The Insanity of Hope

Oblivious to us, the trees are bursting with insane hopefulness. Here below, things can be more complicated. How hopeful any of us feels can prove to be a minute-to-minute thing.

Life in the richest country in the world, in the richest society in history, is filled with uncertainties for many of us. That there is a middle class here, increasingly, is a myth, at least depending on the zip code where you live.

For some time now, I've been aware that the choices I've made, especially to raise two families in one of the most expensive cities on the planet, were directly at odds at the career I chose, the writing life I've attempted to pursue.

Back at the beginning, I could not have imagined my successes. Looking back over my annual statement from the Social Security Administration (the one that calculates your future payments, once "retired") I see palpable evidence that there were some very good years there.

I can remember moments when all seemed secure, or at least secure enough that my worries were about more abstract subjects than they have been lately.

Today, however, I'm incapable of abstraction; it is impossible to achieve when needs that are more concrete scream out daily for my attention.

Is telling a story abstract or concrete? Is it necessary? Can we live without it?

What about the story-teller?

Among my friends are those who have told one story extremely well during their career, and benefited handsomely. Others have told many stories quite well, but never gotten a break.

I guess I'm somewhere in-between, and now, at this stage of life, facing dilemmas about how or even whether to proceed with the work of recounting a life filled with stories.

Just the people who would need to be mentioned represent a very long list. Today, during a long phone call, I discussed one such friend's work from a quarter-century ago, work now virtually forgotten, plus the friend is no longer with us.

But the caller had discovered the work and would like to recreate how this terrific effort was accomplished. I am, apparently, one of the few people alive who knows some significant details about this particular episode.

Though this indeed is a remarkable story (sorry that I must be discreet here, for now), there are dozens of such tales that live only in my memory. So few have been put down on paper, or on the screen here at this blog space.

When I am focusing on these kinds of things, I feel a responsibility, if only to posterity, to get it down and get it right.

But that will take work, and work takes energy, as well as time. And, in order for me to accomplish any of this, the current chaos that is squashing me simply must calm.

There must be some calm. Some of the awful uncertainty hanging over me needs to be eased. I must know what and whom I can depend on.

Then the financial resources have to be there, so I can breathe long enough and feel safe enough to re-enter the room of abstraction, that room where all stories start...Nothing is more concrete than that.

Otherwise, all will remain silent, and the stories will eventually pass with me.

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