August 22, 2009

  • Anaximander

    It is now about 111 hours since you left. And all this time, I've not known what to say, how to commemorate it in a post. It is 11:00 now.

    Tell me, princess, now when did you last let your heart decide?

    The coffeehouse is playing Disney songs. Pocahontas and John Smith must have felt terrible when they parted ways. They were friends, but there was no easy way to keep in contact then, so they must have believed they would never see each other again. A perfect example of why this is fouling up so badly. . . this isn't what I meant to say at all.

    Two nights ago, Professor and I embarked upon a mission that took us wandering the random streets of the city. Professor had spoken of his wish to walk downtown before this was all over. Unbeknownst to us, random lost wanderings took us downtown. Be careful what you wish for, he had said.

    And we'd spoken of you. Professor had told me, if nothing else, at least I could put up the refrain to “Do You Hear the People Sing.” So here it is.

    Which brings us here, 111 hours hence. For the first few days since that first fateful day, Desargues laughed away his tears and pounded out that song of angry men whenever he could find a piano and a chorus. And we sang to that anthem for you. That first night, for one moment, it seemed like we could hold on and keep you here, just because there were so many of us and we were all together, and then the dream fell apart. In the end, there was nothing left except to watch you prepare to leave. And then leave.

    For the first twenty years since yesterday
    I scarce believed thou couldst be gone away;
    For forty more I fed on favors past,
    And forty on hopes that thou wouldst they might last.
    Tears drowned one hundred, and sighs blew out two,
    A thousand, I did neither think nor do,
    Or not divide, all being one thought of you,
    Or in a thousand more forgot that too.
    Yet call not this long life, but think that I
    Am, by being dead, immortal. Can ghosts die?

    --- John Donne, “Computation, The Analysis”

    The world kept turning. It didn't seem entirely real that I couldn't just say, where are you? And then walk there and find you there. It didn't seem real that your de facto desk was there without your computer on it. Gradually, it became real. Added to your anthem were tones of wishing you were somehow here again. We were going to sing it for you at the talent show, but Desargues changed it, fearing it was not subtle enough. He made me pinky-swear that I would dedicate to “loved ones who are far away,” instead of dedicating directly and upsetting people.

    On my own, pretending he's beside me. . . .

    Maybe you'll be proud of us. We ran the second and third rounds of the team contest and held the talent show. We got the letters all written and the files all typed. We ran the print factory, prepared boxes, and did yearbooks. Tonight, there will be a closing ceremony with superlatives and a slide show. We kept everything going. Tomorrow, it will all be over, and maybe then, the whole thing can have closure. I never knew before what people meant by closure, but I think it means when it stops being the predominant thing in drunken blogging.

    You were once a friend and father. . . then my world was shattered. . . .

    You certainly weren't my father, not even if I search my feelings. A more experienced philosopher, or an authority figure, or something, perhaps. Rereading my drunken text document, most of it is mundane or incoherent or densely emotionally stupid, and there's only one sentence suitable for public blogging. Here it is, with one very minor edit:

    Wherever you are, Anaximander, I hope that you're sheltered and fed and happy.

    Jefferson laughed and said, I think it was, that the contents of that text document are in my computer but not my mind. That sounds about right in terms of memory. I have no memory of parts of it. But honestly, it sounds pretty much right. Incomplete as it is, everything in there is in my mind, except that I don't remember putting it to text.

    It was said, “thank you for bringing this camp to a happy close,” and I heard what wasn't said, and I wanted to scream at the world. But at least an amazing friend was able to fill the slideshow with pictures of you. Terrifying images of that terrifying roaring face. He said they were “precious,” and I entirely agree. At least, they are characteristic of you. They conjure in my mind the fear of standing in the way of a roaring, pouncing Anaximander.

    And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat. . . .

    --- Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince

    Once upon a time, you told me that I sounded like a cat: silent except for the ringing of a little bell around its neck. Ever since then, especially since you left, I've worn my keys everywhere so that they could remind me of the strange, confusing joking of a strange, confusing friend. How ridiculous this all sounds; it must be too late for blogging. It has been 36 hours since I began to write this post; these meandering thoughts ramble on; they have not changed nor given me a moment's rest from the day you left.

    Why is it like this? Why should this be any different than leaving everyone on the day originally planned? Maybe it is the injustice of the whole thing that makes it feel so much worse; I don't really know. All I know is that it feels bad, and I feel bad; how long will this go on?

    How could it have come to this?

    Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened.

    Be safe, be happy. I miss you.