Oh no, goddamn,/ I missed the last tram,/ I killed the party again; goddamn, goddamn...
I just learned that my next-door neighbor died a week before I came home. Joe Hartlove, Junior. The man was in his forties and still lived with his Mother, Amber. She used to travel often and leave him on his own. In her absence, he'd stop taking his medication for schizophrenia and I'd hear him banging on walls and shouting all night,
Trying in vain to purge that poor little house of its imaginary ghosts. He knocked on our door at 6 in the morning once, and asked if he could borrow a hammer. Poor darling, nothing was there! I wonder if any of the neighbors ever told Amber about this. I know my mother and father didn't mention it.
If anything haunted that house, it was him. I'm sure his reclusive essence lingers in the carpets and antiquated television set, its recent idleness more noticeable than the blue glow that used to always resonate from the living room window.
I have no more than a handful of memories in which Joe stands out; the man set foot outside only very sporadically. He bought lemonade from me when I was six. He didn't have fifty cents, so I sold him a cup for twenty-five, because I pitied him. Even then, I pitied him. And once my mother sent me over to ask for sugar (as neighbors do..) from Amber. It's odd, maybe, but I remember that the smell of her house made me dizzy, because it smelled like a home that was not mine. I tried to hold my breath because he was sitting on an old couch in front of the television, in his underwear. His unique solitude permeated the air like some influenza; the windows stayed closed, and his strangeness festered as if he might be contagious.
He died of heart failure because he refused to take medicine for it. Is this release? I mean, is this better than the nothing of which his life consisted? I hope very much that there is a God who'll cover that man in gentle truth and lift all the veils behind which he saw the world. Was it wrong of me to pity him, when I was so young and he was so tired?
I wonder about Amber as well. Her other children are grown and visit often with their own families, but she has no one to care for anymore. I wonder if it'd be at all in my place to knock on her door and ask for sugar again. Why do I worry so about things that I cannot change? In many ways, it must've been relieveing for her. I mean, I can't imagine having to constantly look after someone like Joe. It must've been so hard stand by and watch him, consumed as he was by his own mind...
I really do think too much. I'm constantly seeking knowledge I cannot attain. I'll never know why all these sorts of things happen to people, because it's beyond human comprehension. Or simply beyond mine. I've thought over it again and again, and come to the tentative decision that I don't believe anything happens for a reason. Coincidences seem so much more beautiful anyway. It makes me sad that so many people wallow in the inadequacies of their lives and then, in self-rightious denial, blame it on fate. I have a very bright-eyed view of the world, and I think the reason for my undeniable curiousity is this: I know I'll always conclude that it's better not to know, and that it's best that I know this. Yes'm. ...Are you still reading, then?
Trying in vain to purge that poor little house of its imaginary ghosts. He knocked on our door at 6 in the morning once, and asked if he could borrow a hammer. Poor darling, nothing was there! I wonder if any of the neighbors ever told Amber about this. I know my mother and father didn't mention it.
If anything haunted that house, it was him. I'm sure his reclusive essence lingers in the carpets and antiquated television set, its recent idleness more noticeable than the blue glow that used to always resonate from the living room window.
I have no more than a handful of memories in which Joe stands out; the man set foot outside only very sporadically. He bought lemonade from me when I was six. He didn't have fifty cents, so I sold him a cup for twenty-five, because I pitied him. Even then, I pitied him. And once my mother sent me over to ask for sugar (as neighbors do..) from Amber. It's odd, maybe, but I remember that the smell of her house made me dizzy, because it smelled like a home that was not mine. I tried to hold my breath because he was sitting on an old couch in front of the television, in his underwear. His unique solitude permeated the air like some influenza; the windows stayed closed, and his strangeness festered as if he might be contagious.
He died of heart failure because he refused to take medicine for it. Is this release? I mean, is this better than the nothing of which his life consisted? I hope very much that there is a God who'll cover that man in gentle truth and lift all the veils behind which he saw the world. Was it wrong of me to pity him, when I was so young and he was so tired?
I wonder about Amber as well. Her other children are grown and visit often with their own families, but she has no one to care for anymore. I wonder if it'd be at all in my place to knock on her door and ask for sugar again. Why do I worry so about things that I cannot change? In many ways, it must've been relieveing for her. I mean, I can't imagine having to constantly look after someone like Joe. It must've been so hard stand by and watch him, consumed as he was by his own mind...
I really do think too much. I'm constantly seeking knowledge I cannot attain. I'll never know why all these sorts of things happen to people, because it's beyond human comprehension. Or simply beyond mine. I've thought over it again and again, and come to the tentative decision that I don't believe anything happens for a reason. Coincidences seem so much more beautiful anyway. It makes me sad that so many people wallow in the inadequacies of their lives and then, in self-rightious denial, blame it on fate. I have a very bright-eyed view of the world, and I think the reason for my undeniable curiousity is this: I know I'll always conclude that it's better not to know, and that it's best that I know this. Yes'm. ...Are you still reading, then?