Nobody Reads This Page - ‘Alone'

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-23)

 

 

Recently, a trio of friends and neighbors observed that the condition of being alone is one that makes them feel sad and disconnected. A mood that causes days to drag and the body to languish in a torpor of futility. For many people, even most of the human population, living as a solo act is challenging to both mind and spirit. Indeed, the human animal is programmed by nature to seek bonding with others. Interaction on some level seems to bolster vital signs and warm the heart from inside out, like a kettle on the stove. 

 

So when I confessed to each of these individuals that my own preference was for the blessed solitude of being by myself, the reactions I received were predictably contrary. Jaws dropped and eyebrows raised. Heads shook and tilted. Gasps sounded, along with a flailing of hands.

 

“ARE YOU CRAZY? NOBODY WANTS TO LIVE LIKE THAT, NO ONE AT ALL!”

 

My only defense was to reintroduce myself, on a personal basis.

 

“Hello! I am nobody!”

 

For this writer, spending time without the interference of face-to-face contact is rewarding. Even exhilarating as an experience not shared with anyone else. I get things done on every level. Out of necessity, household chores and self-care. But more to the point, through creative projects which are always on my desk in the home office. Though my work career ended about seven years ago, I have maintained a schedule artificially imposed out of personal interest. I like to get things done. The thought of wasted moments being spent from a finite reserve of mortal life is shameful to behold. Perhaps this is a product of my religious upbringing, with scriptural admonitions to serve and uplift others? Or, simply a continuation of the practical routines that carried me throughout life? Viewed from either perspective, the yield has been that when I am seated at my keyboard, or scrolling down a screen full of search results and stories, I feel productive. This perception makes me feel justified in existing. I look upon it was a tribute to my progenitors, both those of the flesh, and the ‘Great Spirit’ of my indigenous ancestors.

 

Being active and worthy matters.

 

In my rural neighborhood, this kind of conduct is looked upon as mysterious and somewhat confusing. Those on my street live for moments of abandon, with gaming, horseplay, and imbibing low-cost beverages like Kool-Aid, cheap vodka, or Bud Light varieties. Listening to popular music on the radio, laughing at inane jokes too often repeated, and taking cell phone pics to be used on social media platforms. Anyone not interested in these pursuits is deemed to be an oddball. An outcast, ostracized justly from the crowd. 

 

The label of being a duck flying out-of-formation is not one I bear with a sense of wounded pride. If anything, I simply shrug and smile, before moving on with creative ideas that are waiting to be developed. I always have some nugget of inspiration in reserve. Perhaps from my time working in the newspaper business. In those terms, one is only so good as their last submission would indicate. Deadlines must be met. And met again, and again. The process never ends. Like a drumbeat hammered out to propel marching musicians during a public performance, this rhythm of prose production keeps the whole paradigm in motion.

 

It is no exaggeration to observe that I hold to a simple philosophy. ‘If I stop moving from story to story, then, I die.’

 

Living alone in the same community for over 20 years has brought a certain realization of being interconnected, however. As a physical fixture on the ranch, my presence does have some meaning to others, even if I am rarely a participant in their festive activities. My own disability, something that has grown more burdensome over time, makes this outlook logical in a way than it might not have been in yonder days. There is a certain importance to accepting my position. A spot bestowed in part by fate, or chance, but also as a consequence of mistakes made and challenges met.

 

As the pastor at our local township church once observed, “I admonish you to find your place here, and be well as a result.” His advice was minimalist in character, yet very much on target. I reckoned it came from many years of herding his flock with love and purpose.

 

Thus, I devote part of each day to sitting outside on my wooden bench. This construction was fabricated out of refuse material, by members of our group who had seen my own girth and handicapped motions break lesser furnishings on a regular basis. My inset porch is a three-sided box, open on one side, facing west. This has me seated in direct view of the roadway. As those in the residence park pass, waves of good cheer are exchanged. It is my nod to being socially aware and observant. I often feel invigorated not only by the afternoon rays of sunshine, but also, the expressions of comity that I receive.

 

Before or after, there is usually a bounty of new thoughts to be tapped, when I return to my desk. And the stamina to bring them to a useful fruition. The work continues. I thrive as a sentient being, and an expressive soul. And my neighborhood is satisfied in knowing that I am still alive, and plugged into the continuum.

 

‘Nobody’ is still on board.