Member-only story
This Is Us
The Only Way to Get Life Right
Accept what is. Become what will.
In February, 2020 — ordinary time — a dear friend and I decided we should co-host a podcast on self-development and finding love. [If that sounds dull, well… please pull around to the next window.] We met on Monday afternoons, weekly, to get things tidied up. We had fiery chemistry. If love was tough as leather, we were both awls.
From the outset, we agreed: If we were going to do it, we were going to get it right. Each chat, we spoke organically for between one to two hours. The red light was on. We talked of spiral dynamics, psychedelic drugs, enneagrams, and so forth.
I’m a prodigious typist, and so I’d transcribe and compose our ideas, action items, messages, and strategic insights. I fit them inside this little puzzle I’d dreamed up while trying to reverse-engineer the answer to the question: “what is your creative process?”
We tinkered. Tested microphones. I bought domain names and played with digital audio workstations. We recorded episodes for the “can” — and I edited them. We laughed, pondered, wondered. We had fired up the turntable. By May, we’d prepped to drop the needle on the vinyl as the motherfucker spun.
Then, a Monday went by without a meeting. A lonely text exchange, “Hey! I’m on the Zoom!” Nothing. It just slipped, as things do. The following Monday, it slipped again. That was it. We chit-chatted. I didn’t push too hard, nor did she. The embers left a trace of blanks and cloud of smoke behind. I thought it was me. Then, I assumed she had something going on. If she wanted me to know, she’d let me know.
Yet, with nary a whisper, a friend and co-host… gone. The podcast never made it to air. Right around Memorial Day. Probably for the best. And, if that’s a bizarre entr’acte for an existential essay… well, welcome. Hi. More to follow.
A fish story
Julie and I were fast friends who went to St. Matthew’s Preschool in North Tonawanda, New York. Our families, collectively, built both our houses. My Papa poured the concrete foundation. Her Papa plopped a home on top. We lived just down the street from one another, on the street that bears her name.
