go by. It's official. Florence is another year older. I sing to her. Happy birthday, dear Florence. She swims in her circle. A nearby world explodes. Happy birthday to Florence and to the baby Jesus. I have a goose and a ham and beets and sparkling apple juice and a beer and then a couple more. Somewhere, sometime ago, or now, or in the future, Aunt Betty is praying for me. She prays, she prayed, she will pray. Me and my boss, we sing a little harmony, thousands of years apart. We sing, Florence circles. I cut the cake. I eat it. It's good. I get ready for bed. I brush my teeth. I hit the sack. Another world explodes. Something happens. Somewhere. Four years go by.
Man of Quiet Desperation Goes on Short Vacation
Man, 46, at some point in his life, looks around and says, How did I get here? A quiet boy grown up into an even quieter man.
An October afternoon, a Sunday, a narrow one-story house.
A living room, a couch, some chairs. An accumulation of nouns and furniture.
An ordinary moment in an ordinary life.
He notices the woman sitting next to him, looking somewhat concerned.
"This is the story of our lives, isn't it," he asks. Not really a question.
"Yeah," she says.
"And you're my wife in this story."
The woman nods and smiles the saddest smile he has ever seen, a smile so sad that he realizes, for the first time, that all smiles are sad, and in the way she turns down the corners of her eyes when she smiles he can see that he has put her through a lot and that he will continue to put her through a lot, and she knows this, and she will never leave him.
"Yeah," she says.
"You love me very much," the man says.
"I do. Very much."
The way she says "very much" sounds like the truth. It's the truth like he has never heard the truth before. She doesn't mean it with sentiment or virtue, doesn't want credit in the big book of good deeds or bonus points toward Heaven. She doesn't regret it or begrudge him a single minute of her life. Her love for him is not something that can be changedâit's physics, not emotion: It's the atomic weight of radium. It is vast and it is exact. It is tender and finite and inexhaustible. Her love for him is a fact. Her love for him is a brutal fact about the world. "It's not enough for me, though," he goes on, getting the hang of it. "It's not enough, is it?"
"No," she says, "no, it's not," and he is going to ask her why, but he looks at her and he knows that she understands him better than he will ever understand himself, and for some reason, he understands that it works better that way, and he knows that even if she tried to explain it to him, he wouldn't understand.
"Is this how it always is?" he asks. But he has a strong feeling it is. Beginnings are easy, endings even easier. The hard part is the middle, and for Man of Quiet Desperation, it goes from middle to middle, it always goes from middle to middle to middle.
The City
Man, 46, is in the city. At some point in his life, looks around, thinks to himself,
All I do is look around and think to myself.
The Movies
Man, 46, is at the movies.
At some point in his life, he looks around, says to himself:
"At what point in my life did I start saying things like
at some point in my life?
"
That's the problem right there, he thinks. He's always starting out with
at this point in my life, at some point in my life, my life up to this point.
The West
Man of Quiet Desperation has come out west. Way out west, farther west than he ever thought he would be. The mythical west. The sky is pitched over him like an infinite tent, and it's been frozen into a blue so cold it has turned three shades darker than black.
Just on the other side of the dry riverbed is the Land of the Imperfect Past Tense, of ghosts and romance. On the other side the story moves and flows and overlaps onto itself, a ribbon, a wave, a swirling cumulus of loss, while on this side he can only watch, watch and look, trapped in the static present, the desperate moment
Man of Quiet Desperation Goes on Short Vacation
Man, 46, at some point in his life, looks around and says, How did I get here? A quiet boy grown up into an even quieter man.
An October afternoon, a Sunday, a narrow one-story house.
A living room, a couch, some chairs. An accumulation of nouns and furniture.
An ordinary moment in an ordinary life.
He notices the woman sitting next to him, looking somewhat concerned.
"This is the story of our lives, isn't it," he asks. Not really a question.
"Yeah," she says.
"And you're my wife in this story."
The woman nods and smiles the saddest smile he has ever seen, a smile so sad that he realizes, for the first time, that all smiles are sad, and in the way she turns down the corners of her eyes when she smiles he can see that he has put her through a lot and that he will continue to put her through a lot, and she knows this, and she will never leave him.
"Yeah," she says.
"You love me very much," the man says.
"I do. Very much."
The way she says "very much" sounds like the truth. It's the truth like he has never heard the truth before. She doesn't mean it with sentiment or virtue, doesn't want credit in the big book of good deeds or bonus points toward Heaven. She doesn't regret it or begrudge him a single minute of her life. Her love for him is not something that can be changedâit's physics, not emotion: It's the atomic weight of radium. It is vast and it is exact. It is tender and finite and inexhaustible. Her love for him is a fact. Her love for him is a brutal fact about the world. "It's not enough for me, though," he goes on, getting the hang of it. "It's not enough, is it?"
"No," she says, "no, it's not," and he is going to ask her why, but he looks at her and he knows that she understands him better than he will ever understand himself, and for some reason, he understands that it works better that way, and he knows that even if she tried to explain it to him, he wouldn't understand.
"Is this how it always is?" he asks. But he has a strong feeling it is. Beginnings are easy, endings even easier. The hard part is the middle, and for Man of Quiet Desperation, it goes from middle to middle, it always goes from middle to middle to middle.
The City
Man, 46, is in the city. At some point in his life, looks around, thinks to himself,
All I do is look around and think to myself.
The Movies
Man, 46, is at the movies.
At some point in his life, he looks around, says to himself:
"At what point in my life did I start saying things like
at some point in my life?
"
That's the problem right there, he thinks. He's always starting out with
at this point in my life, at some point in my life, my life up to this point.
The West
Man of Quiet Desperation has come out west. Way out west, farther west than he ever thought he would be. The mythical west. The sky is pitched over him like an infinite tent, and it's been frozen into a blue so cold it has turned three shades darker than black.
Just on the other side of the dry riverbed is the Land of the Imperfect Past Tense, of ghosts and romance. On the other side the story moves and flows and overlaps onto itself, a ribbon, a wave, a swirling cumulus of loss, while on this side he can only watch, watch and look, trapped in the static present, the desperate moment
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