Man Alone

If you can mentally separate solitude from loneliness today, your time alone will seem alive with possibility.

Unknown
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Hello Arkene
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There is a big difference between aloneness and loneliness. I've lived alone now for almost 15 years. I often wish I had some companionship, particularly of the female persuasion. But since I am not vigorously pursuing it, or even passively pursuing it, I guess it's not that vital to me.

The fact is I keep excellent company with myself. I agree with almost everything I say. I don't bitch at myself for leaving my dirty socks on the floor. And when I come through the door everyone here is glad to see me.

One sad part is that since I don't have anyone to talk to, I talk to myself. Out loud. And since I've grown used to talking to myself I've caught myself doing it in public. So now I am giving the impression of a harmless old coot sitting on a bench mumbling to himself.

One happy part of aloneness is the absence of interruptions. My head is full of ideas, most of which I can do nothing about confined as I am with serious lack of abundant income, unable to transport myself easily and living in an area seriously arid of any cultural activity. But there are some ideas growing up out of the top of my kitchen table which can grab my interest with a fist and set me to working something out, whether a painting, a story or a blog entry. My time is my own, it belongs to me and my muse, my angel of inspiration.

Life is a grand puzzle. I've tried throwing away the pieces in the past, but, no good, they won't go away. Now I cherish them. Each time I put two pieces together I'm delighted. That I have no one to show it to is frustrating. But I know it's a puzzle with an infinite number of pieces and if someone else joins a few pieces and they fit with mine, very good. And if they don't both of our lives are enriched anyway.

In my solitude lands are explored, discoveries are made, mysteries unfold, principles are learned, knowledge grows, wells are filled, stars are captured, majesty is revealed and possibilities are endless.

DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never give up.

Talk To Me

What a lovely surprise to finally discover how unlovely being alone can be.

Ellen Burstyn
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Hello Stuart
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My God, I need a friend !! (Oh, I said that already.)

Being alone is not just a matter of not having someone else around.

I have a room with music playing (Tannhauser at the moment), a couple of comfortable chairs and three windows. I have another room with a very large sofa, a table, a chair and two windows. I have a big kitchen with a table to sit around and three more windows. I have a nice big porch with a table and chairs, not much of a view but there is a wind chime and usually a refreshing breeze. I have a library of books and paintings spread out all over. I am all set up to receive visitors.

My apartment is a mess. The bed isn't made, there's stuff on the chairs, the books are stacked up in no particular order, there are paintings blocking some of the windows, the living room table is covered with litter, the kitchen table is pushed against the wall, the dishes aren't washed and I hardly ever go out on the porch. Why? Because no one visits me.

MY one friend Linda lives several towns away. Sometimes its weeks before I see her, and then it's usually business, not a social call.

I live alone, and sometimes I am alone. I'm not alone when I'm writing, like right now. But after I"ve written and edited this, I will put it on the "mail waiting to be sent" file where it will sit (until it's time to post it). And then my aloneness will echo from the walls.

I live in a world of ideas, but the ideas only go one way, out.

I read other people's journals and I get the same feeling, an attempt to communicate out to a nameless void, ideas going out from an aloneness. There is no doubt the Internet is a great boon for the human race, but its bad side is the abatement of real conversation. Some of my best memories are those times in the theatre when cast and crew get together between performances or on a break and converse. I miss that very much.

Where are the discussions? In school everything is computerized. In church one guy does all the talking. In Congress they just insult each other. In city council people talk just to hear themselves. TV interviews are just questions and answers.

I will never forget a discussion I had one evening about the creative process with three other artists. I spoke only English, one woman spoke English and Greek, one woman spoke Greek and French and the other man only spoke French. Everything had to be said 2 or 3 times. Those ideas got a real workout and I came away from it with knowledge.

Are people afraid of ideas, afraid of expressing them, afraid of having their ideas challenged, or accepted and improved on, or put with another idea creating a third one?

It's unlovely and unhealthy for a person to chew on his own thoughts all day simply because he is alone. Fortunately I have books to challenge and improve my thinking. They are filled with ideas, but I have no one to discuss them with.

Maybe I'll just play solitaire.
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DB - Vagabond
Never give up.
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I Am, I Think

When your heart becomes a sea of secrets you will come to your destination.
Rumi
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Hello Bali Indonesia
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"I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see."
(Robert Louis Stevenson)

Years ago I knew a photographer who told me one day that she had mounted an exhibit of her pictures at a photography gallery in lower Manhattan, and that they were self portraits. I thought that was intriguing so I went down to see it.

It was a nice big gallery with some beautiful pictures. In one large room there were films and videos. One of the videos consisted of people cavorting around in very active and suggestive ways. But the video screen was very small. I went over to it to see what they were doing and as soon as I stepped up to the screen the image changed to a single person in a very lonely scene. I shrugged and walked away, and as soon as I did the original scene returned. So I stepped back and again the video changed to the lone individual. It seems there was a switch which would change the video whenever anyone came close to the screen.

In another room there was a very large print of a photo taken with a camera obscura. That's a technique in which one frame of film is exposed over a period of time. In this case the film was in a box with a pin point lens using ambient light. And what the artist had done was to set up nine chairs in a row across a room and put a model in each one of them. Every ten minutes, from one end or the other one of the models would get up and leave. At the end of ninety minutes the only model remaining was the one in the center. The resulting photograph showed her, very clearly, and those on either side of her gradually becoming transparent as your eye moved along the surface of the picture.

Finally I found my friend's self portraits. What she had done was to go all over the city on a sunny day and take pictures of her own shadow, on the sidewalks, on the grass, up against a wall and so on. Those were her "self portraits."

I could have left the exhibit simply having spent an entertaining two hours. But those three exhibits, the changing videos, the slowly disappearing models and the shadows, all pointed toward the same thing and I had to think about it.

There's an existential carpet there. But is it a magic carpet, does it fly or is it only to sweep confusing hair balls of thinking under. "Cogito ergo sum." I once knew a philosopher who paraphrased that Cartesian axiom by saying, "I think therefore I am, I think." Carefully setting under the carpet for today the possibility that I may not exist in the form in which I think I do, is the fact that I am a thinking creature irrefutable evidence that I exist? It can be a fearful thing to face one's own thinking if it is honestly and conscientiously done. Where do my thoughts come from? Are they a product of the passionate love affair between my imagination and my reason, are they the product of some phylogenic process, are they the intellectual merchandise of some tyrannical brain seeding, are they (heaven forbid) mental weeds which grow out of nature's chaos to fill a vacuum? How many of the thoughts that twirl and bounce around in my head like a bunch of lottery balls can I claim to be my own. The fewer of those there are the more transparent I have become. The sooner I have stepped away from what might record my existence.

What is the reluctance we have for facing the clear light of reality? Is it fear, indifference or ignorance? It doesn't hurt to turn one's attention to ideas and experiences greater than one's own. It shouldn't hurt to explore the open fields and mountain tops of one's own thinking. Why then do we habitually look away from the light and define ourselves by our own shadows when we could let ourselves be defined by the brightness that is hiding in us like a frightened creature in a cave?

I grew up in a threadbare family; no father, a difficult and demanding mother, a brother and sister who were a whole decade and more older than I. I suffered a great lack of the feelings and experiences of a family life. Hence I tried to make a family out of whatever theatre company I was with. I tried thinking of them as my fathers and mothers, my sisters and brothers and, eventually, my sons and daughters. Of course it didn't work. They all had families somewhere, and other lives. When I retired it was my circumstance to live alone and lonely. But it was also the time to start learning about, understanding and appreciating myself. The party is going on, the games are being played and the crowd may be fun to be with, but you won't find yourself there. You will find yourself as a thing that exists in the vast, bright, mysterious, secret and sacred cathedral of your own mind. There is the real destination and I believe it's ultimate reward must be a certain, quiet bliss.

DB - The Vagabond
(Never give up)
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SPRING QUESTION
(This is not a contest)

Come on. 11 diverse and interesting answers so far. Where's yours?

NASA has planned to send a two man mission on an 18 month trip to the planet Mars. It would take 6 months for the astronauts to get there and after 6 months of exploration another 6 months to return.

Should they do it and why, and if not, why not?

dbdacoba@aol.com

I eagerly await your answer.

DB
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My Tree

Deliberation is the work of many men. Action of one alone.

Charles de Gaulle
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Even an old squirrel can climb a tree. Once in a great while a squirrel will come and visit my balcony, and often the birds, Loneliness is a small price to pay for the peace and opportunities of solitude.

I love to go walking in a forest, if there is one to walk in, In my town there is only a small forest, hardly noticeable, which is what was left after the parking lot was finished. But it's preserved by the Nature Conservancy.

Forests are great, but I am also impressed by the solitaries in nature. When I was in high school there was a field near my school that was all open meadow except for one large oak tree. It has clearly been there for centuries rewarding the friendship of birds, squirrels and who knows what other forms of life that live under it's benign, majestic presence.

My favorite trail to hike in the White Mountains of New Hampshire was the Boulder Loop Trail, so called because shortly after the start of it there was a huge boulder, a single rock the size of a house. There were trees, shrubs and stones around it, but above all it stood in its silent, kingly aloneness.

The summit of that trail is a sheer and dangerous cliff, plummeting straight down to the bottom. Growing right out of the side of that cliff is a tree. From the edge of the cliff you can see only it's outer branches. But there is a safer place to stand to view the entire tree. It has made purchase in the ground beyond the crannies of the cliff, has turned itself up to catch the bright, unobstructed sun and rain and puts out fresh leaves every year to welcome the birds who come to visit.

Having spent my life in theatre where one is surrounded by other artists at all times, I now live alone and write. Do I speak my solitary words in the vast, teaming meadow to be read only by the few who pass by? Do I stand sentinel in the dark forest observing the passing of the seasons of young and old, ignorance and wisdom, kindness and cruelty, living and dying, hope and fear, right and wrong? Do I cling, aloof but full of life, to the dangerous side of imagination and experiment, defying the codes of ordinary being?

I do all of those because I am a vagabond and because I have words. Words are powerful things. They are engendered with force even if they are not read when written or heard when spoken. As my friend Stuart wrote today "I can use language I can survive." Language is equipped with magic fingers. It's branches touch every forsaken and unknown place in the unlimited universe. A single word can change the world, but if it is not heard or read who will be prepared? Alone in the forest a poet sang and raised the dead.

Wherever I go, whatever I do and whoever I am, I am what every other creature is: singular, alone, unique.

DB - The Vagabond
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db

Flying Solo

Great men are like eagles, and build their nest on some lofty solitude.

Arthur Schopenhauer
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I have a photograph of a large locomotive. It look to be about a city block long. It was built to haul a long lines of heavy freight cars, the sort that are sometimes pulled by two or three locomotives.

I was thinking about the engineer who designed it. How he must have taken the technological marvels of railroad design, matched them to the specifications of his task, combined with his knowledge and abilities and finally with his own creative imagination. No doubt there is a plaque somewhere naming the owner and the builder, but I wonder if he signed it as an artist would a painting. Maybe he did in some obscure place known only to the few railroad workers who happened to discover it.

I wonder if one day he stood with other pedestrians who were unaware that he designed it and watched the monster roll by noting and admiring quietly to himself that he knew every bone, sinew, muscle and blood vessel of the great machine, huge wheels that turn in a flash, like an eagle head, to accommodate twisting, turning rails.

I can write about loneliness. I know those moments when you need to communicate with another human being about nothing in particular just to make contact with an intelligent human being. those are important moments. Thank you Mark.
Thank you Trees.

I can write about aloneness. I know about facing the dilemmas and paradoxes of life that no one can face for you and making the decisions that no one else can make. I know how important it is to know yourself and not to be told who you are. I know that your own private thoughts are the only ones you really understand.

I can write about solitude. I know the value of continuity, the great value of uninterrupted pursuit of ideas, plans and wishes. For an artist or any thinking person solitude is an essential condition and circumstance of life. To be uninterrupted by other people or even by the radio, television or outdoor activities is golden time.

I don't like my loneliness. But I accept it because I do cherish my aloneness and my solitude.

DB - The Vagabond
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SUMMER QUESTION
(This is not a contest.)

Who are the 2 (two) most important people alive today? Why?

4 responses so far.

dbdacoba@aol.com

Thank you.
DB
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Nice Me

However lonely or sad one may be, one can exist alone.

R. D. Laing
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I and some other people I know, some of them perhaps reading this bit of writing right now, live alone. Aloneness and loneliness are not the same thing. But when you are in a place where there is no one else around certain things like loneliness can seem like a suffocating shroud around your life. It is difficult and takes courage to face the darker side of life when you are alone with it.

In my younger years I must have had a desperate need for company because I would seek out the presence of others and try to insert myself into a group that sometimes didn't particularly welcome me. I know I often made myself obnoxious and I regret that.

I spent my life in a collaborative art form. It is true that when I went to my permanent or temporary home I was usually alone. But when the morning came I was thrust into a group of people, most of them pleasant people, who were all busy doing something that was related to what everyone else was doing. Not like an office with everyone tucked into cubicles, but right out there where everyone else could see what was going on. There was almost no possibility of aloneness and so no need to feel lonely.

It's a great feeling to be part of an energetic group who are all focused on a certain objective and are working toward it with mutual dependence and respect. Yes, sometimes there are prima donnas around who think everyone should defer to them, but I think those people are by nature alone and lonely.

So now I'm retired because I have to be and I live alone. I have no family that will call and visit and I have no friends that I can pop in on. No pets to amuse me. Illness keeps me from trekking out into the world looking for adventure. I have my books and my music, a few pieces of furniture and a quiet house.

So what do I do when the sorrow strikes? I'll tell you a few things I don't do. I don't compare myself with other people. And I don't compare myself with other times. "Cheer up, it could be worse!" It's been worse. "Cheer up, things will get better!" They've been better. I don't accept the dark shroud of unhappiness as my own and wear it with self indulgence. I used to do that. No more. If I have moments of tears or rage I know it's the shuffling off of the misery that's trying to claim me as its own. Then I can find the light and live in it. My life is not perfect. It's not easy and it's not sweet. But it's my life. Every morning when I wake up I continue living it. It takes me quite a while to get up to speed, but after a little reading, a little fussing with the papers on my desk and something to eat I'm ready to face whatever the day's duties and surprises are, be they nice or nasty. By the time the late afternoon and evening come, I'm writing, I'm painting, I'm thinking, I'm planning.

A few days ago I wrote a niche blog (I'm told that's the proper term) called Let Me Shake My Hand about getting to know myself and learning what a great guy I am. So why should I live in doom when I have the right to shake it off and get on with life?

It's not easy. Nobody who has a brain ever said that life was easy. But it's crucial, possible and admirable, even if you have to go it alone as I do.

DB - The Vagabond
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SPRING QUESTION
(This is not a contest.)

In your opinion what is the most amazing thing that could happen during this decade? Make it as outrageous as you want but keep it within the realm of what you consider a possibility.

10 responses so far.

Answers will be published the first day of Summer.

Thank you.

dbdacoba@aol.com

DB - The Vagabond
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