by Neil Peart
Well, that’s still what works the best, so I’ll go with it. I’m glad to have that alternative, at least, for these days nothing else is appealing enough, or compelling enough, to keep me going. I just scrape through the days, it seems, writing a few letters, doing a few chores and errands, making myself a decent dinner, and not drinking too much. (Except during Front Lounge Club Reunions.)
At the same time, I score some “little victories.” Today I mailed off a nice letter to my niece, Hannah, in response to one from her, and sent a copy of my instructional video to my 16-year-old pal, Nick, out in Palm Springs, an aspiring drummer and Buddy Rich’s grandson. In these small ways I allow myself to feel I’ve made some mark on the day, and on the world.
Little baby challenges I set for myself: maybe drive into town, get some fresh flowers, fill the bird feeders, go for a row or a bike ride, clean up the kitchen, do some laundry, whatever; it is thus that I score some small, attainable victories.
A life measured out in tiny challenges and little victories. I guess that’s not so bad, and probably a lot of good people get through their days like that. And perhaps they also wish those little victories could be a little more demanding, or even rewarding, but one does the best with what one has, no?
I do kind of wish I had the “whatever” (the interest, the drive, the ambition) to think about a more adventurous journey, like to southern Africa, Europe, or Australia, but it would take so much planning, and I’d be more-or-less locked into an itinerary in places like that, or at least having to plan pretty far ahead all the time. I wouldn’t be able to simply ramble around from Best Western to Super 8 to Pelican Reef Beach Club [charmingly funky place we stayed in Belize]. For now, I think I’m more comfortable with that kind of mindless freedom.
Ah yes, mindless freedom. I guess that’s my preferred state of mind these days, whether I’m “hermiting” here or “gypsying” across America. Perhaps that is “sufficient unto the day,” but still, what I wouldn’t give for some enthusiasm, some drive. But along with several other precious commodities, you can’t buy that stuff.
Anyway, those are my cheery thoughts for today. Or rather, last night and this morning, for it’s “tomorrow” now, another cool and cloudy one, with the lake so calm the loons leave silver ripples against the reflected forest.
Let me know how things are with youse, willya?
NEP
[Letter to Brutus]
le plus grand yo-yo du monde
Aug. 14, ’99 Lac St. Brutus, Que.
Hey Fleischkopf,
Hard to believe three weeks have slipped by since my last crabby letter to you, but at least we had a good talk on the phone last week. And now that we’ve got all that laughter and good cheer out of the way again, why of course it’s time for another crabby letter. Aren’t you glad?
I know I am . . .
Lately we’ve had mostly cool and cloudy days at Camp Ellwood, and quite a lot of rain through the day yesterday, but I can’t say I’ve noticed even the weather very much. Too hung up on the “interior weather,” I suppose. Once again, I’ve just been getting through the days and nights, still feeling that yo-yo effect: up and down a little, going nowhere, hanging on by a fingertip. And saying a lot of bad words.
Yep, it’s been another rough week at Camp Ellwood.
Especially, of course, that darkest of days, the 10th [second anniversary of Selena’s passing]. I didn’t know what to expect that day, but I knew it wouldn’t be nice. I thought I was preparing for the worst by starting the morning with a Bloody Mary and a valium, and continuing on from there, but just like at the beginning of it all, two years ago, nothing really helped.
(Later that day, Brad would remark, “You know, sometimes booze and drugs just aren’t enough.” I had to protest, “Hey man, they’re doing their best!”)
Anyway, I’m sure glad Brad and Rita were here with me, for of course nobody could be stronger or more understanding.
A couple of weeks ago, Deb and I took Selena’s bedframe (the gold-painted wrought-iron canopy job from Toronto) and set it up in the woods between here and Louie’s place, above Deliverance Point. The whole elegant structure fit perfectly over Deb’s tiled picnic table, which was already there, and altogether it looked very cool among the trees.
I hadn’t been back there until this week, when I showed the spot to Brad and Rita, and when I saw how really perfect that whole scene was, I realized it might make a better setting for a little “memorial service” than the island.
Later that afternoon, I called Keith to leave his work in the garden to join us, and we took a bottle of champagne (with proper glasses), some smoked salmon, paté, and crackers, a vase of flowers Rita gathered from the garden, lit the three-wick candle, and sat there for awhile in that elegant little arbor among the trees, with glimpses of the lake between. A toast to the princess.
After a while, I walked down the path to the lake, and when I came back up over the rocky rise, I had to pause and take in the surreal tableau before me, the Fellini set of this gold canopy-bed framing the table, the glasses and food, the candle and flowers, and Brad, Rita, and Keith — all in the middle of the woods.
Later, back at the house, I was sitting at the kitchen counter (with a Macallan in front of me “doing its best”) while Brad and Rita worked on dinner. Though I’m usually fairly useful in the kitchen these days, I had already announced, “I’m not doing nothing,” and of course they understood. So there I was, just sitting there, drinking, with some CD playing, when suddenly I just started flooding. The memories flowed, the tears flowed, and it went on and on.
Everything made me cry — everything I looked at, heard, or thought. Every song I played, happy or sad, every pretty little bird at the feeder, the trees, the flowers, the lake, every memory. Everything was dark, because Selena was not there. As usual, in the middle of this torrent of emotions, I was trying to figure it out, and eventually got down to the one feeling that lay at the root of all these sorrows and memories, and once again, that little voice spoke in a clear sentence: I miss her so much.
Other people sometimes put that in words to me, telling me they miss Jackie or Selena, but I can’t say it registers much (like, “You miss them?”). Even Deb and I never say such things out loud; because it seems so obvious, I guess. But of course, that just means it’s obviously and totally true.
And equally, it’s true all the time, and not just when I stop to cry about it. I guess after a while you learn to pretend to put it out of your mind. For a while. But the thought that it’s been two whole years since that terrible time, and the thought of all the terrible times since, sure doesn’t feel like any kind of an accomplishment. In fact, it kind of makes me sad . . .
However, I’ve got at least one good day to tell you about:
Thursday, day before yesterday, I finally put together a “work gang” and spent the whole day cutting firewood. That, at least, was good for my soul — in many ways. Last winter I spent so much time here (four months instead of the usual three or four weeks) that I burned pretty well every stick of wood around the place (and was starting to cast a covetous eye at the siding on the carport).
Last month I tried to get a work team organized, but both Ron and Pierre [local woodsmen] have been busy this season. So now I found myself with the summer wearing on, me still without a woodpile to call my own, and I couldn’t bear it. I was feeling so inadequate as a northwoodsman, unprepared for winter like that. (In L.A. speak, “I’m like so-o-o not ready.”) So, last week I simply announced to Keith that I couldn’t stand it any longer, and this Thursday was going to be the day, even if we had to do it ourselves.
His mental picture of me chainsawing solo and dropping trees on his head must have inspired him to get more persuasive, for we ended up with Pierre leading the chainsaw brigade (me), and Keith and Brad doing the clearing and schlepping. We only went after dead trees that were close to the road (but not too close to the power lines), and felled and sectioned them on site, while
Keith and Brad ferried them back in the pickup and dumped them by the carport to be split sometime later, even in the fall when I’m gone. (You’ll understand, I had to be there for the cutting, as a matter of pride, but not the splitting. After all, the successful hunter need not skin the beast.)
By the end of the day, Pierre estimated we had about 15 cords of wood piled up beside the carport, much of it good maple, so I should be set for this winter, anyway. Since it was all dead stuff, I don’t have to worry about seasoning either; it’s ready to burn.
But man, I’ll tell you, that lumberjackin’ is hard work. Brad looked at me at the end of the day (as he drained another Budweiser) and said in his best Cockney, “You look all in, mate.”
Yeah, man. We both felt pretty beat, though we agreed we didn’t feel any specific aches, just an overall feeling of fatigue all over, from fingertips to toenails. After dinner, I fell dead asleep on the couch, and yesterday, after Brad and Rita left, I spent most of the day back in bed. Worn right out.
But the important thing is, a basic need of my soul has been satisfied: wood has been collected for the coming winter, and the weight of its lack troubles my conscience no more.
I can shout to the world from the highest peak, “I am not a total loser — I have firewood!”
Now if I could just put together one more day like that, and get a crew out in the woods to do some trail-clearing, I would have done at least some of the stuff I hoped to get done this summer. I was writing to Steven the other day about the way I imagined it last spring when I was thinking ahead to this summer, daring to imagine all the good things I was going to do: the exercise I was going to get, the creative work I was going to start on, and how great I was going to feel.
Well . . . I have firewood!
And besides, there are other troubles in the forest: why, not since the Great Squirrel Skirmish of April has there been such a flurry of clandestine activity around here. A new Cold War has begun, and once again I exist in a state of siege, fighting vainly to repel the nightly attacks and depredations on Chef Ellwood’s Birdbrain Café. I refer, of course, to my latest quixotic campaign of counter-insurgency, this time against those who attack by night. The Masked Bandits.
At first it was just the Mom, but now the three little ones are big enough to get up that feeder too, and man, do they love sunflower seeds. And I’ll tell you what: those fat buggers are a lot harder to outsmart than the squirrels. (I’ve settled into peaceful coexistence with those former foes, content to allow them to pick at the scattered “leavings” on the ground.)
But the raccoons — unbelievable! I’ve tried greasing the pole, gluing thumbtacks onto the anti-squirrel plate, then carpet tacks, then pouring Tabasco sauce over it (somebody’s suggestion, don’t remember who), using two anti-squirrel plates at various distances apart on the pole, and even hissing at the thieving bastards out my bedroom window when I hear them rattling around on the feeder at three in the morning. Nothing has kept them off!
Now . . . Brad just left me a cute little Remington .22 rifle that’s been kicking around his basement, just for shooting at cans and stuff, but it can’t help but give a fellow ideas. (Not those kind of ideas, you silly man — like Brad, you know me better than that — but thoughts about raccoon-snuffing.) You can bet that’s Keith’s preferred solution; he hates those guys, and the groundhog that eats the flowers and tears up the lawn. But, regardless of morality and my delicate sensibility, I don’t think I’d be satisfied beating them that way.
I am determined to be smarter than a rodent. (After all, I have firewood!)
During last night’s surveillance I hatched a new plan: why not wrap the pole in strands of barbed wire? I think it would work, and it’s starting to seem like the best idea yet — though who’d have thought they’d get past axle grease, or thumbtacks?
Bastards.
If the barbed wire doesn’t work, it’s gonna be Mace land-mines . . .
Anyway, in sum, I guess what I’m going through right now is a repeat of last April. I know that it’s getting to be time to hit the road again, because I feel so low and only that seems to work. But because I feel so low, I can’t get motivated to start making any arrangements. (Maybe I’ll find something to inspire me, like happened last time with the flag babes on the road by Lac Cochon.)
Why, even now I should be getting myself organized to ride to Toronto, for I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Earl on Monday, along with the usual list of other city things to take care of, people to see, etc. But up to this moment, I just haven’t felt like it, and haven’t even booked a hotel room. Like, fuck it. Earl’s just going to suggest another test, probably a gastroscopy (oh yay), and that will take at least a month to set up, and by then I’ll be away anyway, and . . . well, it just doesn’t seem worth it right now. I could just call up and cancel it, and then I wouldn’t have to go anywhere tomorrow, because I don’t think I really want to.
Unless . . . I were to receive a call from a certain young lady . . .
I had a phone message from her earlier in the week, saying that she was in Ontario, but didn’t have a phone or a number to leave, and would call again in a couple of days. She hasn’t yet, but, truth to tell, that whole situation weighs on me less all the time. I may be stubborn by nature, but I don’t really try to resist the inevitable; or the uninevitable either. It ain’t over for me, but I can say that unless the “input” changes from her end pretty soon, I will continue to gradually . . . cool . . .
Sayin’?
Sure you do.
And you know what else? This letter didn’t turn out as grim as I feared it might. Starting a letter to you is always a mystery, because I have no idea what’s going to come out. Equally, however, starting a letter to you is always comfortable, because I know it doesn’t really matter what comes out; you’ll accept it, even welcome it, whatever I’ve got to say.
Same with me for you, dude. Like I’ve said before, in our respective positions I don’t think we can really bring each other down any lower, so we can let our feelings spill out willy-nilly, knowing they will be received in the spirit with which they are offered:
Crabby!
Yours in bitchiness, The soon-to-be departed — Ghost Rider
Summer’s going fast
Nights growing colder
Children growing up
Old friends growing older
Experience slips away . . .
TIME STAND STILL, 1987
Chapter 14
EASTERING
You move me
You move me
Your buildings and your eyes
Autumn woods and winter skies
You move me
You move me
Open sea and city lights
Busy streets and dizzy heights
You call me
You call me
THE ANALOG KID, 1982
On August 29th, the Ghost Rider hit the road again, riding east this time, on a cool, sunny, and windy morning. It had taken me this long to get motivated to travel again, caught in the same trap as the previous spring — feeling so low that I knew it was time to get moving, but unable to stir myself up enough to go.
After riding along some pleasant back roads through the farming country of central Quebec, I joined the main highway, the Autoroute, for a short distance through Quebec City. I noticed signs had been posted by the provincial government calling it the Capitale Nationale. Obviously a deliberately provocative move by the nominally separatist powers, whose sole accomplishment — like many political movements — seemed to be annoying people.
Because the GS was awaiting a few parts for some last-minute service work, I took a different motorcycle on this journey, a sleeker, more powerful BMW called the K 1200RS (the fourth and newest in my stable of red machines). Because of its limited luggage-space, I left off the camping gear, but otherwise I was fully equipped, down to the small container of spare gas — even more advisable on this machine, with both a smaller fuel capacity and
a “thirstier” four-cylinder engine.
My plans remained as loose as ever, just a vague desire to revisit Newfoundland, and I had advised some friends in Halifax, Nova Scotia, that I would be coming to visit them . . . sometime soon.
One week later, after writing a letter to Brutus in my head for six days, I finally put it down on paper. The name “Snorri” refers to the first European born in North America, a Viking girl born in what would become L’Anse Aux Meadows, Newfoundland. Brutus and I had learned about all that on our first motorcycle tour together, back in September, 1995.
During that tour we had also been joined by Jackie and Georgia, flying into Halifax and renting a car to follow us around the scenic splendor of the Cabot Trail in Nova Scotia for a few days. So I was also running across some of those ghostly memories.
Sept. 4, ’99 Northern Lights Inn L’Anse au Clair, Labrador
Hey Snorri!
It goes without saying that I wish you were here, but I’ll say it anyway — I miss you man! And I have no doubt that you wish you were here too. Or “anywhere but there,” eh?
For the past six days I’ve been dictating letters to you in my head, so I thought it was about time I put some of those thoughts on paper. There’s already so much to tell you that I hardly know where to begin, so I guess I’ll just start at the beginning. That would be last Sunday, August 29th, when I hit the road at about 7:00 a.m., riding down to Lachute, then east on 158 to Berthierville, through Quebec City on the Autoroute to the Saguenay River, across on a packed ferry to Tadoussac, along the back road through Baie St. Paul (also busy, and with a big bicycle race going on), then east, checking the ferry times as I went [to get across to the south shore of the St. Lawrence River].