Solitude Is Not Loneliness

Isn't It?

Block Print By Scott W. Parker, who knows solitude and loneliness

I am 10 chapters in with Journey, American, and feeling much better about it. All of that writing has precluded doing any of this writing.

Giving myself a pause, which may or may not be wise, I have been thinking about many things (not strange for me).

Naturally, I worry for our country and the world. Both have not been under this serious threat since World War II. Fascism and Christian Nationalism (perhaps the deadliest of the pair) threaten our nation from within and without.

It makes me want to run. It has planted the seed of wanting to spend the rest of my life practically alone in the beauty of northeast New Mexico.

That might be a pipe dream. When I told my co-workers that I come to work on days I could work from home because I get lonely, one said, “Jeff, how are you going to live alone in the country and write?”

All I can say in response is loneliness and solitude are two different things.

Learning to sit still and just be would probably help.

I worry about myself, too. I am a case study in male loneliness. I could be a case study for fear of aging.

Why be afraid? my father might have asked.

I might tell him it is because I saw what it did to you, Dad.

Finding love is another thing I fear has deserted me for good. In my heart of hearts, I wonder sometimes if every person is granted an allotment of love and, when they have spent it up wisely for foolishly (the latter in my case) there is no more.

We are out of stock, Mr. Norris, and will not be getting any more.

I remind myself about Pat Conroy, the great Southern writer, who met the love of his life at around my age. Of course, he died soon after. But he didn’t die alone.

So here I am. Alone with 19,000 words written and 60,000 more to go. In my mind, I live in a nearly deserted piece of California called the Malibu Colony. My friends are Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton. The loves of my life are Louise Brooks and a World War I surplus Indian motorcycle.

Life lies ahead.

Does it only lie ahead in my mind?