Inventory

In the last seven years, I’ve lived in Iowa, Maine, New Hampshire, South Korea, Iowa again, almost Chicago, and now Virginia. I’ve camped out on a deserted island, where I fell asleep to the smell of juniper. I’ve been whale watching. I’ve climbed a mountain. (At the end of the hike, in a nearby pub, I ordered a tall glass of ice water—anything to ease my exhaustion. The waitress brought me a Guinness instead.) I’ve participated in a five-and-a-half-hour native sweat lodge ceremony. I’ve eaten dog. (Twice.) I’ve written two love poems. I’ve floated in hot springs. I’ve lost forty-five pounds. I’ve been lost in Boston. I’ve been cheated in New York. I’ve been to Fenway. I’ve been to Wrigley and Monticello. I’ve almost been richer than my wildest dreams. I’ve almost declared bankruptcy. (My financial counselor suggested I buy fewer books. She suggested I investigate something called a library.) I’ve performed a marriage ceremony. I’ve gotten married myself—by a rabbi—and I’ve gotten divorced. (By a lawyer. From a lawyer.) I’ve taught kindergarten. I’ve taken guitar lessons. I’ve sold my guitar. I’ve started this blog, then quit it. I’ve started this blog again. I’ve shaved my head. I’ve grown my hair back. I’ve grown a beard, then, while drunk one night, shaved it off. I’ve grown a beard again. I’ve worked at three newspapers, two of which have gone out of business. I’ve been fired and rehired in the same meeting. I’ve been to Canada for the first time. And for the second time. (I’ve slept in my car every night I’ve spent in Canada.) I’ve lived for more than a year without a bed. (Twice.) I’ve lived for two months in a house without any furniture. I’ve hosted three Seders. I’ve been to four funerals—two Catholic, two Jewish. I’ve been a godfather. I’ve ridden in a helicopter. I’ve had emergency surgery. I’ve taken hula lessons in Hawaii. I’ve slid into third base wearing shorts. I’ve called a crisis hotline. I’ve been threatened with a lawsuit. I’ve learned how to swim. I’ve been snorkeling. I’ve had a family member in Iraq. (She’s back now.) I’ve seen a person die. I’ve put a kitten to sleep. (It was 4:30 in the morning and he was attached to an IV cart.) I’ve written more than half of a book. I’ve been published in a book. (You can buy it for a penny on Amazon.) I’ve made the highest salary of my life. And I’m now unemployed.

IMAGE: Isola del Giglio + young woman + ugly seaside development. From Giornale Nuovo.

Comments

[mullaghman]

Impressive! Inventories are much more revealing than so called Life Lists or Things To Do Before One....." I think Fitzgerald had it right: Where you've come from and what you've done is so much more consequential than who or what you hope to be.

As a New Yorker, we don't refer to the local vagaries as "being cheated." These life-affirming Darwinian episodes are exercises in adaptation; presuambly you won't be cheated again in New York. Swimming is a temendous accomplishment: worthy of congratulations (I know). Sorry 'bout the cat. And curious about the Irish and Seder connections.

[Brendan Wolfe]

Thanks for the response, mullaghman. I'm quite sure New York hasn't finished with me yet! The swimming, meanwhile, is a work in progress (like everything else); the kitty (Gus) is still mourned while my other creatures (Oscar & Ida) are still missed; and as for the Irish-Jewish connection: the former is my family, the latter my ex-wife's.

[amba]

I see all that speeded-up, especially the hair and beard parts, like the mannequin in the window in "The Time Machine."

Why didn't somebody tell me you were back???