The Hemingway Solution

I've already made the necessary preparations.

It was only a few days ago that I decided on this course of action. It was raining that morning, and as I sat writing in my journal it suddenly came to me. I should have recognized the solution sooner of course, it was only a few years ago that Ernest took the same path, but for some reason it has eluded me for some time.

Perhaps it was simple fear, mixed with a hope that did not wish to be burdened by an ever intrusive reality. I had hoped that we could reach some form of reconciliation. I recognize that she no longer wishes to be a part of my life, and certainly I no longer of hers, yet I had hoped we could put aside our vitriol. I had hoped that some of the work I had done recently would be able to generate some amount of income which I could use to stave off the spectre of hunger, and worse, dependance, which has haunted my sleep of late. At the least, I had hoped for some happy news, some good word, to reach my ear. Anything to lift me from this dark depression.

But perhaps this is for the best. She and I will never again find peace, and if the world no longer has any interest in my work, better I suppose that I quit bothering them with it. And so it was with a kind of relieved acceptance that I made the first call and scheduled the cessation of my utilities.

It all took a few days of course. These sorts of things ought not be rushed. And yet, as I took each successive step drawing me ever nearer to this moment, I felt not so much an urge to be done, nor a fear of the doing, but rather a simple contentment. As though these final errands were a burden that could be lifted from off my shoulders, and that in so doing, I had done some small service for those to whom I would soon be doing a small disservice.

Of course there are always so many things to take care of. So many small steps. So many details. But each one seemed to fall into place almost effortlessly, and for the first time in these many months I felt some sense of accomplishment. It was as though in planning for this, and preparing for it, I was able to check off my list of things to do, and in so doing, able to find a renewed purpose to my days.

None of this made me regret or change my decision of course. I had set myself upon a path, and having so committed, could not now step away from it. To do so would pay the lie to the very sense of accomplishment I had been experiencing. It would return me to the bitter, failing, husk I had been collapsing into only days before.

So I scheduled the cessation of my utilities, and ended the phone service. I asked the mail carrier to hold my postage and called the newspaper and canceled my subscription. So many little details in a man's life. So many things you don't think of. The sum of a life I suppose could be taken from its contractual commitments. And in severing each of those commitments I was severing my ties to this world.

I went to the grocer and purchased the drop cloths. I needed enough to hang over the walls and windows, and to drape on the floors. Of course they had to be sturdy enough. I wouldn't be using the Boss & Co like he did, but there was sure to be a mess. The Boss & Co was effective to be sure, but simply not of my interest. I had always been more interested in pistols and revolvers and would of course be selecting one from my collection. Far better I thought to use the tools at hand than to acquire a new firearm simply for a single use. Not the work of a collector that.

I stayed up late last night thinking about what to say. It may be some days before they find the note I intend to leave, and there are sure to be questions. I have made my living with words, and now, at its ending, I was struggling to find the right ones. I didn't want to lay blame. I wished there was some way to assuage the guilt that some would surely feel. It isn't their fault, neither their decisions nor actions which led me here. Not something that was said or some perceived slight. Not even from her. It was my decision, and the one which I felt was right under the circumstances.

Ultimately, I decided to express as succinctly as I could my apologies and motivations.

I don't like to leave messes when I go away, but if I could have cleaned up any of this mess, I wouldn't be going away.

And so now, as I sip one last cup of tea and contemplate the milieu I have waiting when I return to my home, I find myself ready to go. I feel no fear of what is to come, and no sense of loss at what I leave behind.

The problems have mounted, and it is time for me to solve them. I have weighed the alternatives and rested upon the solution. The preparations are complete, and the time has come.

I will sip this last cup, and then return to my home. November in Pennsylvania always was a beautiful time. I can think of no better place to be going, nor any more lovely to leave.

How to Tell a Story

Sometimes circumstances conspire against us.

It really shouldn't catch me by surprise, I suppose. After all, I'm not new to this world. I've lived long enough to understand that a man can only bend the universe to his will so far, before it snaps back out of his grasp. And when that pendulum swings, it always swings too far. It's just the nature of things I suppose. A man ought not to complain when he gets a rough turn, not if he's over the age of ten at least. A man ought to know by then that that's just the way things go.

Still, when it happens, it does seem to catch us by surprise, doesn't it? And we do still complain, don't we? So there I was, sittin in the car on the side of the road, cursin the universe, my luck, and all the damned turns and misfortunes which had brought me to that place. Because it wasn't fair, and I didn't have it coming.

None the less. A man ought not complain. So after doin just that, but only for a moment, and feelin sorry for myself just enough, I got out and started walkin.

We live in a world where many of our decisions are out of our hands. A world where much of what impacts our day to day is beyond our control. We are put upon. And all of the opportunities we are given to affect any substantial change in contradiction to those basic facts is mere illusion. It's just fluoride in the water. It's supposed to be for your own good, but it's really just there to keep you pacified.

So we learn to ignore those things we can't control, at least to whatever degree we can, and focus on the things we can. Oh, I suppose there's a few who never do quite give up on all the things beyond their influence, poor bastards probably go crazy in time. You run into them sometimes. They walk up to you out in public and start talkin about how their dead husband always used to like this grocery or some such nonsense that don't mean a damn thing to you. But the rest of us learn to accept and get on.

So I was gettin on. I left the car right there, rolled it and locked it of course, and started puttin one in front of the other. Only way to get where I needed to be. While I walked, I considered the strange path I'd traveled throughout my day to bring me to this point. Still beatin myself up I guess. Any one of those decisions could've been made different and woulda saved me from bein in the wash so to speak, but there I was none the less. I'd been through worse and hadn't yet figured how to go back and fix it, and I didn't then either.

I'd memorized the address. And I was plannin to park the car somewhere and walk at least part way anyway. I still had the note in my pocket too. That was the most dangerous part. It's one thing to plan on killin a man. It's another to go carryin around incriminatin evidence in your front pants pocket. All I'd need is for some pain in the ass police to decide to stop the man walkin down the side of the road in the middle of the night. Then he'd start callin up his friends and they'd all come circle up, lights a shinin, and then where would I be. Standin there with a note in my front pocket linkin me directly to thirteen other deaths in four states, that's where. Not a pleasant thought that.

But you had to make a splash you see. I'm no damn murderer, and the sort of thing I was doin requires a little risk takin. You had to wake people up. And to do that required a bit of dramatic flair. People don't get up for a little thing like a dead man. Even a dead tax man. You got to give em scandal. So I wrote the notes, and the notes told a story.

The story was important, because it was the one I wanted told. It was a story needed hearin. It was a story of how people could stand up for themselves, how they could be strong, and capable, and smart. How they could fix their own problems and live their own lives. It was a pretty damn good story I thought.

But you can't tell it all at once. You have to let it out slow. A little here. A little there. People get scared when you look em in the eye and tell em that everything they believe is a lie and everyone they trust is a liar. It's too much for some. Can't just drop em there, gotta lead em there. So I'd leave a little note each time. And over time, the story got told.

There was a man, not unlike yourself, lessen I suppose you're a woman, but you get the point. He wasn't a dumb man, but not particularly smart either. Not wise nor foolish. He was just a man. He knew what he was though. Not down on himself nor too high. Give him credit for that.

He had his problems. We all do. And he dealt with them as best he could. He wasn't too good to ask for help when he needed it, but he didn't rely on others either. Just took each day as it came, and did his best with what he had.

One day his neighbors got together and told him they had a better way. They offered a way to ease his burden. They'd form a collective. All he had to do was chip in to a pool of resources, and whenever anyone was down, they could dip into the pool and take care. And when they were up again, they could pay back into the pool.

Now these were all good folk. They had good intentions. But our man was already able to take what came. So he thanked em, and wished em luck, and said he'd be about his business for now. Nothing personal, and if any of them ever needed a hand he was always willin to do what he could, but just the same he'd just keep on as he was.

Like I said, his neighbors were all fine folk, so they just nodded their heads and went on their way. And nobody took any offense. They knew our man was a givin soul, and expected everyone would get on just fine. So he continued on and they started their collective. And no man had any problem with his neighbor.

Every so often, someone would get down, and they'd dip in to the pool. And most of the time, when they were up again, they pay it back. There were hiccups and wrinkles to iron, but for the most part things were fine. And our man was fine too.

But over time, the collective began to struggle. Every once in a while, a man would borrow when he was down, but when he was up the money didn't get paid back, and sometimes people weren't smart enough to use the money to get back up, in which case they just kept borrowin without returnin. Over time, they had themselves a diminishin return on their investment. And as the problems began to grow, the pool wasn't large enough to help everyone involved.

It just wasn't intended to be used by everyone at once. It was supposed to be there for times of need. But people began to rely on it. They figured it'd be there to fall back on. So some people took risks. And if those risks didn't pan, they could just lean on the collective. But the pool wasn't big enough anymore. They needed to make it bigger.

So they asked everyone in the collective to increase their contributions. This would fix the problem you see. If the pool were just bigger, than it would be able to help everyone when times got tough. Of course, if you were down, no one expected you to contribute your full share, but if you were up, well it was only fair. After all, the pool was there for you too, in case you needed it.

But over time, some people never needed it, and some people always seemed like they did. And as the contributions got higher, those who were havin trouble making ends increased in number. It seemed that more and more people were findin the cupboards bare after making their contribution to the pool. So they'd just dip back in and take their contribution back out, but then there wasn't ever enough there when other people really needed it.

Eventually, those what never needed the pool started wonderin why they were contributin so much to something they weren't using. So they started talking about gettin out of the collective. But those what needed it more often said that wasn't fair. After all, they agreed to participate. It was for everyone's good. And besides, it was there for them too, should they ever need it. So everyone stayed.

But over time, it still couldn't be supported. There just weren't enough puttin in to support those takin out. Even as the suggested contribution rose and rose. In fact, each time it went up, it seemed like fewer and fewer could afford to contribute, and more and more were havin to take out. So they needed a new way to fund the collective.

And that's when they came back to our man's home and knocked on his door. Only this time they weren't the same folk as before. Before they'd come with dreams and ideas. Now they had demands and recriminations. There were people in need, couldn't he see that? And he had plenty. In fact, since he hadn't been a part of the collective, he'd made a small fortune providin goods and services to those who were and who had lost the ability to provide for themselves. He had plenty to share, and a lot of that money had come from members of the collective in the first place. By rights, it was theirs.

That was the last note I'd left. The story was gettin told. I had another note in my pocket that night. And as I walked up the side of the road, down the path I'd memorized days ago, I thought about how that story would end. There was still plenty more to the tale. The note in my pocket wasn't the last. If circumstances went my way, I'd still have several more little notes to leave behind. There were plenty of people who needed to hear the story I was tellin.

Because some of those things we can't control aren't as far beyond our influence as we may have been led to believe. That's the real pacifier. Not the illusion of control. It's the mask behind the mask. It's suddenly realizin that your supposed control was an illusion. That's how they keep people from takin back their lives. When they realize that all that stuff they were taught in grade school while they held their hand over their heart and allegianced was a lie, a lot of people just give up. They accept and they get on. Because by the time they're ten, they realize that some things are just out of their hands.

Course, some things ain't everything. So I carried little notes in my front pants pocket to remind people that there were some things they could control. So that people who had given up hope might find hope waiting on their window sill one morning. And sometimes risks had to be taken. But when a man, even if he's not the smartest man, not particularly wise nor foolish, takes those risks on himself, he can do great things.

And when an idea takes root in the heart of a man, why, maybe such a man could change the world.

Depending on how circumstances conspire.