Loneliness like a stab in the gut

“Loneliness is different in my mid-seventies than it was in my youth. I courted loneliness in my youth;  I wore it like a badge. Better loneliness than tolerating fools, than making small talk, than the endless boredom of my colleagues, doing whatever they thought they should do. Get married, buy a house and a car, have a child or two.  I was an artist, I was edgy, I was my own man.  But now loneliness has an edge, almost a desperation.  I go out for some milk. The cashier says have a nice day and I try to say thank you and my throat is clogged. I realize I haven’t spoken for days.  I bring the milk home and open my door, and the emptiness of my apartment is a stab in the gut.  It used to be such a comfort; now it taunts me.”

I had lunch with Avram (not his real name), a friend since 2008. I was new to Portland and we met in a support group for aging Bi, Lesbian, Gay, and Trans people. He is Jewish, a visual artist, and bisexual. He is quite proudly digital-and-internet-free, has never used a laptop, tablet, or smart phone, won’t touch a digital camera.  “Digital images are inferior to film, and as for those other gadgets, they suck people in,” he sneers, “make them automatons. Look, you see these bright young kids in the street, beautiful, everything to live for, and they’ve got one hand holding onto their smart phone like it’s their life-support. I hate this whole phenomenon. “

I asked him what he’s been doing lately. Rheumatoid arthritis has stripped him of the ability to use his hands to draw and paint. He has been making slides, with an old film camera, of landscape photographs printed in books he gets from the library. “There’s only one place in the whole city that sells slide film, and one place that develops it. Costs me about $36 a roll to buy the film and develop it.” He has hundreds of CDS on which he has stored his collection of world music, gathered from vinyl LPs and tapes, and he makes slide shows, using his music and slides of the region the music comes from, say Armenia or South Korea. He offers a show, free, once a month at a library. Sometimes as many as 30 people show up; more often ten to twelve. “It’s where I put my creativity,” he explains, “and it’s creativity that makes me want to get out of bed in the morning. I met someone on New Year’s day, her name is Sue. I felt this sudden attraction.”

I asked if he got her number. “No.” Did he know how to reach her again? “No. But I told her about my slide shows. Maybe next month she’ll come. I’m doing Georgia next month, it’s a fascinating area, so many ethnic groups there. Maybe she’ll come and I’ll have a person in my life again. It could happen. I’d really like it to happen. If it’s ever going to happen, it better happen soon. I think it’s a good omen that her name is Sue,” he winked.

I reached out to touch his hand. “I hope it happens.” 

“You don’t know how lucky you are.”

“Oh yes, yes I do. I know.”

Thanks to Sue St. Michael for allowing me to photograph one of her portraits, made with blue and red acrylic and white crayon.

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