Writing in a journal is a thing I’ve not been successful doing in the past. I’d have given up long ago but for the influence of my daughters. Annie has journaled, and I mean this seriously, since before she could write. I can still see her sitting on the floor of the basement in Hyde Park filling pages of a notebook with lines of squiggles at age three. She is the most active journalist I know.
Julie introduced me to bullet journaling, which I never did well, but it was enough to allow me to write short bits, random thoughts, without concern for form or structure. It allowed me to write without revision. It has devolved into a book of lists, things to remember, complete and cross off. It is a “to-do” list in book form.
My friend John Cohn writes a blog. I’m not sure his motivation, but he seems to do it regularly, if not every day. He ends each post saying good night to his son Sam, who was tragically killed at a young age. Death has a way not only of changing things, but of motivating as well.
My best friend in the 1970s, Ben Silverman, fell in love with my sister Brenda. The two of them ended up in North Idaho by 1980, got married, had two children. They bought 40 acres on the dark side of a mountain and became homesteaders, cobbling together a life and a house. After a time, they divorced, Brenda staying on the property and Ben moving on, eventually to nearby Oregon.
He took up with other women, eventually one with a young daughter. Here’s where the story may become tinged with fiction. My understanding is that he and the woman split up, but the daughter stayed with Ben for a time. 10 years later, she accused him of rape and he was arrested.
That was last November. Yesterday he did not show up for the first day of his jury trial. He committed suicide.
Since then I have fluctuated between sadness and happy memories, anger and understanding. Ive reached out to Brenda and his daughter Keri, with whom I have a connection if not a relationship. They are in shock. I’m not much help, thousands of miles away, communicating by text.
I don’t know how he died. I think he was unwilling to publically stand to account for his actions, one of the subtexts of his life. I see it as a self-imposed death penalty – he knew he was guilty and decided to check out rather than spend most, if not all of the rest of his life in prison.
I’m left with random memories I haven’t thought of in years, most of them good. We were friends through high school, travelled cross-country together twice. I fished him out of the St. Croix River. We shared experiences amazing and mundane.
We lived together for a few years. For a time I supported him as he began to paint, something which became a focus of his life and which he became very good at doing.
He was a friend, a brother, a brother-in-law and a bastard. I don’t miss him, but I carry him in my heart. I’m mad for how he treated my sister. He was manipulative right to the end of his life.
Well, okI’ve felt the need to write lately and so here’s a jumping off point. It remains to be seen how long it will last.
Gizzo Bike Works 