An Elegy for a Lost Life

All I know is that I'm restless

My mother, sister, and me with chickens

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the chickens.

When I was but a small lad, my father got to work one weekend at the edge of the woods behind the house. He fashioned a collection of old telephone stumps, boards, and chicken wires into a coop.

The next day there were chickens inside.

Chickens clucking, kicking, roosting. Gold ones, black ones. There was even a friendly rooster that my sister named “Skippy.”

I don’t recall where my father got the notion that we should have chickens, but I loved the idea.

I was a sensitive boy who loved animals and so the chickens were a delight. My favorite part was when we got to hold them and feel their warm feathers and life-force close to our chests. I’d cradle one in my arms as she clucked and settled into my protective embrace.

One day we found the coop’s door ajar. It had been improperly latched.

Skippy was missing. Somewhere on a deer trail beyond the house we found clumps of his feathers scattering in the breeze.

I remember my father’s cursing and my sister’s tears.

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I listened to a podcast last night. It was an interview with one of my favorite authors, Mark Helprin.

If you don’t know him you may know the film Winter’s Tale, based on his epic novel. The story is set in a mythic New York City. It invokes magical realism, a flying horse, and deep philosophical themes.

I suppose the flying horse represents many things, like destiny, love, grace, and the soul’s freedom.

That’s what I’ve been ruminating about lately.

The soul’s freedom. The deep longing for release from things that hold us back. Things that oppress the light within our souls. Things that feel foreign and complex and stifling.

In the podcast Helprin laments the decline of readership today. Where once his novels fetched over a million readers, now he’s lucky if he can achieve a fraction of that.

It’s a common lament among writers.

People don’t read like they used to. Focus and concentration have atrophied. It’s easier to watch Netflix or mindless videos on YouTube.

I’m aware of this every time I see my readership decline.

A retired teacher walks her dog through my neighborhood and often stops to visit with me and my dog. I mentioned a book I was reading and she said, “Oh, I used to love to read. I read to my students, too. But now I can’t seem to concentrate. It’s more of an effort, so I just click on the television instead. Isn’t that terrible?”

Yes, it’s terrible.

But I didn’t say that. I nodded in agreement.

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Mark Helprin came on the podcast to discuss his latest novel, Elegy In Blue.

The book’s protagonist is an unnamed 82-year-old man. He’s was once a Wall Street professional who now lives alone in a studio apartment in Brooklyn. He has lost his wealth and previous home.

He also lost the ones he loved.

From his father to his son and then his beloved wife. Stolen from him by war and violence.

Reviews for the novel hint at an act of self-defense or vigilantism. The old man becomes a recluse, his only allegiance to ghosts from the past.

The themes in the novel include grief, remembrance, and enduring love. As well as public rage and justice.

But the most important theme, at least for me, revolves around this:

Helprin is writing about himself and the passage of time.

Not that he’s experienced the selfsame losses as his protagonist, but at 78 years old, Helprin has lived long enough to know the weight and fear and loneliness of losing the things you love.

Helprin is writing a love letter to his generation.

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I’ve been thinking about leaving Substack.

It’s noisy here and I don’t like the bloat and app intrusions and clunky comment system. I loathe subscriptions, unreliable delivery, endless recommendation games that complicate email signups, and the sense that I don’t have control of my website.

I moved to Substack to escape my antiquated, time-consuming, frustrating old website. Not to mention all the spammers leaving self-promotional blog comments and malware.

I guess no setup for online writing is perfect.

But I may move the show to my new, primary website at johnpatrickweiss.com. Add a decent email newsletter provider like Kit or MailerLite. Reclaim my independence. Continue my audio narrations. Add my cartoons and a street photography gallery.

Of course, there would be some pain.

I’d have to “clean” my current Substack email list of dead weight. The subscribers who aren’t engaged and don’t open my emails. And, whenever you switch providers, you always lose a certain number of people.

So be it.

Seems lately I’m feeling the sense of an ending. Or maybe a beginning.

The need to simplify. Get back on my own website. Engage with a smaller audience who want to continue our wonderful relationship. I’d have to explore new ways to grow. Ask my audience to help with recommendations? Write some more guest posts?

All I know is that I’m restless.

I’m tired of technology. I hate apps. Notifications. Endless menus. AI and eye strain and blinking screens full of superficial content. I’m much happier in my home library with a good novel.

So we’ll see.

Maybe I’ll throw caution to the wind and make a change. Maybe I’ll settle back into one website for everything. Go back to a simpler model, when life marched to a slower cadence.

And maybe, if I’m lucky, some of you will follow along.

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My father had a huge library in our home.

I can close my eyes and see all the shelves, arranged by classics and history and fiction and more. I used to sit by the floor heater with a sketch pad doodling in our library. My sister played with her Breyer ponies on the carpet as my father read his books. And my mother sipped tea and scanned her magazines.

My grandmothers would visit and we’d enjoy dinner in the dining room and then have dessert in the front yard. The same front yard where so many childhood birthday parties took place.

You never realize how magical those times are until they’re gone.

Birthday party for my sister (center)

I remember all my sister’s friends laughing and singing at her birthday party. My parents, grand mothers, relatives and friends all there. I was so little then, crawling around on the front yard. Taking it all in on those warm, summer, California days.

Basking in a cocoon of safety, belonging, family, and love.

Me pretending to be a lawn ornament at my sister’s birthday party

So maybe that’s part of what’s going on.

The Mark Helprin novel. The frustrations with technology. The loss of loved ones and the passage of time.

Maybe even the roadrunner I saw on a recent dog walk, its long tail feathers reminding me of Skippy. Of a simpler time and days gone by.

An elegy for a lost life.

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