REFLECTIONS OF A RECOVERING AUTHOR - PART I

"Life is a long good-bye made of smaller ones."
Merlin to Arthur from Parke Godwin’s Firelord

Every story has a beginning and mine is no different. Yet as I consider my life, it is hard to find the farthest end of the tapestry, which perhaps in recent weeks, I have felt unraveling behind me. It is a sobering thing to regard your past as a rapidly dwindling set of random happenstances, though in retrospect, it seems little more than that.

For what are we really? Genes and chromosomes? Events? A soul? What factors determine who we are? Are we truly unique like snowflakes? Or might we fall into pre-established patterns, our personalities duplicated endlessly based on a combination of heredity and parallel circumstance. If we are all unique, how can we not be the same?

I think, in order to understand my story, we must work backwards, for the person telling the tale is much changed from the nearly blind protagonist who once saw the world through different eyes. How tentative our individual perspectives!

If I must share a single image to begin this tale, I would have to direct your attention to the palm tree down the block. Tall and stately, bark covered with sharp and ornery looking outgrowths, but bare of fronds until your eyes traverse its entire length and finally reach the top. Perhaps a common enough sight in Fresno, California, but to me, it might as well be from an alien world.

I have been in Fresno for approximately two months, though this place is not the end of my travels, merely a way station. A place to recover. I stay with friends, waiting for my next quantum jump to something different. That leap will happen in the span of a week. During that time, each day will feel like a year, yet the entire period will over almost as soon as it begins. Such is the paradox of waiting.

Before I came to this place, I was in another, but only briefly. One day to be precise. A day in Reno, Nevada, where I spent the night at the home of my friend’s daughter before she drove me here. I placed a single quarter in a slot machine and had breakfast at an IHOP. Gambling and pancakes. That was my impression of Reno for the brief time I was there. I enjoyed Traci’s company, though our acquaintanceship was too brief to say more than I know I liked her.

It was Traci who drove me the four hours it took to get from Reno to Fresno, after I’d spent the night. But that short rest was much needed after my long trip west. I had departed from Normal, Illinois. Yes, there is a city in Illinois called Normal, twin sister to Bloomington, where I once visited a rock climbing gym. I didn’t make it more than about a foot off the ground, showcasing, I suppose, my complete lack of skill. I had been with my friend Al, who is a decent enough rock climber, though compared to me, he is Spiderman.

We had gone to the gym in Bloomington, because Al loves to rock climb. I am not as enthusiastic about the sport. My mind loves the idea, but my body hates it. My caution with heights gives my mind something to hedge about too. We did go rock climbing after that however, and I did somewhat better. That night at the gym though, I was appalling.

Afterward, we went for Chinese food. I was depressed after so poor a display and Al kept assuring me I did fine, but he was obviously either lying or mistaken. I cracked open my fortune cookie and enjoyed one of the more synchronious moments I can cull from recent memory.

My fortune read, "Keep your feet on the ground even though friends flatter you." We had a good laugh over that and Al stopped telling me I did fine. So when I later did climb rocks, I was as surprised as anyone and it reminded me why I never listen to fortune cookies.

Normal, Illinois, at least according to Al, is the most surveyed city in the country, hence, I suppose, the name. I don’t know if that’s true or a bit of folklore, but in either case, it was interesting enough to pass on. I came to Normal, for that is where the Amtrak station was. I was to catch a train to Reno.

I am at this point, reminded of the movie Memento, which, like this article, traveled backwards in time. Each scene preceded the scene before it, at least in temporal liniarity. I enjoyed this movie immensely and I can not recommend it highly enough. But I digress.

I caught a train in Normal and took it North, to the great city of Chicago. At least I assume it’s a great city. I had only been to Chicago once and I had seen precious little of it except for a few blocks of the downtown area. I had attended a World Science Fiction Convention there, the first and only World Con on which I sat on a panel. I also got to sign autographs, which was sort of strange considering the people sitting around me.

For example, Fred Saberhagen, whose books I’d been reading as long as I can remember, sat to my right. And as each person in his huge line of fans received their autographs, I offered them a free e-book, a demo I had copied to some 500 floppies, showing examples of some of my own work. I can still remember my patter. "Want a free e-book? I’m a Fred Saberhagen fan too!" And smiling, some actually took one and a few asked for my autograph as well. I currently wonder how many of them ended up as coasters.

Two and a half hours after boarding the train, me and my five suitcases reached Chicago. There I met with my friend Jon, who sat with me through the three-plus hours layover, waiting for the California Zephyr to leave Union Station. Jon is an online friend who I had only met once before in real life, but I love Jon and hope he knows it, though we don't talk nearly as much as we used to.

Regardless, he was there to see me off and I was happy for it. We were both aware it was unlikely we would see each other again in this lifetime, but it was not my first good-bye that day and certainly not my most emotional. You see, Al and I have known each other for almost twenty years and I didn’t suppose I would be seeing him again either. But that is in the past and I will get to that shortly.

The California Zephyr traveled from Chicago, Illinois to some place in California, though as I’d already mentioned, I disembarked in Reno. We would be spending two full days on this train, my suitcases and I. I hoped it would be comfortable.

There was a dining car, a snack car and an observation car. I will not bore you with details of the trip, except for the most pertinent. Crossing the Rocky Mountains was beautiful, the girl sitting behind me was even more beautiful and I was too timid to start a conversation with her, so I merely admired her in silence until she got off somewhere in Colorado. The food on the dining car was ridiculously expensive, but was so much better than the horrid stuff available in the snack car that I took the hit and ate my last three meals there.

Perhaps if I’d had a sleeper compartment, it would have been a more pleasant ride. Perhaps I’d have had more fun if I’d been with a friend. More importantly, it would have been much nicer if I hadn’t began that ride with a broken heart. I felt, perhaps, like Corwin of Amber on his last hell ride, just ahead of the wave of Chaos. For the entire trip I could feel the storm at my back. Perhaps it was even gaining on me.

I wrote five poems during that trip on my trusty laptop computer, the same machine on which I write this article. The poems did not rhyme (an oddity for me) and they are in a series, telling the all to familiar and sordid story of what happens when you believe too strongly in something with too little provocation. Suffice it to say, my broken heart did not make the trip more pleasant.

I had, during that trip, plenty of time to consider the past months, the last three of which I’d spent in central Illinois. I was living with Al and his wife Phyllis in East Peoria, where I managed to write an entire book. A nonfiction book, which is also an oddity for me. I lived in their basement. They called me the troll under the stairs. The fact is, I really was much like the troll under the stairs, sometimes not making an appearance for a couple of days, except for meals which I did not often miss.

Central Illinois was not extremely different from the world I'd grown up in, though it was smaller and somewhat understated. More small town than big city, even if Peoria does have a skyline. I spent some time in Creve Coeur and even worked briefly in Angel Blessings, a shop in Pekin where I taught tarot and did tarot readings.

Actually, work is probably too strong a word for what occurred in that shop. I basically hung out, for which I occasionally received money. Still, I made friends in that place, though I was only there a short while. And then I left and added yet more good-byes to my growing list, though nothing to compare with my feelings as I parted from Al the day I boarded the train in Normal.

As I said, I’ve known Al a long time. Our good-bye was a tearful one, though understated, since neither of us wanted to deal with the fact we might never see each other again. I had come for only three weeks, but had stayed for three months. I suppose that also tempered the feelings surrounding my departure, for though we were friends, we had been getting on each other’s nerves. I could almost feel the tapestry unraveling as I boarded that train.

I was initially supposed to go from there to Alabama to be with a woman I had met online. I had given up much to get to that point and I was going to give up a lot more, but I was in love and so, I thought, was she. Whether she had been or not, is now a mere matter of conjecture and quite academic. I had gambled and lost. Perhaps this is why I only spent one quarter in Reno. I had lost my taste for gambling.

With the evaporation of my tenuous future, I sought for other options. Spock assured us there are always options, and Vulcans tend to be right a good portion of the time. So I cast about and thought of my friends in Fresno. A train ticket and 55 hours found me in Reno, but we’ve already talked about that.

The trip that brought me to central Illinois is another story altogether. I had been driven there by my friend Paul, who I’ve known for 27 years. If the good-bye from Al was tearful, the good-bye to Paul was almost passed over completely, for neither of us could deal with the reality of separation.

I had only known Al about four years before he moved from Brooklyn to Florida. I still stayed in touch with him and visited him there, but Paul and I had lived in fairly close proximity all our lives. From the time I was 13, with the exception of a 2 year period I will not discuss in this article, Paul was always there. He is still with me in emotions and spirit, but I do not know if I will ever see him again and the thought brings me much pain. Perhaps he will visit me one day, when I get to where I’m going.

I almost can not think of a time when Paul was not my friend. Perhaps I don’t want to. Paul and I were two against the world. There were many times I helped him and a few where he helped me. Particularly the summer after my father died, when Paul and I spent hours together every night, talking. His easygoing nature, valuable insights and absolute loyalty made him seem more than a friend back then and even now, I can barely think about him, without remembering the "good" days.

Of course, time goes on and he’s married for the second time (I’ve been through two myself) and he has a couple of kids. I’m 3000 miles away (soon to be further), but the friendship is as real and strong as any I’d ever had. If I felt the tapestry unwind when I said good-bye to Al, I felt part of it disintegrate as the bus that took Paul to O'Hare International Airport in Chicago pulled away. From O'Hare he would fly back to NYC. For more than twenty-five years, I had spent virtually every New Year's Eve with Paul. This was to be our first year apart.

Paul did not like what had become of my life in Brooklyn and he and Al conspired to move me from that place. Paul rented a 10 foot Ryder truck, in which we loaded much of what was left of my possessions. This was Brooklyn, where the wave of Chaos started and I fled before it, even as I flee now. To be sure there were resting points along the way, but my journey, as I mentioned, is not yet done.

Paul paid for the truck and drove me to East Peoria from New York City. On my shoulder, my trusty parrot Juanita, who I must say enjoyed the trip. The people at rest stops along the way seemed to enjoy her presence as well, as she drank from water fountains and shared hash browns from Burger King with me. Of everything I’ve left behind, she is one of the few I actually miss, but she is with Al and has a good home and that is quite enough to salve my pain at her loss.

In fact, of physical possessions, I have lost much during the time span in which this story is set, though oddly I do not feel deprived by this circumstance.

It started with my girlfriend Kara, who lived with me. I suppose we loved each other, but too many outside factors interfered with our relationship. Suffice it to say, we had started off our relationship in a pit and even after all the climbing, we never really made it out. When she moved, I gave her some money and just about all my possessions.

I was going to be moving soon, so I allowed her to take the furniture, the home theater system, the bedroom set (which had been hers anyway) and mostly everything else. I slept on a borrowed air mattress in my living room, or on the old recliner (one of the few pieces of furniture she did not take). Strangely enough, I borrowed the air mattress from her.

We are still on good terms, a fact for which I am thankful, though we don’t talk often. I believe she still cares about me though and I still care about her. Perhaps, in another time or place our story might have been different, but it wasn’t and who’s to say a different story would have been better? She left with some of my money and most of my possessions and I didn’t really care. I kept my computers, both a desktop and a laptop and needed little else.

In fact, when I moved from that horrible, too small, roach infested apartment, I took books and movies, my computers, all my clothing, but very little else. The quantity of my possessions steadily dwindled as I crossed the country. I am reminded of a car leaking oil. As I continued my journey, I left behind me a trail of the items I’d managed to collect over the years. Most went to Kara, when she moved out in April. Some stayed behind when I fled Brooklyn in July (including what was left of the furniture). Some found a home in Al’s storage space in Illinois and remained when I departed in late October. As mentioned, I only took five suitcases with me, though Al shipped me a couple of boxes after I arrived in Fresno. Yet soon, most of the few possessions I’ve managed to keep to this point will need to remain behind.

From Brooklyn, New York to Illinois, via New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio and Indiana. Then later, a train ride through Iowa, Nebraska, Utah and Colorado, until I finally reached Nevada. Four hours from there, west to California. This was the second time in my life, I’d crossed this country on the ground, though more than 20 years had passed since my last such trip, which had been the result of what passes for a plan to a 19 year old. And of course, the last time I wasn’t pursued by waves of Chaos.

Perhaps I should apologize for all the Amber references in this recounting, or at least explain the reason for them. I am in the process of reading the Amber books aloud to my editor Samandi, the friend with whom I am staying. She likes when I read aloud and this is something I wanted to share with her, though she read it before, some twenty-plus years ago. If there is any truth in this book, if there is a central city and all else reflects it, then I have been traveling, like Corwin, through shadows which are merely reflections of Amber/New York. I can see a bit of New York in each shadow I traverse, yet as I sojourn further, it becomes more and more distorted, as when a child of Amber rides forth from that great city. Perhaps a person starting in Fresno retracing my steps might feel the same way, but I can not say what they would or would not feel, for I am not them and can only relate my own experiences.

And yet in seven days, I am going to the edge of the precipice. As far from Amber as I’ve ever traveled, for I have a plane ticket. Fresno by air to Los Angeles, where I’ll board a plane for Melbourne, Australia. And then, I must change once again to complete my journey. My final destination? Hobart, Tasmania. A place so distant and alien to me, I might as well be traveling to the furthest reaches of shadow, those that border on the Courts of Chaos.

And the reason for this mind-numbing trip? A woman, of course. A woman and a chance for a future. I’ve already gambled and lost just about everything I own, so why not take this last chance? Perhaps I haven’t lost my taste for gambling after all.

What can be said in the end? Perhaps there is nothing to say, except to state my perception of things and allow you to draw your own conclusions. In the end, things will be as I see them for me and as you see them for you. Also like two snowflakes, our perceptions will never be the same.

The fact remains that in a week’s time, if all goes as planed, I will depart this place with one suitcase, one carry-on and a duffle bag, all I am allowed to carry on the flight. Both the space and weight requirements are very strict. I have no doubt now, I am searching for that which is missing from my life.

The tarot card Eight of Cups comes to mind. Picture a traveler walking the path toward distant mountains, eight cups beneath him, but a gap where one is missing. Will I find my missing cup in Tasmania? Will I ever find it? Is the gap merely a matter of perception or is it human nature to never be complete?

They are questions I can not answer for you. I can only challenge you to seek your own answers. What cup is missing from your life? Will you seek it out? Would you know it if you stumbled upon it?

Do we pass our missing cup each day on our commute to work, hidden behind some opaque, barely-noticed barrier? The wall of a house we know by sight, but never think about... a park we’ve driven past, but never entered. I do not know if this is the way of things, but I certainly can not discount the possibility. For if the stories authored by God reflect the irony of my own work, I shudder to consider the possibilities.

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