Foolish Fire

Here's the story I mentioned in the last post. It's an early draft, rife with flaws, but so it goes.

Ignis Fatuus

At one in the morning Kate discovered her neighbor’s internet connection, which she’d been poaching for months, had gone down. It was a regular occurrence with no predictable rhyme or reason other than it always seemed to crash when she needed it most. She still had a few hours’ work ahead of her and needed to go online to confirm what she thought she probably already knew before she could finish grading lab reports and call it a night in time to sleep four or five hours and be at least somewhat coherent in class. She closed her laptop with a sigh, packed a bag and climbed into the car.

She pulled into the Tim Horton’s parking lot and, in spite of the usual fatigue, which weighed more heavily than usual on her tonight, and the constant discouragement of dealing with frighteningly lackluster students, she considered her good fortune at the availability of this refuge of sorts. Such nice people, the Canadians, offering a twenty-four hour a day oasis for insomniacs and graduate students and the desperately lonely.

Surprisingly there were only two other customers at that hour, both of whom sat alone far from each other, leveling identical blank looks in the general direction of their coffee cups. She chose a table near an outlet, plugged in her laptop and went to the counter.

“Medium coffee, please,” she said. “For here.”

The girl behind the counter looked momentarily puzzled, then started to walk away before turning and asking, “Cream and sugar?”

“Milk, please,” Kate said.

Half a minute later the girl returned with the coffee. “Here you go,” she said.

Kate took the cup and, holding two one-dollar bills in her left hand, waited for the girl to tell her how much it was. When the girl continued to stand there with a blank look on her face, Kate said, “Well, here,” and passed the girl the two dollars.

“Thank you,” the girl said. Kate waited another few seconds for the girl to ring up the sale and give her change, but that started to seem less and less likely, and so she gave up and returned to her table. She sat down, took a sip of coffee and clicked the icon for her web browser. The window opened, but nothing happened. What the fuck, she whispered. She stood and walked back up to the counter.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, “but do you know if the wi-fi is working?”

The girl behind the counter cocked her head to the side like a pure-bred golden retriever, the sort of animal that is no more or less than half as dumb as the stick being thrown for its amusement. She shrugged.

“Could you check it?” Kate asked. When the girl didn’t respond, Kate went on, “Maybe reset the router?”

“Um,” the girl said, “I don’t have any routers.”

Kate nodded her head and frowned as she turned to go back to her table. As frustrating as it was not to be able to get online, she decided she was no worse off here without an internet connection than she had been in her cheerless apartment, and so she pushed the laptop out of the way, grabbed the stack of lab reports from her bag and set them on the table in front of her.

Although it had been months since she’d seen or talked to him, she found once again that it wasn’t possible for her to be in a Tim Horton’s without thinking about Miller. They had sat together like this with their laptops open on numerous occasions, when he was visiting her or when she was visiting him, TimHo’s being the new ubiquitous outcropping in every small city she knew. Their respective pirated internet connections were constantly going down, and so they would climb into the Flying Dumpster and find themselves drinking weak coffee and taking advantage of the free wi-fi late into the night and early morning.

As hard as she tried to focus on the pages in front of her, her mind nonetheless kept wandering back to him. The last she’d heard from him directly, he’d texted to ask if she would return some books of his she had borrowed but never read. She’d meant to read them, but as it turned out she didn’t even have time for everything she was supposed to read for her classes, and so the guilty pleasure he’d reintroduced to her life once again slipped away. The only other time his name had come up in the intervening months was when Sophie told her she’d gotten a strange text from him telling her he’d used her name for a character in a story and he hoped she didn’t mind.

“I texted back and said of course not and wished him luck with the story,” Sophie said. “Then it got weirder. He said ‘Luck’s for the Irish, Soph, but thanks.’ I’m guessing he was drunk.”

Probably, Kate thought, but she smiled just the same. Luck. Oh, Miller kid.

For an hour or more she willed her eyes to follow the lines of text on the pages in front of her, commanded her brain to follow the eyes’ example. The students, of course, were no help: every misplaced modifier, dangling participle, random smattering of commas, and sentence that was not a sentence recalled for her the night he tried to help her grade, correcting their abysmal grammar while she graded the science. It was one of the last nights they had spent together. No, it was the last night. It didn’t seem possible, but just then she understood that it was true.

She felt herself beginning to slip toward the sad, dark place in her head that particular realization was bound to take her, when the girl from behind the counter walked up to her table.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

“No,” Kate said. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

The girl fidgeted, attempting to slide her hands into the pockets of what she quickly remembered were pocketless pants, and shifting her considerable weight from one foot to the other. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“I am,” Kate said. “But thank you just the same.”

“Well,” the girl said, “they told me if people sit here for more than an hour not ordering anything I should tell them to leave.”

“I beg your pardon?” Kate replied.

“Because of the internet,” the girl said. “People just use the internet and don’t buy anything.”

“But your internet isn’t even working right now,” Kate said.

“That’s what they told me,” the girl said.

Kate stared at the girl for several seconds before asking, “So you’re telling me I have to leave?”

“Unless you buy something,” the girl said. “Sorry. That’s what they told me.” She turned and waddled in the direction of the counter.

Kate stared after the girl for several seconds, watched her walk around behind the counter and busy herself rearranging cups and stirrers. Finally she gathered her papers and her laptop, stuffed them hastily into her shoulder bag, then walked purposefully to the counter. “May I have a customer comment card, please?” she asked.

The girl’s eyes grew wide and her mouth twisted in a way that made Kate wonder if she might cry. Then she realized the girl didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Right there,” Kate said, pointing to a stack of printed cards next to the register. The girl’s eyes followed Kate’s finger, and she passed over one of the cards. “Thank you,” Kate said.

She dug through her bag and found a pen – appropriately enough, the pen Miller had let her borrow the night they graded lab reports at his house so many months ago. She held the pen above the card for a moment, considering, then wrote, “Your coffee is weak, your wi-fi doesn’t work, and your employees are too dumb for words.” She paused again, held the pen to her lips, then finished with a flourish. “Go fuck yourself, Canada.”

She folded the card in two and dropped it into the box emblazoned with the hopeful words, “Tell us what you think!”

In class that morning she struggled so hard to keep her eyes open that at times she felt them crossing. Her inability to focus left her so agitated she began plucking less than consciously at her left eyebrow, a habit she’d been trying to shake for as long as she could remember. When she realized she was doing this in a room full of earnest graduate students, some of whom, she was sure, couldn’t help but notice, she immediately dropped her arm below the table and as surreptitiously as possible began pinching her thigh at irregular but continuous intervals. That seemed to keep her awake and free from the dreaded eyebrow plucking, but it did nothing for her drifting thoughts. Although her addled mind offered no answer to the question of what she wanted to be doing just then, it did seem determined to make it abundantly clear that what she did not want was to be sitting in a seminar on methods for teaching math.

“Why are you doing it?” Miller asked her once when she’d told him she thought she should run off to Mexico instead.

“I want to save the world,” she said.

“How?” he asked her. “By teaching?”

“By changing the way we teach,” she said.

“There’s your answer then,” he said.

He would say that, of course. He would always tell her she was doing the right thing, even when what she was doing was stomping mud holes in his heart. She had known all along she was bewitching him, but she fooled herself for a long time into believing he was along for the ride no less than she was. While at first she’d done it for the thrill and the attention and the satisfaction of turning a head, in time she found her motives growing unreasonably complicated, at least for her: some days she did it because she felt she owed it to him and didn’t want to hurt him; other days she simply couldn’t stop herself, and damn the consequences.

“You drink too much,” she told him one night in a critical rant intended to explain why they could never be together, “you don’t care enough about the world, you don’t cook, don’t have a job, and you own a cat.”

“Nonetheless,” he replied, “I do love you.”

“You have tragically bad taste in women,” she said to that.

“Almost certainly,” came his reply.

“Besides,” she said, “They’re just dumb words anyway.”

“Dumb?” he said. “Dumb words? You say that to a writer? How would you like it if I said salamanders are just dumb amphibians? Or that moths are just dumb insects?”

“They are,” she answered.

He stared at her for a long stretch of seconds during which she willed herself not to look away. This felt like a moment to her, an occasion for making some sort of progress, whatever that might mean.

“Do with this what you will,” he finally said, “but I don’t think anything that brings you a measure of joy can be considered dumb.”

The scraping of chairs being pushed back from the table woke her, and when she opened her eyes she had the sudden sensation that everyone in the room, as they packed up their belongings, was studiously avoiding looking her way. How long could she have possibly slept, she wondered. Reaching for her things and stuffing them into her bag, she sighed and shook her head. With the back of her hand she wiped a smear of drool from her chin.

With time to kill before lab she wandered across the dreary campus to the Union for a sandwich and a place to sit. She chose a table in the corner and opened her laptop. Because she was already thoroughly preoccupied, she opted for continued meaningless distraction rather than a potentially constructive solution and logged into Facebook.

Miller’s status updates still popped up on her news feed from time to time, and when they did she would, without a moment’s hesitation, click through to his page, even though what she found there often felt like she was dragging a serrated blade across her knuckles. He had defriended her sometime before Thanksgiving, the same weekend she had come to his house and found a bag of her belongings – plus everything she had ever given him – sitting in his hallway. The next morning she had logged into Facebook intending to post something oblique on his wall, something that would show him that she still loved him, that it was completely and utterly about her own temporary loss of balance. She’d keyed his name into the search pane and, when his profile popped up, was about to type something when she noticed the icon suggesting she add Miller as a friend.

But he had an open page – so very Miller, she thought, unguarded in an unexpectedly guileless way – and so she could see everything that went on there. After she had left him the previous night, he had uploaded link after link to video clips of songs that had once meant something specifically to the two of them: “Skyway,” “Hold On,” “The Moth,” “Cello Song,” “Stay Or Leave,” “Waltz #2” and on and on. Each clip he introduced with some version of the sentiment “Fuck you.”

He went along in this vein for another two days, quoting song lyrics with a particular bite, lines of poetry he knew she’d recognize, snippets of texts and emails she had written him over the last year and a half. And then he just stopped cold. For weeks he didn’t post a single update or link, didn’t comment on anything anyone else had to say. He disappeared. When a few days had passed with no sign of him, she considered the possibility that he was embracing the philosophy she’d learned as a child from the movie Bambi, which she tried so hard to live, and which she had reiterated in his presence so many times, particularly as they found themselves more and more frequently under the stern glares of meddling acquaintances: “If you can’t say anything nice . . .” But she knew Miller, knew that if that had been his aim, his last post would have been one simple word: Thumper. No, there was something terribly wrong. She considered the possibilities and grasped for a way to check in, but she suspected the only two people who would know for certain what was going on were Peaches and Hank, and she understood without having to ask that neither of them would speak to her, about Miller or about anything. And so she buried herself in work, spent weekends with her father and, occasionally, her sister. And she held her breath.

More than a month went by before she finally saw a sign of him. It was the week before Christmas, and he posted a quote from French writer Francoise Sagan (she’d had to look it up): “I have loved to the point of madness, that which is called madness, that which to me is the only sensible way to love.” She noticed that a handful of the many women in Miller’s life “liked” the post. The lone comment came from Big Puma, who wrote simply, “Bullshit.”

That afternoon as she killed time waiting for another pointless lab section, she went to Miller’s page and scrolled through the most recent posts. She hadn’t been here in weeks. There were the usual assorted music clips, some sad, some angry, mostly from bands she didn’t recognize. He quoted song lyrics from Wilco, Elliott Smith, the National. More than a week ago he’d written, “I give up – so go ahead, surprise me.” He took a shot at Blind Melon, a band he’d teased her about because Ben was a fan. Miller must have found himself trapped somewhere while “No Rain” played in the background. He posted a quote about moths that she didn’t recognize and wasn’t able to find when she googled it: “We were moths, and we were flames, and we could have danced like that, unceasing and curiously insistent, until the last match flared and died.” She considered the possibility that he had written it himself. His most recent post said simply, “Then keep your light on.”

She was about to click through to her own page when Facebook refreshed and a new post popped up. It was a quote from The Great Gatsby, posted seconds ago: “I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it.”

Her breath caught in her throat for an instant, and she leaned forward with her elbows on the table and held her head in her hands. She sat like that for several minutes, then closed her laptop, dropped it into her bag, and went out to the Flying Dumpster to smoke and doze until it was time to be somewhere. She rested her head against the back of the seat and watched through the windshield as a light but steady drizzle began to fall.

It felt like just her luck that the Friday afternoon lab section she instructed – her third of the week, while no other T.A. had more than two and most only one – was top-heavy with the utterly challenged. Each lab was scheduled for two and a half hours, but the requirement was to stay until you’d completed the day’s experiment, which for more than a handful of the Friday afternoon students meant a lab that started at two o’clock rarely saw her exiting the building before five-thirty. When, mercifully, the last little creep put his test tubes away and found the exit, Kate waved goodbye to the room, turned out the lights and locked the door behind her.

After lab she drove straight home to get the dog, didn’t linger in her apartment any longer than it took to gather enough clean clothes to get her through the weekend, then got on the highway and headed south to her father’s house. Fifty minutes later she passed Miller’s exit, and her eyes drifted over the familiar beacons at the edge of town: the Holiday Inn, the Volkswagen dealership, the McDonald’s arches, the big-box cluster of Walmart and Home Depot and Staples. It would have been so easy to point the nose of the car toward the exit. But she was too certain of what she would find there to take that chance.

When she finally did exit the highway, instead of driving up to the West End to her father’s house, she drove down toward the water and parked near the pier where she and Miller had sat after staying up all night talking on Elizabeth’s couch. Toward sunrise they realized Peaches and Elizabeth had disappeared, and so they gathered themselves and wandered down to the waterfront in search of breakfast. They took a booth in the back, far from the few early risers who sat perched on stools at the counter, drank weak coffee and wolfed down runny eggs and soggy bacon and burnt toast. When they’d finished he offered to walk her to her father’s, but she still wasn’t ready to leave him and so suggested they go down to the pier. They sat with their legs dangling over the edge, gazing across the bay, smoking cigarettes. She couldn’t remember which one of them saw the harbor seal first. Probably him, he was usually the one to spot the unexpected. While the seal bobbed in the swell looking back at them, she asked him if he knew about selkies.

“I don’t,” he said.

And so she told him the Irish folktale about the fisherman who came across a beautiful woman sunning herself on the rocks, about how he stood and watched her, captivated by her beauty. He was still gazing at her, enraptured, when she stood, wrapped herself in some sort of skin and then dove into the icy water. After several seconds, instead of her lovely black locks breaking the surface, he saw the head of a seal. The fisherman returned day after day to watch her emerge from the water as a seal and remove her skin to reveal the beautiful woman underneath. Then one day he crept up on her as she slept, stole her skin and took her home. He locked the skin away in a chest, married the woman and raised a family with her. She was a loving wife and mother, but always there was something in her eyes. Then one day one of the children stumbled upon the key, opened the trunk and discovered the skin. When she showed it to her mother, the woman wept, then gathered up her skin, kissed each child, and returned to the sea.

“No wonder seals have such sad eyes,” Miller said.

She loved him for saying that, loved that he understood. She tried to tell him that with her own eyes, but after a night without sleep in the midst of a stretch during which she had gone sleepless far too often, she feared her eyes gave away little if anything more than her ongoing weariness.

“This,” she said, “is part of why we Irish will always be such a sad and tragic people.”

“Not so tragic,” he said, patting her knee. “You’ll always have that particular, peculiarly Irish luck thing going for you, right?”

“It’s only good if you wish it on others,” she’d told him.

“You keep it,” he said, smiling. “I’m already pretty lucky.”

Except for Peggers sniffing around one of the stanchions, she stood alone at the end of the pier, the evening already far too dark for her to see a seal or anything else floating in the water. It had started to rain again, softly at first, but rain that time of year, soft or not, always had more weight than it seemed it should. She heard a fishing boat chugging past halfway across the bay, going the wrong way to be returning to port after a day in open water, only its green starboard light visible from where she stood. She didn’t know what she thought she’d find, but there was nothing for her here. She smoked one last cigarette, then whistled for the dog, returned to her car and drove up the hill to her father’s.

They ate a quiet dinner, after which she left him alone with his wine and sad songs and retired to her room. She closed the door behind her, pulled her laptop out and climbed into bed.

The usual hodgepodge of new emails greeted her: students complaining about their grades or pleading for extensions, amnesty, mercy; an update from the department chair; a gripe about the update from one of her fellow grad students; the ever-present announcements that she had been reached out to in various ways via Facebook. There were messages from two women from the old crew who still spoke to her – the ones who had never liked Miller to begin with and so were glad to see her done with him. They wondered how she was, why they hadn’t heard from her, hoped to see her soon. As she read the second message, the one from Cakester, she noticed a green dot pop up just below her own name in the sidebar and glanced to see who it was.

Miller. She stared at the dot, checked to ensure that there was a similar dot beside her own name. She bit her lip, took a very deep breath, and slowly plucked at one eyebrow. The dot didn’t go away, and half of her wished that in the next moment she’d hear a plip and see a few words from him pop up in the corner of the screen, even though more than half of her knew that wouldn’t happen.

She was reminded again of The Great Gatsby, a book he’d recommended to her not long after they’d first met – in fact, he had let her read his own dog-eared, marked-up copy. She loved it, loved the story, but especially loved reading the passages he had underlined, loved stumbling across the notes he’d written in the margins. She loved seeing Miller’s younger self through the pages, younger even when he had first read that book than she was when he had handed it to her. She lay in bed with the laptop open in front of her and thought about Gatsby standing at the edge of his blue lawn, casting his eyes across the water to the green light that glowed at the end of Daisy Buchanan’s dock. He’d convinced himself it was a beacon of hope, but in truth it was like following the will-’o-the-wisp into the swamp. She considered how things might have gone differently for Gatsby had the green light never appeared, or if, at some point before he’d hopelessly mired himself in the morass, the light had simply vanished, flickered and gone out. Would his life have been spared, or would the sudden absence of the green light have hastened his end? Impossible to know, and because she was a practical girl, a scientist ultimately, she could only base her conclusion in this matter on known outcomes, of which there was only one: Gatsby’s hopes clung to the green light, which was never extinguished, which shone on even after Myrtle Wilson’s cuckolded husband staggered through the hedge to find Gatsby floating in the pool, and poor doomed Gatsby met his tragic, untimely death. The only concrete evidence she had was that which resulted from the green light’s unending presence, and thus Kate believed – fairly knew – that her own hope would have to rest upon an admittedly weak hypothesis that followed the opposite path. His name on the screen and the green dot beside it blurred as tears welled in her eyes. She tipped her head back and let the tears slide down her cheeks and down the back of her neck.

An instant later she sat upright again, shook her head, steadied her breath, then clicked on the drop-down arrow beside her name. With her eyes she scrolled down the status options until she saw the word “Invisible.” She inhaled a slow, deep breath and let it out just as slowly and evenly, her hand poised above the touchpad, then with her little finger she moved the cursor and pressed down, extinguishing the green light forever.

Selkies

Some days I feel less like a writer than a patient and accomplished solitaire player. In the last two hours I've played a dozen or so hands of a complicated variety the name of which I don't recall -- it involves two decks and a willingness to accept that you're going to lose much more often than you win. I think I've won once, lost half a dozen times and abandoned the rest. That's the thing about solitaire in general, and solitaire in particular when you're just trying to fill the spaces between sentences that don't want to come: it's easy not to have a dog in that fight.

I'm sitting in the front window of Cohill's Irish Pub in Lubec, Maine, staring alternately across the water at Campobello Island and at the seals bobbing in the shelter of the breakwater. I can't remember the last time I was this close to Canada. Or harbor seals. The rain finally let up about half an hour ago, but it's still heavy and grey, and the wind coming off the water from the south shows no signs of shifting or dying down. Even the seagulls lined up along the jetty seem perturbed. It's late October, and I suspect that means something to them just as it does to me.

It's probably fair to say that the fact that it's October has contributed as much to the tone of my mood the last few weeks as has my current state of being between homes. Time creates the impression of distance, but it takes more than an accumulation of weeks, months and years to diminish the effects of cruel dark days: it requires the sort of resolve that won't be shaken by turning the page of the calendar or watching seals dive for their dinner.

This time a year ago I was about a year separated from what had become in many ways the worst time of my life. In the course of those twelve months I'd written a book's worth of stories, kept myself mostly employed, found a shabby cave to call home, and managed to convince myself that I had, for all intents and purposes, put the hard times behind me. I was writing, chasing women and cracking wise like a reasonable facsimile of my old self. Not bad. But it was almost certainly a mistake to anoint myself the reinstated master of my domain before all the votes had been counted. You live, you learn -- or at least you'd better, or else why bother.

So it's October again, and I've spent unacceptable amounts of time every day for the last several weeks staring at the ceiling and sighing like someone's sitting on my chest. And the hell of it is, that's a lousy way to be when you're trying to write. Or do much of anything, actually. But then I sat down in a pub in the easternmost town in the U.S., looked up and saw a bunch of seals, and I remembered an Irish girl with green eyes who one evening in a bar almost two-hundred miles west of here regaled me with the legend of the selkies. It's a delightful story, typically Irish-heartbreaking. I wrote a short story about it once, and I like that story for a handful of reasons, but mostly because it was that rarest of instances when I wrote about that particular girl and allowed for the possibility that she had a conscience. In the month of October, it's hard for me to believe that could be so. But that's okay: October's only ever thirty-one days long.

A bald eagle just swooped across the bay and descended upon the jetty, scattering the three dozen witless seagulls like Polish cavalry before the blitzkrieg. The tide's coming in, and the seals are still at it. I'll play one more hand of solitaire -- because right now I don't feel like having a dog in anyone's fight, not even my own.

Inventories

Well folks, this is it: the last full day of the Bear Cave. The belongings are stuffed into bags and boxes, ready to be stashed in a secure location. It’s mildly startling to see how little really does remain from the halcyon days of the height of empire. Six small boxes of books, three large garbage bags of clothes, a box of photographs (mostly of my daughter), a duffel bag’s worth of shoes and assorted nonsense (water bottle, coffee cup, blank CDs, a Red Sox Magic 8-Ball, the chili pepper lights that died but which I won’t leave behind because they were a present from my daughter the first Christmas after her mother and I split up), a shoebox of knickknacks, a sorely lacking tool tote, two cigar boxes I’m not going to look in until I have a home again, half a dozen jackets (one, the down jacket I would be wearing this winter, with a broken zipper), a printer, an iMac, a desk, a mattress, a fifty-foot extension cord, two power strips, a tote containing a remarkably strange assortment of bathroom items, two blankets, two pillows, and the backpack I carry pretty much everywhere. I can practically throw the entire mess right on my back.

I’ve spent so many nights the last thirteen months, as I attempted sleep, reflecting on what I came to call the “things that were lost in the fire.” Some of what stayed behind I never think much about: the two TVs and affiliated DVD players, the three fairly nice suits, an array of kitchen items that might reasonably suggest that I actually can cook, couches and chairs, desks and tables, bookcases. The scattered last days I found myself in that building, well into a genuinely cold winter, it wasn’t the fact that there was no heat, no lights, no running water that compelled me to skirt past all those items without even for an instant caring whether I ever saw them again. Other things I did intend to salvage but ultimately failed. Every pair of shorts I owned. A handful of impressive gargoyle statues. My daughter’s guitar. Dozens of quality pens. Hundreds of books of all sorts. The stamp collection my grandfather gave me when I was eight. Every time I walked into that house during the winter of 2010-11, it was like being under water. I grabbed what I could carry before my breath gave out, and then I made a desperate lunge for the surface. Weeks after the last dive, the bank took the house, and though there was never any real fire, what was left was consumed nonetheless in the flames of two years very badly spent.

Now just what’s on my desk remains to be packed. Five pens. Two not quite dead lighters. A cup of water. And dozens of index cards. I’m a notorious note taker. Anyone who’s ever seen me pull one of my ubiquitous black notebooks from my pocket to scribble a line or two in the midst of a conversation can attest to that. The card on the top of the pile is a timeline of my school days from kindergarten to twelfth grade, listing the years and my age in each grade. On the back of that card is a list of my homeroom teachers, as best I can remember them. I was trying to recall a particular teacher, the one who compelled me to master my mother tongue. Another card notes the date of death of the grandfather I never knew, the one who blew his own brains out three and a half years before I was born. There are quotes from people I admire, song lyrics, brief descriptions of ideas for essays and stories. I wrote the opening paragraph of an essay eviscerating the dimwitted Jennifer Weiner for her comments about Esquire magazine publishing men’s fiction. I jotted a quick description of a once beautiful woman I used to admire: “. . . now she has the sunken cheeks and bulging eyes and gaping mouth full of over-large teeth of a Tim Burton character.”

It’s true, she does look like a Tim Burton character. She was much more attractive, at least physically, back in November 2010 when I took another sort of inventory: I wandered around what was then my house and gathered up everything she’d left there, threw it all in a bag, left it in my hallway and told her to please pick it up by the next day or it was going in the trash. She picked it up, and if she ever bothered to look inside, here’s what she found:

one surf clam shell

(left to be found)

one snail shell

(just left)

one piece mica

(black)

one pair grey wool socks

(dirty)

one chemistry textbook

(won in a card game)

one pair fake pearl earrings

(lost in a card game)

one can Alpo Prime Cuts dog food

(for the three-legged dog)

one pouch loose-leaf green tea

(for the girl)

one paper plate

(suggestive birthday art)

three short stories written by her in college

(her only copies)

one precocious child’s self-published school newsletter, No Recess Anonymous

(wrapped in an issue of the New Yorker)

one mix CD

(18 songs)

one St. Christopher medal

(found on the street)

And now she looks like a Tim Burton character. Who would have guessed.

The one thing I inadvertently kept from those days was a dried aster she left in my mailbox three years ago, back when she was failing miserably at being entirely faithful to her then boyfriend, the beloved Farmer. I had propped it in the funky piece of sculpture that used to hang on the doorframe in my former kitchen, functional art from which my keys dangled. When I deserted that house, the goofy sculpture came with me, hanging from two nails tapped into the doorframe in the Bear Cave. The aster sat on my desk that entire time. I was a little amazed it didn’t crumble and fall apart somewhere along the way. Pale and innocuous, I rarely noticed it was there. But packing and sorting, especially this brand of packing and sorting, leaves me feeling bitterly sentimental, and bitter sentiments usually lead to unequivocal gestures. The aster, the last dry reminder of days dark with longing and misguided purpose, floated briefly, then swirled swiftly in that tempest in a toilet bowl, descended into the muddy maelstrom, and disappeared. And good fucking riddance.

Au revoir, Bear Cave.

It's a room roughly twenty feet long and fifteen feet wide with dark paneling on three walls and, mercifully but inexplicably, one accent wall of off-white mottled panels, the sort you find in value-priced pre-fabricated homes. There is a sizable foyer and a walk-in closet, and there is an afterthought of a bathroom (toilet and sink, but no shower). In one corner of the exterior wall, an air-conditioner occupies what might once have been a window but which is now simply a cutout that gives the AC access to the outside. Other than the cutout, there are no windows. The only way to know if it's day or night is to have faith in what the clock tells me; the only way to determine whether I'll need a jacket or possibly an umbrella is to descend the stairs and step out onto the sidewalk. It is strange and occasionally insufficient and frequently surreal, but for the past thirteen months it has also been home. It is the Bear Cave.

How and why I came to be living in the Bear Cave is a less than inspiring story: I went broke, as a wise guy once said, gradually and then quite suddenly, lost my marbles, lost my house, and then spent the next ten months living off the largesse of friends. I finally managed to scrape together a few bucks, but only a very few, and in a stroke of what felt like genius it occurred to me that I didn't need a big, fancy apartment: what I needed, quite simply, was four walls and a ceiling, with a lock on the door, and this being Waterville, there was plenty of low-rent, no-frills office space available. The lack of a shower has certainly been less than ideal, but just as necessity is the mother of invention, it is also fair to say that poverty decides the relative value of convenience. My friends Chili and Smurfette gave me a mattress and a desk, I lugged my remaining belongings up the stairs, and for the time being I had most of what I needed.

Not unexpectedly, living in a windowless cave has its downsides. The lack of ambient light considerably screwed with my sleep patterns. Stretches when I was flat broke saw me hunkering down in the cave for a day or two at a time, not venturing out for any reason. The walls, already close, crept in, casting a pall over already dark days. A couple months after I moved in, I scratched "RIP GB," very faintly, into the desktop. With the overhead fluorescent lights on, you can't even see it's there, but if I turn out the lights, illuminating the room with nothing more than the glow of my computer monitor, the inscription jumps right out at you.

It wasn't all bad, though. There was a reliable unsecured wifi signal. There were distraction-free hours sitting at my desk typing away. For a few months there was a long, tall dame who dared to cross the threshold from time to time. And there was a roof, and walls, and a lock on the door.

At the end of my first summer after college, I moved with my girlfriend to Seattle. This was 1991, and Seattle was an outstanding place for kids like us to go for an adventure. The day after we arrived, though, she announced that she didn't think we should live together. She wasn't entirely wrong: it didn't really fit her sense of herself, this shacking up with a dude she was sure even then would never become her version of husband material. Of course, she had no sense of how or why this was devastating to me: she didn't know because I'd never really talked to her about my own sense of the precariousness of HOME. She was a nice upper middle-class girl from Winchester, Massachusetts, and as intriguing as parts of my story were to someone like her, that part I was still keeping to myself. We were staying with her sister and broth-in-law for the first few weeks in Seattle, and when she made her announcement about our future living situation, I walked out the door and made my way up to Capitol Hill, where my friend Q was living with his mother. It was a long walk, and I made it longer, pausing frequently to ponder the terrain, sizing up benches and discreet corners where, as far as I knew that day, I might soon find myself holed up. I was twenty-two years old and three-thousand miles from home and scared shitless. And I hated my girlfriend's guts a little bit right then, not because she didn't want to live with me, but because she could have told me that before I got on the fucking plane.

But it wasn't her fault: I put myself there in that distant city with a girl who was, ultimately, a placeholder. Just as I put myself here, in the Bear Cave which, a week from tomorrow, I'll have to vacate. In spite of the fact that my landlord is kind of a dick, this isn't his fault -- he's been patient. Plus, I wasn't really supposed to be living here in the first place. Even a dick is entitled to his money, and a cave is no place for a man. There are things I'll miss about the place, but they are the obvious things. I can't say I feel at all sentimental about it. Anyway, until further notice, the view from this particular Bear Cave will be cloudy at best. I'll leave you with a little Twilight Singers for your Sunday pleasure. You can dance to it if you want.

Underneath the Waves -- Twilight Singers

Practical Ethics

Let's review. The chair of the board of trustees of my alma mater, Colby College, was forced to step down as CEO of Barclays because of his role in the LIBOR rate-fixing scandal. A legendary college football coach was stripped of enough career wins to knock him from first to twelfth place on the all-time list because his image meant more to him than the most basic level of human decency. Twelve people died and almost sixty more were wounded because they went to the movies, and a congressman from Texas said it was essentially the result of not letting God into our lives.

I don't know Bob Diamond. I knew who he was, knew he was a rich and powerful banker, knew he was a Colby alum and benefactor and trustee -- in other words, one more among the many with whom I share the vague connection of having attended a fine liberal arts college, but that's where our similarities mostly end. As to Mr. Diamond's ultimate culpability, well, I suppose opinions will vary. I've read some of the texts and emails that, to absolutely no one's surprise, portray precisely the sort of culture we all tend to fear in the realm of highest finance: insider manipulation as a standard operating procedure. Mr. Diamond may not have been directly involved with either those individuals or their actions, but make no mistake: bankers know where their money comes from. Bob Diamond understood precisely the environment over which he presided. I have heard some suggest, essentially as a matter of what I'll call "practical ethics," that what these bankers were doing was, in the end, benign, that the only real benefit derived from these practices was the boosting of any given bank's prestige/image, and that neither significant monetary gains for the banks nor demonstrable losses to consumers were the result. You'll have to find an economist you trust to answer that question, it's far outside the scope of my understanding. What isn't beyond my comprehension, though, what should not be even remotely beyond any reasonable person's comprehension, is that these people were doing something fundamentally wrong. I don't subscribe to "practical ethics." I tend to apply a very simple standard, one you should feel free to try at home: picture the person in your life whose opinion of you matters most; now imagine telling that person what you just did; if, based on how well you know that person, you're confident he or she would be disappointed in you, well, what you did was wrong. Bob Diamond, think of your dear sweet granny: What would she think of this mess you've made? And while we're on the subject, Colby College, recipient of many millions of dollars from the questionable coffers of Mr. Diamond, what would your dear sweet granny say?

The NCAA this week came down hard on Penn State for the failures of leadership that allowed a serial pedophile to thrive for decades in their midst. The university will pay fines in the tens of millions, lose a significant number of scholarships over the next four years, and will not be eligible for either its conference championship or bowl games during that period. In addition, the NCAA stripped the football program of all wins and honors going back to 1998, which was when, at least as far as anyone knows, those in charge at Penn State, including Joe Paterno, knew of but chose to essentially cover up questionable behavior by Jerry Sandusky. Joe Paterno, in his last days as the coach, insisted he did everything he thought was proper: he relayed information about the allegations to his superiors, trusting that they would handle the matter responsibly. Based on a small handful of internal communications that have come to light since Paterno's death, it seems reasonable to conclude that Paterno's involvement in the handling of those allegations was nowhere near as hands-off as he claimed. And the only reason that came as a shock to so many is that, for decades, an awful lot of people believed Joe Paterno was a model citizen, that somehow the many-headed behemoth that is big-time college sports had not in all those years managed to darken the soul of that one man. In the last decade of his career, many called for Paterno to step away from the game: the quality of the teams he put on the field had diminished considerably, and there were many who thought the game had passed him by. I was firmly among those who maintained that Joe Paterno had more than earned the right to walk away when he chose and on his own terms, not simply because he had, for many years, presided over a successful, winning football program, but also because he appeared to represent a level of integrity all too rare in that realm that is fueled from every direction by vast sums of money. Money is a temptress, to be sure, but so is the prospect of becoming the sort of legend whose accomplishments are all but guaranteed not to be surpassed for generations. Paterno, it now seems to me, stuck around the game longer than he should have not because he believed he had something to offer college football, but because college football had something he could take and certainly not relinquish in his lifetime: the all-time wins record. Given his status and stature on the campus of Penn State, that record, in Joe Paterno's eyes, must have seemed attainable even as far back as 1998, the year he had to make a choice: protect current and future victims of Jerry Sandusky, or preserve a personal legacy. Make no mistake: there certainly is such a thing as bad press, and Joe Paterno wasn't willing to let such a specter fall upon his little fiefdom in Happy Valley. Here, perhaps, is another measure of ethics, although this one can only be applied in hindsight: when the end result is the worst of both worlds -- an untold number of young boys suffered, and the old coach was stripped of his accomplishments -- it's fair to say you did something very wrong. Sadly, finding out years later that you chose poorly isn't terribly instructive. Paterno did say, looking back, that he wished he'd done more. To that, I would say this: it's always easy to apologize after you've gotten caught, but when you do, it almost never sounds like the regret you feel is so much about the consequences for others as it is about the consequences, now, for you. Had you lived to see it, Joe, I bet you would have been really sorry to see yourself go from first all-time in wins to twelfth. Bummer for you, Joe. Would it make you feel better to know there are plenty of people out there, like former players Matt Millen and Franco Harris, who insist you've been mistreated?

I was visiting friends in Portland late last week, and I woke Friday morning on their couch to the sounds of the varmint patrol in the back yard, sizing up the potential squirrel and skunk risk. This, roughly, is what my friend told me after I sent him a squinty-eyed text from downstairs. Since I was awake anyway, I strolled out to the deck for a smoke, and my buddy joined me a few moments later. Almost the first words out of his mouth (after explaining away the varmint patrol) was something about a whack-job shooting up a movie theatre at one of the opening night midnight showings of The Dark Knight Rises. I was still groggy and so did not immediately process what he'd said. It sank in and I began asking questions, but at that point he had no real information. In the hours and days since, of course, a considerable amount of information poured forth. Twelve dead, fifty-eight wounded. The gunman tossed tear-gas canisters into the cinema, then sprayed the crowd with automatic weapon fire. Some were hit while trying to shield others. Afterward, the gunman was found sitting placidly beside his car in the parking lot and was arrested without significant incident. Police later discovered the gunman's apartment had been rigged with a variety of explosives, booby-traps designed to take even more lives.

What little we know about the gunman, James Holmes, tells us nothing of any lasting value, and there's no need to rehash any of it here. As is always the case when a random person does the unthinkable, we try to find out everything we can about that person's life -- his history, his habits, his makeup -- mostly because we want an answer to what is almost certainly an unanswerable question: why? There is, of course, another question that floats through all our minds, the answer to which we also hope to find in the portrait of this killer: do I know anyone like that? Is he my neighbor, or the guy who works at Staples, or one of the pointless drifters on Main Street? What, if anything, can you tell me about this guy that might help me recognize the next guy before I end up like one of the people who didn't walk out of that movie theatre in Aurora, Colorado last week?

I don't want to get into a lengthy discussion about guns, but I would like to say this: it is far too easy in this country for stupid people and crazy people to obtain not just guns but arsenals. If you are among the millions of people who read the Second Amendment and believe its intent is to make sure you're entitled to carry around a comparable arsenal, you're an idiot. That is not even close to what the framers had in mind, and if you had the vaguest sense of American history in general and Constitutional history in particular, you'd know that. James Holmes was able to acquire the assortment of overpowering weapons he carried into that theatre precisely because jackasses like you insist on maintaining your supposed right to have access to such things. If your ilk had any sort of collective conscience, incidents such as this one, or the Virginia Tech shootings, or Columbine, or take your pick, would make an impression on you. The fact that the only apparent impression this leaves on the likes of you leads to the assertion that one or two good gun-toting American in that theatre might well have neutralized that gunman indicates to me not only your lack of conscience but your lack of sense. You're despicable.

Amazingly, though, not as despicable as Texas Congressman Louie Gohmert, who in a radio interview after the shootings, in what I'll admit was a clumsy, haphazard way, seemed to suggest that an incident such as this is the price of not letting God into our lives. Gohmert has since attempted to distance himself from his comments, claiming, as people so often do, that the comments were taken way out of context. I read his comments last weekend, and just now I listened to the interview in which he made the comments, and I gotta say, Louie, I'm calling bullshit. You said it, you created your own context. Now, if you'd come out after the fact and said, "I didn't mean it, I was speaking off the cuff and wasn't prepared for that line of questioning," then okay. Except you can't say that, can you, Louie? No you can't, because you said exactly what you meant: that we have become a Godless society, and that means we've got some biblical reckoning coming to us. Never mind that this person, James Holmes, is clearly among the -- what? what would you say? tens of thousands? hundreds of thousands? -- among the very many people in this country whose delicate internal wiring is just feeble enough to turn them into an orange-haired, assault-rifle wielding mass-murderer. That's not God, Louie, that's insanity. I don't think a life of praying to Jesus would have kept this guy from turning the corner. Nor do I think prayer in public schools is going to eradicate the ills of society. You know what might help, though? Replacing empty rhetoric with meaningful discourse. In fact, I would go so far as to say part of our overarching problem is that there's a ridiculous number of people in this country who maintain that the only valid system of morality is belief in a book of fairy tales. When a Louie Gohmert asserts that his God's absence from the public life of America contributes in some way to the pain and suffering of victims of mass-murder, what he is saying, in effect, is that I'm responsible in some way for that pain and suffering because I'm firmly among those who neither believe in his God nor support the imposing of his beliefs on secular life. I don't want my daughter, in her public school, to be subjected to Louie Gohmert's God or Louie Gohmert's Good Book. My daughter doesn't go to church, nor does she subscribe to the particular teachings of that Good Book I just mentioned, and guess what, Louie? She still knows the difference between right and wrong. She possesses what I would call genuine moral fiber. How is that possible, right? Maybe we just got lucky.

You may be wondering what the point of all this might be. Perhaps I'm grasping, but as I thought about each of these events and their surrounding contexts, it occurred to me that they share a common thread: some rather disturbing takes on ethics. Bob Diamond was involved in what was, at the very least, shady dealings, and yet his money (because, of course, it's a great deal of money) is still good at Colby College. Joe Paterno cared not at all about the welfare of a bunch of kids from the wrong side of the tracks, and yet there are still those who dare to suggest that the dismantling of his legacy is unfair. Louie Gohmert stood on the backs of twelve murder victims to further his right-wing christian agenda, and legions of like-minded Americans stand behind him. Perspective certainly renders much in life subjective. But ethics is ethics. Someone show me the massive grey area I must be missing in any of these three conversations. Please. I just want to be a better person.

Dirty Old Town

We've all had them: those relationships we know are over long before we ultimately manage to make our graceless exits. For a time you willfully ignore the obvious indications that the relationship is on life support. Of course, you maintain hope at first because, after all, there was something of real love there once. Then you're holding on because admitting defeat, accepting the flaws in your dreams and expectations, is only slightly more palatable than a bowl of stewed rat testicles. Even when you've come to terms with all of that, there is, finally, the dubious prospect of facing the unknown. Transient comfort is easier to bear than the prospect of near certain distress.

I moved back to this small city from a considerably larger city eleven years ago. By then I had spent a year driving up and down the interstate to see my daughter on the weekends, and that bleak drive, amplified by the bittersweet farewell at weekend's end, compelled me to follow my daughter and her mother back to Waterville, the place where I had already spent much of my life. Growing up in nearby Vassalboro, Waterville was "town," the place where everything was: groceries, school clothes, doctors' offices, the movie theatre. When it came time for me to go to college, I chose Colby, which is technically in Waterville, although the gulf that exists between the city proper and the campus on the hill is measurable not so much in miles as in the elements that comprise the essence of privilege. After brief forays into the wider world, I made what I intended to be a mere pit-stop here, just enough time to patch my old Volvo together before I headed west to points mostly unknown. Instead, I met a girl, and I stayed. Twenty months later, we had a daughter who still, seventeen years later, makes me glad that old Volvo of mine wasn't anywhere close to ready to roll across the continent in the fall of 1993.

We were living in Portland (Maine -- when I say Portland, it is always Portland, Maine, unless otherwise noted) by the time the little beast arrived, and we would spend most of the first five years of her life there. It was a pretty good time to be living in Portland. We didn't have much money, but back then it was still pretty affordable as cities go, so we lived in a decent apartment, ate out at good restaurants once in a while, and wandered all over the city. The relationship's death knell tolled right around the time the cost of living in Portland skyrocketed, and with two households to support rather than just one, soon there was little choice: my daughter and her mother made their way north to cheaper climes. Again, a year of making that drive every weekend wore me down, but it was more than that. Being in the same city had meant having midweek options, impromptu dinners and sleepovers or just a sweet half hour sitting with her on the steps eating ice cream. A year without any of that was more than I was willing to endure, and so I followed them back home to Waterville.

For the first seven years, I could have been living anywhere: the place was mostly irrelevant because I found a job that occupied most of my waking hours. I worked fifty, sixty, sometimes seventy hours a week, and when I wasn't working or sleeping, I was with my daughter. Waterville existed, for me, as little more than the backdrop to my ongoing life. It wasn't until that job ended, quite suddenly, that I poked my head out of what was then my cave and found myself in the midst of a burgeoning scene.

Those were impressive times by any standard. Everyone was young and smart and interesting and enthusiastic. People were involved. It felt very much like the future of Waterville was not just promising, it was assured. There was an award-winning author, a doctor, college professors, journalists, world travelers, a librarian and her punk-rock husband, a hippie farmer, a concert promoter . . . a remarkable array of talents and experiences. I knew at the time it was rare, but I never guessed it was also fleeting.

People move on, they move away for jobs or family or whatever. All of that happened, but there was another element to our disintegration that was, at least in part, my own fault. I fell for the farmer's girlfriend, with foreseeable consequences: the group splintered apart. Where once any given evening could find a dozen or more of us joyfully spread around four tables pulled together in a corner of the bar, suddenly no gathering was easily made: allegiances had to be considered, as well as wagging tongues. I certainly lamented the change, but I was no less besotted and self-absorbed than that simpering twit Paris under the gaze of Helen of Troy: I was more than satisfied that my relationship with the farmer's girlfriend remained one of the few unscathed by current circumstances. Meanwhile, in ones and twos, my friends began to move away. Eventually, so did the farmer's girlfriend, although she didn't go so far away that I couldn't still see her. She had ended things with the farmer, and because pretty young women of a particular stripe thrive on unqualified affection and the constant tacit reminder that they are desirable, she kept me on a string for a short time -- just long enough to find her way in the new version of her life, long enough for her to stop feeling desolate and alone. Once her own sense of order had been restored, she cut the string, and I sank rather briskly into my own personal oblivion.

For a long time after that, Waterville became for me a place with ghosts around every corner. The bar, the good restaurant, the coffee shop, the footbridge, my own house: all of it was fraught with her. I considered leaving then because, at the time, it was impossible to imagine seeing any or all of this every day and not constantly seeing some flash of her in my periphery. It was grotesque. Time passed, though, and it was she who became grotesque, not the things she had touched. I had new eyes for Waterville and, not without considerable modifications, I settled in once again.

Joyce had Dublin. Faulkner had Oxford County, Mississippi; Hemingway Michigan's Upper Peninsula, the Florida Keys and, of course, Paris. Steinbeck had Salinas and Monterey. Places as desperate obsessions, grimy windows on the near world. I have, for most of my life, had a dying, decaying mill town perched on the edge of a river. In my youth there were two still thriving department stores spitting distance from one another right downtown. Today, one of those buildings is a cobbled together collection of shops, offices and event space; the other is a derelict. The good restaurant, the one that had sustained itself for decades, closed three months ago. The coffee shop is the hangout of strange misfits, Jesus-freaks, and old people. The bars are full of bad music and loudmouthed drug dealers. The sidewalks are crowded with the desperate, the mad, the medicated. None of this is entirely new -- it's worse, of late, but it's certainly not new.

No, what is new is this: I see no hope here. With barely more than a handful of exceptions, my closest friends have drifted off to other places, other lives. What was once a fair copy of the Algonquin Round Table is now little more than a lunch counter of barely audible witticisms. Opportunity is scarce: it seems the only sort of "business" that finds this place appealing these days is low-income elderly housing. The city's current motto is "Converge and Create." I believe it was my friend Chili who quipped, "It should be 'Converge and Cremate.'" That's right, folks: come here and die. But, because so many of the ones who were supposed to comprise this small city's renaissance have moved on, I suppose I can't blame the rich old white men of the chamber of commerce for being enthusiastic about the prospect of Waterville becoming a de facto retirement community. Old people commit comparatively few crimes, after all, and they're off the streets before dark. They are a dream populace in this disposable age.

When I need a break from writing, I wander down the street to the park, where I sit and smoke a cigarette and let the sun do what little it can for a guy who spends most of his time in a cave. There's a crazy homeless asshole who sits at the edge of the park on days like today, and he's taken to muttering at me every time I walk past him. What he says is easy enough to ignore because, well, he's a crazy homeless asshole, and for a handful of reasons he probably resents having his routine disrupted by my routine. The fact that I don't even acknowledge his existence almost certainly rankles him as well, but believe me, I don't dismiss him simply because he's firmly ensconced in the shallow dirty end of the human wading pool. I pay him no heed, yes, but the thing I can't ignore, the thing I shouldn't ignore, is the sense that, the longer I stay in this town, the narrower the margin between that guy and me becomes. You never can tell what the consequences might be when you linger just a bit too long.

We've had some times, though -- we've had some times. I've fallen in love, kissed a lot of ladies, been drunk, been sobered, found and lost friends, {NOTE: It appears something went wrong when I originally posted this entry, and about a sentence and a half at the end of this paragraph got lopped off. I apologize. I also wish I could tell you precisely what I said in those words that are no longer with us, but I couldn't recreate it for all the money in your pocket. It is gone, and we must not grieve. Take it on faith that whatever I wrote, it was pithy, quite possibly poignant, and probably included a reference to a once beautiful succubus.}

Waterville, je t'aime. I want a divorce.

Cure for Sleep

Look at that, it's one o'clock in the morning. In the last month and change, I think I've had literally three nights when I've just fallen asleep when I climbed into bed. And one of those nights was the Fourth of July, when I was drinking beers at a friend's house all day and eating lots of good food. Actually, even that night, after everyone else had gone home and my friends had gone to bed, I stretched out on the couch and spent an hour drunkenly reading six pages of Rob Lowe's autobiography -- which I'd been looking forward to reading, but I was in no shape to try to make heads or tails of it that night, I just wasn't ready to close my eyes on the off chance I'd actually just go ahead and go the fuck to sleep. But the beauty of being at least a little bit drunk (or better still good and drunk) is that your brain is highly unlikely to clamp onto the one thing you tell it not to -- like you say, "Okay, let's not think about . . ." whatever, whatever it is that makes you anxious or ashamed or angry. And then of course you think about that, and you might as well put your pants back on and play sudoku on the computer for three hours.

And that's the part that truly sucks about insomnia: I'm not sharp. Like right now -- I am NOT sharp. I don't have any deep thoughts, anything interesting to say. I'm fucking tired. That's why I went to bed in the first place TWO HOURS AGO. I was tired, I'd used my brain more than enough today, and it was time to let the big muscle rest so that I can use it again tomorrow. Except about a minute after I closed my eyes, this went through my head: "Hmmm. Okay. Feels good. Feels right. Feels like I'm going to drift right off to (pause here for a heartfelt yawn) sleep. . . . Glad I'm not thinking about . . . Aw fuck! No! You stupid stupid sonofabitch. Why? Why?! Why do you do that?" I rolled over. I opened my eyes, cocked an eyebrow, sighed, then threw back the covers, grabbed my pants, grabbed a shirt, and here I am.

I was thinking about doing a kickstarter -- do you know what that is? It's where you go to this website, you make a pitch for a project you're working on, and you say, "This is how much money I need to do my project." Then you post it everywhere you know how, email it to your friends and family, get them to send it to everyone they know, people pledge money, and if your pledge goal is met in like a month, you get all that money (minus handling fees and a small slice for the kickstarter website) to put toward your project. My friend Doug did it for his cowboy poet documentary, and I'm very happy to say he met his goal. It's pretty cool. Anyway, it turns out I can't do a kickstarter because you have to have a bank account (obviously), and I don't and won't. But, hey, you can still contribute: just send your checks and money orders to my attention at the Bear Cave, 105 Main Street, Waterville, Maine 04901. We also accept sandwiches and packs of Camel lights.

Some nights when I can't sleep it's because, for one reason or another, I've remembered something else I left behind in my former house. I used to refer to all those lost items as things that were lost in the fire, but that's disingenuous, isn't it? No, there was no fire. I just couldn't stand to be there. Which, objectively speaking, is pretty fucking ridiculous . . . unless you've ever had the experience of a happy familiar place suddenly haunting you. Anyway, most of what I left behind was just stuff, baubles and trinkets and endless dead weight. Some of it, though, mattered. Some of it meant more to me, and in random moments I can still picture exactly where those things sat in my house, or where they were at the end, the last time I walked through, throwing this and that into boxes that Hank and I tossed in the back of his truck, with every intention of returning -- soon -- for more. But we never went back. I couldn't stand to be there for more than a few moments, and after that last time, I had so many opportunities to go there, I could have literally gotten everything I owned out of the place. Then one day, more than a month after the last time, some friends drove by the place and saw the signs on the doors: locked down. The bank, she took the house.

Which in a strange way was a relief. Until that day, I was operating on the assumption that I'd be going back in there -- that I would have to, because I still had stuff there, some of which I still wanted. In truth, though, for a long time after I fell apart, I didn't want any of it. Duh, right? Why would you want stuff if you're so severely depressed? But in bits and pieces I grabbed a boxful here, a boxful there. The books I loved the most (of the couple thousand on my shelves) I got out of there. Pictures of my daughter, most of those made it. Some clothes. My computer, of course. A weird ceramic pencil holder my college girlfriend made for me. A coffee mug my younger brother gave me for Christmas a couple years ago. My electric clippers. Shit like that. Shit I still have.

Sometimes, though, I wonder about my two-volume collection of Proust. Did that end up in a dumpster? What about the copy of The Sound and the Fury that I read in college and marked up with my pithy annotations and bold underlines? Or my massive dictionary -- where the fuck is that? Shift gears: what about the cupboard full of board games Braden and I used to play? Or her Legos? She had a lot of really fucking cool Legos, man. Castles and ships and houses and Spongebob. All gone.

Of course, losing sleep over any or all of these things is senseless: they're gone, they've been gone for more than a year, and dwelling on them avails me nothing but a later than ideal start to my day tomorrow. Still, there's something about remembering all the lost pieces, connecting them to a time before everything seemed hopeless, recalling how they felt as my fingertips passed over them in the time when all had gone very much to hell, and looking back now from this peculiar time that is neither. That's the thing about the descent into the maelstrom: you and all your stuff swirl round and round on an inexorable course toward the bottom, the maelstrom spitting out only what it chooses, only when it chooses.

Come to think of it, I'm not sure I saved my Poe.