, but for us it has never been a matter of choice. We just belong together.”
“Let me ask you something,” John began, knowing he was in real danger of sounding morbid but unable to stop himself. “What you are describing makes it sound like the two of you are soul mates. What would happen if, God forbid, something should happen to one of you? What kind of life would you want for the other person?”
“I don’t know you, but I’m guessing you are asking us that because you lost someone, is that right?” Brian asked.
“Not just someone,” John replied. “The only thing about this world that ever made sense to me. I haven’t talked to anyone about it yet. I guess I’m afraid that’s gonna make it real. So I’ve just been traveling the country and trying to remember to keep breathing in and out.
Brian handed the joint back to John, and he again inhaled deeply, this time adjusting to the smoke and taking it in smoothly. The three of them fell into a peaceful silence, and sat there for a while until the sun began to go down on what had been an important day for John in beginning to put the fractured pieces of himself back together.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Chapter 10
The next morning John was again up very early, and all of a sudden had a huge desire to get out of New York. The city would always have memories for him, but right now he knew he was too susceptible to the emotional wreckage these memories could bring him. He had done what he came to do, and for now, it was the end.
He thought about what he was going to do. He had a number of patients in Chicago who he knew would be curious as to what was going on with him, but he didn’t feel like he was in any shape to go back to work. He had drawn great strength from being a therapist, and a part of him even wondered if the pain he was feeling right now might be something he could use in some way down the road. Right now however, it was simply too raw.
With no real agenda or sense of having to be anywhere, John decided to point the car towards Kentucky. He had lived there briefly as a younger man, and remembered the incredible colors of the Cumberland Gap that he had seen once while driving through. It was a memory he had revisited often in his life, and he had always felt an odd sense of longing to return there one day. He also needed to go to a place that had nothing to do with the memory of his wife and daughter, and right now, Kentucky seemed like a good idea.
John drove most of the day without stopping, feeling somehow that he was going to find something in Kentucky that he was supposed to experience. He realized that he was retracing the steps in his life, and thought again about reliving his live over and over again. Another part of him wanted to go backwards as a way to try and make sense of his life, and try to find some way to observe that it had some kind of meaning. He thought about what Kierkegaard had said about how life can only be understood backwards but must be lived forward. Right now he took no stock in this. He felt an intense desire to go backwards.
After hours of driving, he stopped for a moment to research the best places for fall foliage, and decided on a place called Pine Mountain Kentucky. His only familiarity with the area came from the internet and watching the TV show “Justified” which showcased life in the little clans of Eastern Kentucky. It was a world he was almost totally unfamiliar with, and right now that seemed particularly enticing.
He found a little bed and breakfast at the base of one of the hiking trails and checked in. He planned to do some serious hiking into the mountains today to see if it might provide some clarity. He felt a little like one of those kids being sent off to an Outward Bound school to see if he could kick his habits and find some self-sufficiency out in the wild. Whatever worked.
After purchasing some supplies in the little town, he began his hike up into the hills, not really having any idea how his life had taken such a turn. He thought about his time in Kentucky as a young college student, and in particular that sense of longing he had when he had driven through the beautiful tree-lined hills and valleys. He had once made a mental note to come back and truly see how these people lived. Now he was here.
As he ascended the small mountain, he thought about something the author C.S Lewis had called “tantalizing glimpses.” Lewis was referring to these little moments in his life where he experienced moments of great clarity, which seemed to pass rather quickly, never to return. Lewis wrote a great deal about the idea of longing, and, despite the fact that he had never shared the author’s Christian beliefs, John had always been strangely fascinated by the idea.
Lewis had offered that one such explanation for these glimpses was that God was showing us a little bit of his divine plan in these moments. John’s own journey with spirituality had been a complicated one, but he did agree with Lewis that there was some kind of spiritual communion that could be found in nature. John had felt it and experienced it. As for the idea of a Divine Plan, he was a little more skeptical about that.
On the other hand, John had always felt like he had been spared in his lifetime. Despite the fact that he had spent years drinking heavily and doing all kinds of other awful things to his body, his health had remained intact, something he had always considered a bit of a minor miracle. Meeting his wife and daughter and putting their family together also seemed like some stroke of fortune way beyond luck to him, although now he wasn’t so sure. He wanted to believe in something, but the jury was very much still out on what that might be.
As he reached the top of the mountain, John saw that there was a young couple sitting at a picnic table, and he felt an odd pull to go and talk to them. He had been living almost exclusively inside his own head for the last several days, and he was beginning to miss the day-to-day validation of human contact that let him know he was actually alive and not dreaming all of this.
He thought about what he was going to do. He had a number of patients in Chicago who he knew would be curious as to what was going on with him, but he didn’t feel like he was in any shape to go back to work. He had drawn great strength from being a therapist, and a part of him even wondered if the pain he was feeling right now might be something he could use in some way down the road. Right now however, it was simply too raw.
With no real agenda or sense of having to be anywhere, John decided to point the car towards Kentucky. He had lived there briefly as a younger man, and remembered the incredible colors of the Cumberland Gap that he had seen once while driving through. It was a memory he had revisited often in his life, and he had always felt an odd sense of longing to return there one day. He also needed to go to a place that had nothing to do with the memory of his wife and daughter, and right now, Kentucky seemed like a good idea.
John drove most of the day without stopping, feeling somehow that he was going to find something in Kentucky that he was supposed to experience. He realized that he was retracing the steps in his life, and thought again about reliving his live over and over again. Another part of him wanted to go backwards as a way to try and make sense of his life, and try to find some way to observe that it had some kind of meaning. He thought about what Kierkegaard had said about how life can only be understood backwards but must be lived forward. Right now he took no stock in this. He felt an intense desire to go backwards.
After hours of driving, he stopped for a moment to research the best places for fall foliage, and decided on a place called Pine Mountain Kentucky. His only familiarity with the area came from the internet and watching the TV show “Justified” which showcased life in the little clans of Eastern Kentucky. It was a world he was almost totally unfamiliar with, and right now that seemed particularly enticing.
He found a little bed and breakfast at the base of one of the hiking trails and checked in. He planned to do some serious hiking into the mountains today to see if it might provide some clarity. He felt a little like one of those kids being sent off to an Outward Bound school to see if he could kick his habits and find some self-sufficiency out in the wild. Whatever worked.
After purchasing some supplies in the little town, he began his hike up into the hills, not really having any idea how his life had taken such a turn. He thought about his time in Kentucky as a young college student, and in particular that sense of longing he had when he had driven through the beautiful tree-lined hills and valleys. He had once made a mental note to come back and truly see how these people lived. Now he was here.
As he ascended the small mountain, he thought about something the author C.S Lewis had called “tantalizing glimpses.” Lewis was referring to these little moments in his life where he experienced moments of great clarity, which seemed to pass rather quickly, never to return. Lewis wrote a great deal about the idea of longing, and, despite the fact that he had never shared the author’s Christian beliefs, John had always been strangely fascinated by the idea.
Lewis had offered that one such explanation for these glimpses was that God was showing us a little bit of his divine plan in these moments. John’s own journey with spirituality had been a complicated one, but he did agree with Lewis that there was some kind of spiritual communion that could be found in nature. John had felt it and experienced it. As for the idea of a Divine Plan, he was a little more skeptical about that.
On the other hand, John had always felt like he had been spared in his lifetime. Despite the fact that he had spent years drinking heavily and doing all kinds of other awful things to his body, his health had remained intact, something he had always considered a bit of a minor miracle. Meeting his wife and daughter and putting their family together also seemed like some stroke of fortune way beyond luck to him, although now he wasn’t so sure. He wanted to believe in something, but the jury was very much still out on what that might be.
As he reached the top of the mountain, John saw that there was a young couple sitting at a picnic table, and he felt an odd pull to go and talk to them. He had been living almost exclusively inside his own head for the last several days, and he was beginning to miss the day-to-day validation of human contact that let him know he was actually alive and not dreaming all of this.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Chapter 9
Thinking about the idea of scripts and tragedies and choices had made John think about what it was he was doing in New York, and he managed to make it back to the Plaza without incident. Before he went to bed he looked out over Central Park and thought about all of the lives that had passed through there over the years, and what a remarkable place the city really was. People had scratched and clawed and survived so many hardships to make it here to give themselves a chance at a better life, and yet here he stood, with everything he ever needed from a material standpoint, wondering why he should go on. He vowed to think of a reason, but just now, nothing seemed to materialize, and he eventually drifted off to sleep.
He woke up with a sense of urgency that next morning for the first time since the accident. He had an agenda, and showered and got dressed and made his way down past the lobby and into the street. He had something he needed to do today, and he knew if he could get through it, there was at least a chance that he could eventually begin to heal himself.
His first stop was the Dakota Hotel, a place that was morbidly sacred to him, as it was where his favorite singer John Lennon was gunned down so many years ago. Lennon and the Beatles had been an enduring part of his life since he was a child, and somehow he thought it appropriate to revisit this spot, and think about everything that had happened. Like John, his wife and daughter had been taken away from him in a manner he could not yet make any kind of sense of. Yet somehow, the place felt oddly comforting to him, as he had been here many times before and somehow always left with a sense that he was supposed to carry on. To take whatever he had learned from John and to try and pay it forward to honor his memory.
He stood in front of The Dakota for quite some time before crossing the street to Strawberry Fields, a large piece of Central Park dedicated to John and marked by the iconic “Imagine” symbol, which was always full of flowers, candles, and other memorials. John had proposed to his wife here, and their mutual love of John Lennon and his advice to always imagine had been the cornerstone of the promises that they had made to each other.
He eventually found the exact spot he had gotten down on his knees and changed his life forever, thinking as he did about eternal return, and how he felt like he had gone backwards into another time and place in his life. The memory was incredibly vivid to him, and for a moment he felt like he was living it again. He was flooded with the intensity of the memory, and for a moment felt like he had lost all sense of his physical self. Maybe time was a fluid concept, and maybe he could come back to this moment again and again.
Eventually John began to become aware of where and when he was, and he looked around, seeing that it was actually getting dark outside. Seeing all of the Lennon fans, he found the song “#9 Dream” playing in his head, an oddly haunting song, and one of his favorites.
“So long ago
Was it in a dream, was it just a dream?
I know, yes I know
Seemed so very real, it seemed so real to me”
John thought about these lyrics in relation to all of the things he had experienced that afternoon. He felt like he was sleepwalking through his life at the moment, and the constant emotional traveling between the past and the present was beginning to take a toll on him. He hailed a cab to the famous Bemelman’s bar, deciding that a night listening to some piano music might be what he needed right now.
Walking into the bar, he could see it was already packed with people huddled around the piano player, and he found a seat at the bar and ordered a Manhattan. He looked around and observed the well-dressed crowd, and thought about how little money and prestige and all of that really mattered. At one time he would have guessed this is what he wanted. Now he just felt very alone.
After the first drink and then another, John felt himself getting lost in the music and actually feeling a little better. Music had always had a mysterious hold on him, and hearing the singer belt out so many of the classics provided some comfort and peace for him, which was something he hadn’t felt in several days.
He woke up with a sense of urgency that next morning for the first time since the accident. He had an agenda, and showered and got dressed and made his way down past the lobby and into the street. He had something he needed to do today, and he knew if he could get through it, there was at least a chance that he could eventually begin to heal himself.
His first stop was the Dakota Hotel, a place that was morbidly sacred to him, as it was where his favorite singer John Lennon was gunned down so many years ago. Lennon and the Beatles had been an enduring part of his life since he was a child, and somehow he thought it appropriate to revisit this spot, and think about everything that had happened. Like John, his wife and daughter had been taken away from him in a manner he could not yet make any kind of sense of. Yet somehow, the place felt oddly comforting to him, as he had been here many times before and somehow always left with a sense that he was supposed to carry on. To take whatever he had learned from John and to try and pay it forward to honor his memory.
He stood in front of The Dakota for quite some time before crossing the street to Strawberry Fields, a large piece of Central Park dedicated to John and marked by the iconic “Imagine” symbol, which was always full of flowers, candles, and other memorials. John had proposed to his wife here, and their mutual love of John Lennon and his advice to always imagine had been the cornerstone of the promises that they had made to each other.
He eventually found the exact spot he had gotten down on his knees and changed his life forever, thinking as he did about eternal return, and how he felt like he had gone backwards into another time and place in his life. The memory was incredibly vivid to him, and for a moment he felt like he was living it again. He was flooded with the intensity of the memory, and for a moment felt like he had lost all sense of his physical self. Maybe time was a fluid concept, and maybe he could come back to this moment again and again.
Eventually John began to become aware of where and when he was, and he looked around, seeing that it was actually getting dark outside. Seeing all of the Lennon fans, he found the song “#9 Dream” playing in his head, an oddly haunting song, and one of his favorites.
“So long ago
Was it in a dream, was it just a dream?
I know, yes I know
Seemed so very real, it seemed so real to me”
John thought about these lyrics in relation to all of the things he had experienced that afternoon. He felt like he was sleepwalking through his life at the moment, and the constant emotional traveling between the past and the present was beginning to take a toll on him. He hailed a cab to the famous Bemelman’s bar, deciding that a night listening to some piano music might be what he needed right now.
Walking into the bar, he could see it was already packed with people huddled around the piano player, and he found a seat at the bar and ordered a Manhattan. He looked around and observed the well-dressed crowd, and thought about how little money and prestige and all of that really mattered. At one time he would have guessed this is what he wanted. Now he just felt very alone.
After the first drink and then another, John felt himself getting lost in the music and actually feeling a little better. Music had always had a mysterious hold on him, and hearing the singer belt out so many of the classics provided some comfort and peace for him, which was something he hadn’t felt in several days.
Chapter 8
John woke up early the next morning and got back on the road, anxious to get out of West Virginia and to be somewhere else. He had come on a very vague whim, yet somehow he was leaving feeling he had found some of what he was trying to find.
He pointed the car towards New York City and began to drive. The fall foliage in the Northeast was beautiful this time of year, and he stopped on a couple of occasions to take in the colors and stretch his legs. It had been a while since he had done this kind of driving, and for a fleeting moment he felt like a kid again on the open road. As he crossed over into Pennsylvania he heard Springsteen’s song “Hungry Heart” come on, which he quickly tuned all the way up. “Got a wife and kids in Baltimore Jack, I went out for a ride, and I never went back.” Springsteen’s words, but John couldn’t help but wonder if he was ever going back. Right now he couldn’t picture it.
He called ahead to the Plaza hotel overlooking Central Park and made a reservation. It was certainly not the kind of place that he would usually stay, but money meant very little to John at this particular moment. A part of him knew that these might be the end times for him. Although he wanted to find some possible reason to keep on going, right now he couldn’t exactly see what it might be.
After he got settled in he walked across the street to the Duck pond at the park and took a seat. He found himself thinking about Holden Caufield and the Catcher in the Rye, and the significance the park had for Holden in the book all those years ago. He had loved the book as a kid, and returned to if often over the years as a way to revisit a part of his life he now had a great fondness for. For the second time in as many days he found himself wandering into a scene from a familiar work of fiction. It was a kind of strange escapism he guessed, but right now he was content to simply survive based on some kind of odd instinct that was leading him.
He sat at the pond for some time, before he started to get cold, and realized he needed a drink. He decided to take a cab up to The White Horse Tavern, a placed that had gained infamy as the spot Dylan Thomas drank himself to death many, many years before. Dylan has written about not going gentle into that good night, and John had often thought about the poem in terms of his own life. Would people remember him when he was gone? Right now he wasn’t so sure.
Entering the White Horse, John looked around and saw a lot of people had the same idea that he had. The place was a famous watering hole for all kinds of writers over the years, and the ghosts of Kerouac and a number of others seemed to always draw a crowd. Although he wasn’t crazy about the idea of being around a lot of people, he didn’t exactly want to be alone either. He ordered a drink at the bar and sat down, feeling like another writer circling the drain as he took a long sip of his double Maker’s Mark.
As he finished his drink and then another and then another, he thought about Dylan Thomas and how he drank himself to death not far from where he himself was now sitting. Is that the way he would go too? Dying on some barstool? He had spent a number of years trying very hard to distance himself from that lifestyle and those kinds of choices, but now he felt he had fallen back down into the bottom of the rabbit hole.
John thought about what he might tell a patient of his under similar circumstances. He thought about a book he had often discussed with people called “games alcoholics play,” which specifically described something the author referred to as a “Tragic Life Script.” Essentially this described the idea that a person may begin to see their personal narratives as a tragedy, and continue to make choices that supported this kind of a story. Until a couple of weeks ago John would have described his personal journey as one of failure, resilience, and ultimately redemption. Now he wasn’t so sure the story was going to end well.
He pointed the car towards New York City and began to drive. The fall foliage in the Northeast was beautiful this time of year, and he stopped on a couple of occasions to take in the colors and stretch his legs. It had been a while since he had done this kind of driving, and for a fleeting moment he felt like a kid again on the open road. As he crossed over into Pennsylvania he heard Springsteen’s song “Hungry Heart” come on, which he quickly tuned all the way up. “Got a wife and kids in Baltimore Jack, I went out for a ride, and I never went back.” Springsteen’s words, but John couldn’t help but wonder if he was ever going back. Right now he couldn’t picture it.
He called ahead to the Plaza hotel overlooking Central Park and made a reservation. It was certainly not the kind of place that he would usually stay, but money meant very little to John at this particular moment. A part of him knew that these might be the end times for him. Although he wanted to find some possible reason to keep on going, right now he couldn’t exactly see what it might be.
After he got settled in he walked across the street to the Duck pond at the park and took a seat. He found himself thinking about Holden Caufield and the Catcher in the Rye, and the significance the park had for Holden in the book all those years ago. He had loved the book as a kid, and returned to if often over the years as a way to revisit a part of his life he now had a great fondness for. For the second time in as many days he found himself wandering into a scene from a familiar work of fiction. It was a kind of strange escapism he guessed, but right now he was content to simply survive based on some kind of odd instinct that was leading him.
He sat at the pond for some time, before he started to get cold, and realized he needed a drink. He decided to take a cab up to The White Horse Tavern, a placed that had gained infamy as the spot Dylan Thomas drank himself to death many, many years before. Dylan has written about not going gentle into that good night, and John had often thought about the poem in terms of his own life. Would people remember him when he was gone? Right now he wasn’t so sure.
Entering the White Horse, John looked around and saw a lot of people had the same idea that he had. The place was a famous watering hole for all kinds of writers over the years, and the ghosts of Kerouac and a number of others seemed to always draw a crowd. Although he wasn’t crazy about the idea of being around a lot of people, he didn’t exactly want to be alone either. He ordered a drink at the bar and sat down, feeling like another writer circling the drain as he took a long sip of his double Maker’s Mark.
As he finished his drink and then another and then another, he thought about Dylan Thomas and how he drank himself to death not far from where he himself was now sitting. Is that the way he would go too? Dying on some barstool? He had spent a number of years trying very hard to distance himself from that lifestyle and those kinds of choices, but now he felt he had fallen back down into the bottom of the rabbit hole.
John thought about what he might tell a patient of his under similar circumstances. He thought about a book he had often discussed with people called “games alcoholics play,” which specifically described something the author referred to as a “Tragic Life Script.” Essentially this described the idea that a person may begin to see their personal narratives as a tragedy, and continue to make choices that supported this kind of a story. Until a couple of weeks ago John would have described his personal journey as one of failure, resilience, and ultimately redemption. Now he wasn’t so sure the story was going to end well.
Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Following the service, John hopped into his car and began to drive, not knowing where he was going or what it was he was looking for. He only knew that it hurt too much to stay in Chicago right now, and he needed to be somewhere else for a while.
He had driven east for several hours when he got a very odd memory of a movie he had seen years ago called “The Mothman Prophecies” about a man who had started to fall apart following the sudden death of his wife. The man in that movie had become obsessed with a little town in West Virginia called “Point Pleasant” where he had some experiences with the paranormal. He did some quick calculations and pointed the car towards West Virginia, knowing that there was a very real possibility that he himself was cracking up as well.
Arriving in the little town, John saw that a monument had been erected depicting the fictional Mothman, who, according to local legends was sometimes seen right before some kind of tragedy was about to happen. John had not come here in pursuit of the paranormal however. He was simply a desperate man following some badly damaged and wounded instincts.
Checking into his modest little motel, John took out the bottle of Maker’s Mark he had purchased on the road and poured himself a tall glass. He had resisted the urge to begin drinking when he was on the road, but now he needed to feel something else. He took a long look at the glass and took a drink. He was going down.
John decided to take his bottle and go for a walk through the town, although it was mostly deserted and empty at that time of the night. As he walked, he thought about how it came to pass that he was wandering through a scene in a bad B movie in search of something he knew could never be. He hoped he wasn’t losing it.
Finding his way back to the main square in the town, he stopped at the crude Mothman statue and sat down. The clerk at the hotel told him that thousands of people came here every year searching for something supernatural, and John wondered if he would now be counted amongst their number. He pulled out his bottle of Maker’s Mark and took a long swig as he thought about it, depressed that it had come to this.
Looking around, John saw that an older man was now sitting on the other side of the statue, and he was for a moment alarmed at this disruption of what he thought was a private nervous breakdown. He saw the man stand up when he looked over, and he realized that he was coming over. Damn.
“Hey there young fella,” the man said. “What are you doing out here so late at night?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” John replied, not, actually wanting to know at all.
“I live here, and have since before all the fuss started,” the man said. “I raised my family here, lost my wife here, and will probably die here. I come downtown sometimes when it is quiet to remember what my town used to feel like before the movie and all the nonsense.”
“I understand the movie starred Richard Gere,” John said, faking ignorance. “Something about him losing his wife and then going a little crazy? Is that right.”
“Well that’s what it was supposed to be about. Instead it turned into a story about monsters and ghosts and a whole lot of hogwash that ruined our town here. Every year we get ghost hunters, and reporters, and a lot of other people trying to stir things up. Let met me tell you something, and I hope you hear me. There’s no such thing as monsters, that’s something most people learn when they start to grow up a little. As for ghosts? That one I can’t answer, I lost my wife 12 years ago and I still miss her so bad it hurts. I guess I would do just about anything to see her again. Hold her again. Hell, even fight with her one more time again. But so far those things all just happen in my mind.”
“Well I’m very sorry for the loss of you wife.” John said quietly. “And I’m sorry about your town. I guess people need to believe in ghosts sometimes. Maybe it’s about wishes. We have things we would still like to say to the people we have lost and we want this so bad we kind of wish them back into existence. I don’t know. I’m not an expert. Did it ever get easier for you after your loss?”
“I wouldn’t say it got easier, but it does get better. It gets better because every day I get to look into the eyes of the children she raised and see her there. I get to look at their kids and see them there as well. I see her every time I go downtown and someone shares a story about her, or I see one of her paintings on the wall of the coffee shop over there. So to answer your question, I guess I’d have to say I still see her every day. Not in the way I used to of course, but in a way that lets me see how much she meant to this world.”
And with that, the man wandered off, lost in his own memoires and apparently not wanting to talk about it anymore. Still, John found himself oddly inspired. Maybe the Stones were right. You can’t always get what you want, but sometimes, in a strange and weird corner of the world, you can get what you need.
Following the service, John hopped into his car and began to drive, not knowing where he was going or what it was he was looking for. He only knew that it hurt too much to stay in Chicago right now, and he needed to be somewhere else for a while.
He had driven east for several hours when he got a very odd memory of a movie he had seen years ago called “The Mothman Prophecies” about a man who had started to fall apart following the sudden death of his wife. The man in that movie had become obsessed with a little town in West Virginia called “Point Pleasant” where he had some experiences with the paranormal. He did some quick calculations and pointed the car towards West Virginia, knowing that there was a very real possibility that he himself was cracking up as well.
Arriving in the little town, John saw that a monument had been erected depicting the fictional Mothman, who, according to local legends was sometimes seen right before some kind of tragedy was about to happen. John had not come here in pursuit of the paranormal however. He was simply a desperate man following some badly damaged and wounded instincts.
Checking into his modest little motel, John took out the bottle of Maker’s Mark he had purchased on the road and poured himself a tall glass. He had resisted the urge to begin drinking when he was on the road, but now he needed to feel something else. He took a long look at the glass and took a drink. He was going down.
John decided to take his bottle and go for a walk through the town, although it was mostly deserted and empty at that time of the night. As he walked, he thought about how it came to pass that he was wandering through a scene in a bad B movie in search of something he knew could never be. He hoped he wasn’t losing it.
Finding his way back to the main square in the town, he stopped at the crude Mothman statue and sat down. The clerk at the hotel told him that thousands of people came here every year searching for something supernatural, and John wondered if he would now be counted amongst their number. He pulled out his bottle of Maker’s Mark and took a long swig as he thought about it, depressed that it had come to this.
Looking around, John saw that an older man was now sitting on the other side of the statue, and he was for a moment alarmed at this disruption of what he thought was a private nervous breakdown. He saw the man stand up when he looked over, and he realized that he was coming over. Damn.
“Hey there young fella,” the man said. “What are you doing out here so late at night?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” John replied, not, actually wanting to know at all.
“I live here, and have since before all the fuss started,” the man said. “I raised my family here, lost my wife here, and will probably die here. I come downtown sometimes when it is quiet to remember what my town used to feel like before the movie and all the nonsense.”
“I understand the movie starred Richard Gere,” John said, faking ignorance. “Something about him losing his wife and then going a little crazy? Is that right.”
“Well that’s what it was supposed to be about. Instead it turned into a story about monsters and ghosts and a whole lot of hogwash that ruined our town here. Every year we get ghost hunters, and reporters, and a lot of other people trying to stir things up. Let met me tell you something, and I hope you hear me. There’s no such thing as monsters, that’s something most people learn when they start to grow up a little. As for ghosts? That one I can’t answer, I lost my wife 12 years ago and I still miss her so bad it hurts. I guess I would do just about anything to see her again. Hold her again. Hell, even fight with her one more time again. But so far those things all just happen in my mind.”
“Well I’m very sorry for the loss of you wife.” John said quietly. “And I’m sorry about your town. I guess people need to believe in ghosts sometimes. Maybe it’s about wishes. We have things we would still like to say to the people we have lost and we want this so bad we kind of wish them back into existence. I don’t know. I’m not an expert. Did it ever get easier for you after your loss?”
“I wouldn’t say it got easier, but it does get better. It gets better because every day I get to look into the eyes of the children she raised and see her there. I get to look at their kids and see them there as well. I see her every time I go downtown and someone shares a story about her, or I see one of her paintings on the wall of the coffee shop over there. So to answer your question, I guess I’d have to say I still see her every day. Not in the way I used to of course, but in a way that lets me see how much she meant to this world.”
And with that, the man wandered off, lost in his own memoires and apparently not wanting to talk about it anymore. Still, John found himself oddly inspired. Maybe the Stones were right. You can’t always get what you want, but sometimes, in a strange and weird corner of the world, you can get what you need.
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