A World Without Lonely Havens
About a year ago, I met the muse at an undisclosed location to say goodbye. There have been a few more goodbyes between us since then (for example…), but this is the one I think about the most.
I hadn’t seen her in the weeks leading up to that meeting. The “farewell tour” — a flurry of days/nights out with her closest friends — had been keeping her busy. Since I was the stealth friend no one knew about, I was lying low, waiting to hear from her.
It was a long wait.
The call came just after she had finished packing. In about twelve hours, the movers would be there to pick up the boxes. All California bound.
I flagged a cab, and twenty minutes later we were sitting with our drinks, talking about people we knew — a friend who was expecting; another who had recently fallen in love; another who was planning to move to D.C.
I thought back to the previous November, when the friend who was expecting was not expecting, the friend who was in love was not in love, and the friend who was headed for D.C. wasn’t headed anywhere. Back then, I was sure the muse would be in this town for good. Now everything had changed.
“Isn’t that great, though?” the muse said. “You never want things to stay the same.”
Never mind that I was going on ten years of sameness…
“Let’s go for a walk,” she said.
Another feast night was winding down in the North End. We walked past the street vendors, and I could see her saying goodbye to the neighborhood in her mind. She didn’t look upset about it; she seemed content to be moving on, and she wasn’t going to let herself get hung up on who or what she would miss here. She would find something better — and soon.
We stopped to get another drink. I watched her and listened to her. Fell for her a little, too.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving,” I said.
“Don’t say that. Instead, think of where you might go next.”
“I’m stuck here.”
“No you’re not.”
“I’m stuck here, and I can’t believe you’re leaving.”
These two frustrations, in tandem, would get me writing again. It started with a farewell to a donut shop. And now, having left behind the place I called home for a decade, I’ve got the ending I want.
The final tally stands at thirty-two…and if you’ve been reading carefully, you might have figured out my one relapse. (Hint: rhymes with “fuse.”)
Lately I’ve been finding it hard to write in here. Glaring at me from the top of that right side column (dang it, this set-up line won’t work for the optimized mobile layout…) is an angry, sorrowful confession from someone I used to know very well.
So I’ll be straight: It has not been a very good run. Been in this town ten years, and very little to show for it…I have pushed away friends, let my ambitions rot, and lost my way to the point where plowing through the day on idle gives me a vague sense of achievement. “Once something quits changing, it’s dead” — that may not be a coroner’s definition, but I feel almost ready for the autopsy.
A year later, I’ve made some changes — enough, in fact, to convince me that I don’t need to write this anymore. I’ll keep writing. But not here.
You may be asking, “And what about the muse? What happened that night? Did anything happen? How about a few juicy details?…And what happens to her now?”
These are good questions, for sure. Someday I’ll probably write the answers to them.
But it won’t be here.
