TRB

I was a happier man getting up this morning. For one thing, at dawn, it dawned on me that I had been in compliance with my mission for the last 24 hours: I showed up. Not sweating the minor stuff, I manned-up for the heavier loads. How much did TRB's memorial service count in this July 1st? Well his most telling message to me way back in the days was a life vs. death coda:

"The time has come for you to decide: either shit or get off the pot."

All of his hours and my money we went through and that was the only definitive outcome? Looking back, knowing what I know now, I feel very ashamed that I was so stupid not to have been able to think my way out of the paper bag confining me. But of course, I did the best I could, knowing what I knew then. Now that I know better -- thanks in part to TRB --  I can do better today.

That's what made yesterday so difficult. Tom and I were unfinished. I craved his support & feedback after moving out of Purgatory CA. But I did not seek it. I resented the fact that he was such an old-school antediluvian. Not only could he not Google, he couldn't even email. What a retrogressive! That's what I told myself. WTF! Why bother with such a jerk? Even if he possibly had known me longer and better than any other living Man whose name I can now remember.

There was something about TRB. His silent dead pan look with those penetrating eyes. Friendly eyes. But they were always knowing eyes. Like he knew more than he was sharing and that he knew he didn't have to share. He was waiting for me to do the work. Well I resented that trait in him. He expected to keep the playing field slanted in his favor. I resented that. And so was it with me? I wanted him to meet me in the blogosphere, which was adverse for him?

I guess that was it. Back in the days, he was inaccessible to me (my choice?); and as the decades crept on between us, I became inaccessible to him (his choice?). Perhaps a stupid deadlock.

Talking with friends and relatives yesterday, there's a possibility that this PhD never learned how to QWERTY; and that his handwriting was illegible. That's the hint I got. So any postal exchange I might have initiated, would have proven unsatisfactory and un-rewarding. Under any circumstances, he and I might never have been able to connect long distance any better than we had connected sitting across his coffee table.

So, Tom, here's what I feel, Goddammit. (I am finally telling you.) I have regrets: that I didn't get up out of that recliner, shake hands, and close that door permanently behind me earlier than I did. I regret not writing you, once, twice or thrice in the intervening decades; that we have been mutually reclusive. But perhaps not forever. Maybe we can meet up again on some bridge, where we can finally share as equals. And then I hope I can tell you that my life has been almost as satisfying and complete as you apparently felt about yours. This would be a talk to which I could look forward.