After spending most of the last few days writing, some of which felt pretty good—until it didn’t—I picked up the purging again. The Purging is the sorting through of old boxes to see what should be kept, given, or tossed. Necessary but unfortunate is the box(es) with photos. Photos of days gone by and people lost. By lost I mean gone the way of the cycle of life and death, stopping at the latter. It sends the mind on a collision course with itself and torments the soul.
Then today a friend in Colorado Springs posted this photo of the Evergreen Lake. My brother and his family lived in Evergreen for years, and I visited upon occasion with whichever dog I had at the time. From Manitou to Evergreen only took around two hours, an easy drive even in early winter. There were some heart-stopping places in winter of course. Especially during a storm.
He is gone now too, and only one nephew and family remain in Colorado. The rest have moved on. No more visits where the elk stand outside your window waiting to be fed, where the wildflowers grow, and where you can ski down your driveway. No more drinking at The Little Bear, where all of the names are carved in the booths.
And that’s the way things are.
Into the computer world for muck and mire. And yes, dependent I am. I have spent a few not-so-short days committed (the operative word) to the overall health of my Macbook Pro persona. I’ve lost things into that gray fuzz of nowhere land that does indeed exist. Accessing it is another matter. And the mean part of it is that I have been successful a time or two which leads to an unmistakable passion to repeat. That longed-for success. That desire of freedom that comes with Independent Actions leading to my overall comfort. You might think this has happened as I’m here posting, aren’t I?
Well, yes. But not in the way I had intended. I surely wanted to recover what I had done as I did not want to recreate what had been lost. Twice. Let me be specific: Lost twice, recovered once. In between fails. I was a lone cat wandering amongst the bars of dive taverns looking for a dish of cream when there was only beer in saucers.
And last night I dreamed I was part of a rebellion, The Industrial Workers of the World. (That too was unsuccessful, by-the-way.) And I was being shot at while tasked with the reconstruction of some desk-top machines. Again back in the office. I kept finding spare parts on the floor where I was working. The subconscious at work in the field of dreams.
The much sought-after pieces I wrote were about Consciousness. They were quite well done in that mystical form of the no-longer-visable accomplishment. Of course.
Posted by The New Yorker?
Naturally we can never know what’s behind the visible form. Perhaps that is a metaphor for life, or computers, or Consciousness. We can only ever know what’s on the screen.
I don’t move the chest away from the wall. That is certainly where the lost necklace will be found. I have looked in every possible and likely-to-unlikely place for it with no luck. I’ve even asked the Unthing to show me where it is. Still it has not appeared.
A friend comes to visit. The one with the extravagant hair and clothing and jewelry. She has a soft face and kind eyes.
“Have you found your necklace yet?”
“Which?” I ask, as if I do not know.
“The one with the beautiful long gold chain, the white dove in the middle of a golden disk. The one you are always looking for.”
“No. But I know where it is.”
“Where is it?”
“It is behind the chest in the bedroom.”
“Would you like help moving the chest?”
“Why not? When will you move it out?”
She nods. “Yes. It is safe there.”