Leaving evidence

“I wonder,” he wrote in his journal, “if deep down inside I get overwhelmed by some sense of irrelevance and a feeling of “oh, what’s the use” when I sit down to do creative work.”

“Now you’re getting there,” his inner self spat. “What is this delusion that grips you, man, that you want to be remembered in literary or musical circles? You are not Nathaniel Hawthorne. You are not Charles Dickens. You are but a whisper of Ray Bradbury, and only because you try so simperingly to imitate him. And you are neither Dylan nor Simon nor — What?! did I just hear you think the name ‘Jagger,’ you quiet little toad? Where did that come from?”

“Well, thank you so much for the vote of confidence,” he told his self. “I just want to be remembered. I want to leave some evidence that I passed through this plane of existence.”

“You will leave evidence, all right,” his self sneered back — “a house full of junk collecting dust — books and records and DVDs and papers willy-nilly and ad infinitum. It will take forever to sort through it all, or an hour or two to shovel it all into dumpsters.”

“Oh, please, don’t discard it,” he pleaded. “Some of it may be valuable.”

“You know, you’re probably right, some of it should be preserved and archived,” conceded his self. “A pity you couldn’t bother when you were alive.”

“Why are we talking in the past tense?” he said. “I’m still alive and able to do that.”

“Well, get on with it, then.”

He looked around the room and saw a pile of 30 or 40 CDs, a pile of books, and miscellaneous knickknacks that may or may not have been collectibles.

“Can I start in the morning?” he asked his inner self. “I should get some sleep.”

“Sure,” replied his self, “although I’ve heard that before, most nights for a decade or two.”

He grabbed the CDs, alphabetized them and brought them to the CD shelf in the basement. Then he went to bed.

We just disagree

It’s one of those weeks when the news is dominated by people who view the world through different lenses than I do. For one thing, they think happiness is a product of finding the right ruler to try to run everyone’s lives. We disagree on so many ways to approach life and solve long-standing problems.

One of the best songs ever written is “We Just Disagree,” composed by Jim Krueger and made popular in 1977 by Dave Mason. The chorus of the song is “There ain’t no good guys, there ain’t no bad guys, there’s only you and me, and we just disagree.” What a refreshing way to approach our differences.

In so many ways — the important ways — most people want the same things for themselves and for others — food, shelter, safety, health — life, liberty and happiness. We disagree on the details of how to get there.

If only we could “disagree without being disagreeable,” as some people put it. If only we didn’t have drum majors beating drums and fanning flames to paint every disagreement as a threat to our very existence.

If only we could look at the other person and think, “Wait a minute, this is another human who has a different approach to the same problem, maybe there’s a reason they think that way. Maybe I could learn something if I understand how they decided on that approach, and maybe I could teach them something about why I came to a different conclusion, and maybe if we learn from each other we could find a solution that works for both of us.”

I do know that if we start out thinking the other person is the bad guy, we may never understand where they’re coming from. We don’t have to agree on anything, but if we understand each other, we may not cross over into the utter hatred that is so toxic to coexistence.

This is not to say there are no evil, devious or duplicitous people in the world. I just happen to believe they are vastly outnumbered by the good and honest souls that I spend most of the day with. I’m absolutely flummoxed by some of their beliefs, and I’m shocked that they admire some of the famous people they admire, but I know them well enough to know they’re essentially good people who view life differently for reasons that might be worth hearing.

We might talk for hours and accomplish little more than agreeing that we disagree, but at the very least we will probably look at each other and say, “You know, you’re not such a bad guy.” And that would be progress.

I wonder what happened to Ed and Mary

I still have the landline connected, even though I very rarely make or receive calls on it. Why? Have you used a cellphone lately? Basically I’m paying for the landline so I have a reliable backup phone service, one that doesn’t drop calls or fail to connect at inopportune moments.

When we moved in 12 years ago, we were assigned a phone number that used to belong to an elderly (I presume) couple named Ed and Mary.

The other day I got yet another call for Mary. No one seems to update their phone lists anymore.

“Mary hasn’t had this phone number for 12 years,” I said testily, and hung up. Then I thought better of it.

I wish I had added, “I’m sorry, I wish I could help.” Maybe it wasn’t a telemarketer, maybe it was someone who really wanted to reconnect with Mary and Ed. I don’t even know if they’re still alive. I don’t need to be rude.

When it’s obviously a telemarketer, that’s different. Then I might start sniffling and say, “Mary has been gone all these years, how can you be so cruel to call?” or some such. But this particular call sounded like it could have been an old fellow who hoped to catch up.

I couldn’t help him either way, but I wish I’d been nicer.