Like most everyone else I know, I tend to romanticize my past. Ot at least to view it through a filter that neatly blunts the more painful edges and smoothes the harsher surfaces.
But there has never been a time when I could convincingly pretty up the winter of 1975-1976. It was a low point against which I measure every other low point in my life.
This is not to say I was miserable every hour of every day; that's not in my nature, and I'm talking about so-called normal unhappiness here, not the darkness of losing loved ones without warning or other real catastrophes. I've been spared that kind of hell. Mostly. So far.
So, this was just a young man feeling lost and alone for a while there, even in the midst of good friends, who, for all their good intentions, could do offer little help beyond good-naturedly asking, "hey, what's your fucking problem anyway?"
And of course, that was an excellent question. I'll keep the answer mercifully short, for now:
It was my first year in the "real world", after college. So, I had gone from reading great books and writing what I was sure were brilliant poems and essays to spending eight hours a day on my feet serving bagels and desserts to students and other people of apparent leisure. From enjoying the company of great-looking, friendly young women, to, well, not. From feeling like a prince to feeling like a schmuck in a wet cardboard box of a life.
The elation of my one-way flight to California and those first days bursting with heat and color had given way to the monotony of forty hours a week of grunt work and the realization that I really didn't have a clue what to do next except more of the same.
And the weather had turned cold and damp.
After my shift each day, I would walk back up the hill to the house I was renting. I had originally thought I was fantastically lucky to get a job less than a block from where I lived, but now I found myself wishing the trip took an hour.
So instead of going inside right away, I would wander down the side of the house to the backyard and sit on the crappy concrete and crushed tile bench someone had built there. As the winter twilight faded and the fog rolled in, I would just sit there and listen to my roommates talking and laughing inside, as the darkness deepened and the lights inside grew brighter.
I felt like I was watching and hearing everything from the bottom of a well.
But, funny thing - I eventually got really cold and hungry, and I was lonely for my friends. So I walked inside and slowly began to live my actual life. It was like a spell had been broken, and the door to my cell just swung silently open with the touch of a finger.
But there has never been a time when I could convincingly pretty up the winter of 1975-1976. It was a low point against which I measure every other low point in my life.
This is not to say I was miserable every hour of every day; that's not in my nature, and I'm talking about so-called normal unhappiness here, not the darkness of losing loved ones without warning or other real catastrophes. I've been spared that kind of hell. Mostly. So far.
So, this was just a young man feeling lost and alone for a while there, even in the midst of good friends, who, for all their good intentions, could do offer little help beyond good-naturedly asking, "hey, what's your fucking problem anyway?"
And of course, that was an excellent question. I'll keep the answer mercifully short, for now:
It was my first year in the "real world", after college. So, I had gone from reading great books and writing what I was sure were brilliant poems and essays to spending eight hours a day on my feet serving bagels and desserts to students and other people of apparent leisure. From enjoying the company of great-looking, friendly young women, to, well, not. From feeling like a prince to feeling like a schmuck in a wet cardboard box of a life.
The elation of my one-way flight to California and those first days bursting with heat and color had given way to the monotony of forty hours a week of grunt work and the realization that I really didn't have a clue what to do next except more of the same.
And the weather had turned cold and damp.
After my shift each day, I would walk back up the hill to the house I was renting. I had originally thought I was fantastically lucky to get a job less than a block from where I lived, but now I found myself wishing the trip took an hour.
So instead of going inside right away, I would wander down the side of the house to the backyard and sit on the crappy concrete and crushed tile bench someone had built there. As the winter twilight faded and the fog rolled in, I would just sit there and listen to my roommates talking and laughing inside, as the darkness deepened and the lights inside grew brighter.
I felt like I was watching and hearing everything from the bottom of a well.
But, funny thing - I eventually got really cold and hungry, and I was lonely for my friends. So I walked inside and slowly began to live my actual life. It was like a spell had been broken, and the door to my cell just swung silently open with the touch of a finger.
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