spoke with him, and he was alone
In the hills of california s met the last living member of a new-age society started after the Civil War. They had a patch of beautiful land and crumbling buildings. I understand that their beliefs included racists elements, and I never had a chance to explore what any of their faith pillars were.
I knew of it because the father in law from my doomed first marriage would hide out there when his wife would kick him out. She kicked him out because he was a drug addict. She loved him, and if his drugs could have behaved themselves, she probably would have let him stay. She would kick him out after he stole her car or other fence-able items to turn into drugs.
And he’d go to this hide-away. He would do repairs around their campus. He’d also brought his Vietnam buddy to the spot. That guy lived their permanently, because he’d divorced his wife and wanted the seclusion to compose music. He was a Julliard-trained pianist and was working on his next masterpiece.
We went to the community to look for Dad sometimes, and he wasn’t always there. Drug addicts can be hard to pin down. I met the one surviving member of what had once been a thriving community, who did not like to talk with others much.
And I met Mr. Julliard. He talked all day. It was a torrent of conversation. He was fascinating and told me all about his music, with it’s motifs. He talked about his family and his thoughts and said “I haven’t talked to anyone in weeks.”
Then went on to explain in detail about how seldom people actually talk with him.
I think of him every time I find myself realizing I’ve dominated a conversation
I takl to people. My last cell phone bill (which I use mostly for work) had 16 pages of phone call details. Yes, I talk a lot.
But yesterday I had the chance to talk about some stuff i never talk about at work. And there was some pent up energy for sure.