I was so sure that I would turn this blog into an intellectual mining company. I could smell the oil greasing the drills.
But in the very deepest part of me, as it turns out, and as my closest friends probably already knew...there is no David Brooks lurking around. There isn't even Chesley Lately, or whatever that funny late-night woman's name is.
If I dig down really deep, I most often will find a Far Side joke or something that resemble a Some E Cards postcard.
But this is my life, not someone else's, and it's best that I settle into the fact that I'm not as smart as I would like to be and I'm too smart to be comfortable where I'm at. I want to say extremely relevant and informative things, but I just don't have any things like that to say.
End of story.
But on a brighter note, I called Cameron in Cape Verde this evening and got to hear his dear voice for approximately seventeen minutes before my money ran out. Seventeen minutes. I suppose someone else could say a lifetime of important things in seventeen minutes. But I just stood silent outside of Mafiaoza's, listening for the sound of his voice, wanting him to tell me the way everything is for him. What is his island like? What are the color of the walls in his room? Will it ever rain there? Is he scared or maintaining sanity or feeling crazy?
Seventeen minutes is longer than it takes me to shower or cook breakfast or drive to the freeway. But it's not very long when Cameron is on one end of the phone and I'm on the other. This Peace Corps thing is a good idea. It is. It is. It is.
Losing two people at once, it's hard to understand distinctly the loss I'd feel if they vanished in different periods of my life. Right now, I have this colored mixture of grief and sorrow, partly for Dad, who I cannot accept is gone at all, and partly for Cameron, who I cannot believe is gone. I feel the loss of Dad anew every time I sense the loss of Cameron in my daily routine and I sense the loss of Cameron most painfully when I'm surprised with the realization that I've lost Dad.
The only thing distinct is the ache itself.
I mean not to write about Dad. But I think about him.