sol·ip·sism noun: the view or theory that the self is all that can be known to exist. Origin: Latin solus (alone) ipse (self)
Friends who are gone
My 50th high school reunion is coming up next year (class of ’72, Padua Franciscan High School, Here we go Bruins, here we go!). I do not contemplate attending. I went to my 10th reunion, and a more depressing affair would have been hard to imagine. I was in graduate school at the time, and my clearest memory from that night is of Paul, a football letterman our senior year and somebody who would not deign to acknowledge my existence at the nerd table in the lunchroom back in school. Paul was drunk, seriously drunk, when he came up to me at the reunion. He draped his arm across my shoulder, and was almost weeping as he bemoaned his life choices. Suddenly a short round woman (she reminded me of one of my mother’s pincushions) came buzzing up to us. “Paaaull, Paaaull, let’s get going. Quit bothering people!” Ye gods. My heart went out to Paul, but I was also glad when he let go of my shoulder.
I do have some good high school memories, though. The aforementioned nerd table collected an interesting bunch of guys. We even had a name for ourselves: “SMUT”, short for “social mutants united together”. Recently, I Googled some of the smutters. I am not sure why, maybe just to reassure myself that those people actually existed and that our paths had indeed crossed between the years 1968-1972. Some of SMUT is still out there, chugging along, but more are not. (Meanwhile, Google…., What would 1972 make of that word?)
First, let me tell you about Steve. A jovial bear of a guy with a magnetic personality, Steve played piano brilliantly. I remember when our class (we were sophomores at the time) hosted the annual Freshman Welcome. The Beatles had recently released “Hey Jude”, which we adapted for the finale of the occasion as “Hey Frosh”. We formed a chorus line on stage to sing while Steve accompanied us on the piano. When we reached the “nah, na na, nanana nahh” refrain, Steve started improvising around the theme. He played something a little different at each pass, while we enthusiastically “naahed” along. They had to turn out the stage (and auditorium) lights to finally get us to leave. When Steve came out a few years after we graduated, I told my mother about it. She refused to believe it; I don’t recall my mother admitting to being attracted “that way” to anybody else, but she admitted it about Steve. Given the timing of Steve’s death (mid-2000s), I think it unlikely that AIDS was the cause. What was it, then? The short notice I found gave no clue.
Then there was Denny. In many ways my best friend in that class, Denny was smart as a whip (he ended up as valedictorian), with an ability to turn a phrase that, to this day, I don’t think I have ever met his equal in wordplay. At first, it seemed like my search for Denny would be successful. He had gotten a doctorate in psychology, and had set up shop in a Cleveland suburb doing therapy. But then, the obituary appeared. Denny was 60 years old when he died, and he was mourned by his life partner and his family. Again, no whys, just that he was missed and mourned.
Over the years, other friends of mine have gone: Luke, a big part of my life while I was living in Pittsburgh, was a hemophiliac, and died from AIDS he got as a result of a tainted transfusion. Mark, one of the kindest and wisest human beings I have ever had the privilege to know, died by suicide a few years ago. He left behind a confused and agonized family, with all of us wondering what we had missed. What pain could be so great that this was the only way to relieve it?
A moment of perfect beauty.
Sue and I went to Iceland last week; it was a spur of the moment trip, occasioned by the eruption of a volcano within easy commuting distance of Reykjavik. I have always wanted to see a volcanic eruption, and the timing was perfect. Delta has recently begun direct flights between Boston and Reykjavik (only four and a half hours!), and Iceland was one of the first countries to open for tourism in the wake of COVID. To be sure, there were hassles (having to get tested both when we got off the plane and before we could return to Boston), but for the most part, things went smoothly. Much of this, of course, was due to Sue’s organizational skills and planning, but some things (perfect volcano viewing weather, not to mention the volcano putting on a splendid show for us) just were.
Our guide, Yasmin, a German vulcanologist, led us up a steep trail to a ridge that overlooked the main eruptive vent. To our left, a field of fresh lava was spreading over the valley floor, as new flows poured in from two sides. To our right, there appeared a spectacular vista of mountains and valleys, with the North Atlantic seeming to be almost at our feet. Then, finally, as we made it to the top of the ridge, the eruptive vent appeared. I was entranced, maybe even hypnotized, by the rivers of molten rock spilling down the sides of the newly formed cone, while lava fountains would rise up from the vent every few seconds. It was cold, with a stiff breeze blowing, but I had layered up sufficiently that I probably would have stood there for hours if not for Yasmin saying that we needed to start heading back.
When we got back down, we stopped for a while at the front of the advancing lava flow. It wasn’t cold there. You could feel the heat radiating off the flow from yards away. While black and solid-looking on the outside, the fierce glow of the molten liquid could be seen through the cracks. The front of the flow advances when the liquid pressure builds up sufficiently and cracks get large enough to let the liquid break out. If you stand where the wind carries the out-gassing from the flow, you get dizzy and headachy very quickly. Sulfur dioxide, hydrogen fluoride and other poisonous or suffocating gases are a volcano’s exhales.
Unlike the ridge, there was an element of carnival about the lava flow front. Tourists were hovering, as if the lava was a sideshow attraction. Children, babies and pets were all about. It was an easy walk from the parking lot (which will eventually get overrun by the lava if the eruption continues). Yasmin had warned us to not turn our backs on the flow. Breakouts could happen very quickly. A contingent of emergency medical folks stood by, but so far (they said), nobody had died. A few broken legs, they said, but nothing too serious. Finally, we headed back to the car. Yasmin took us by a different route on our return to Reykjavik, past a glacial lake and some of the most otherworldly landscapes I have ever seen.
Back in the world
Since we got back to Boston, a line from an old Genesis song “Dance on a Volcano” has haunted me: “On your left, and on your right, crosses are green and crosses are blue, your friends didn’t make it through”. No, many of my friends had not made it through. Yet here I was, alive, back from a moment that, had I been killed on the spot by an errant lava bomb, I would not have considered my life poorly spent. I was there. Why? Did I do something right? Did my friends do something wrong? Or am I just making it all up as I go along? It would be a monstrously unfair universe if the only role these amazing people had was to play bit parts in some theater of my mind. Rene Descartes can go to hell.
Another possibility, nearly as unappetizing as solipsism, is the “many worlds” hypothesis. What if everyone is real, but we only intersect in some quantum reality that is different for everybody? That means I live until the probability of my existence goes to zero, getting older and lonelier as friends and family leave me behind. Maybe I did drown in that pool when I was ten, or get hit by that car when I was thirty, or died of a drug overdose during my ill-considered teen years. But those were different realities. The only one I know is the one where I am alive.
As a Catholic, I still occasionally go to confession. It was easier when I was a kid: You arranged your sins (pretty trivial stuff for a nine-year old, more complicated as you got older), waited in line to go into the stuffy confessional where a priest was hidden behind a screen, no doubt bored out of his mind and hoping something juicy would come up. He would give absolution: “Ego te absolve”, admonish you to sin no more, and pass out the penance: Three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys usually did the trick. The church changed things after Vatican II, so face-to-face confessions became more common. While it is more challenging to “fess up” in those circumstances, it has the benefit of knowing that you have the priest’s attention, and it can give rise to some interesting discussions. One time, I brought up the “many worlds” idea in the course of my confession. The priest offered this: “Maybe it is just that your mother said lots of prayers for your safety.” It was a comforting answer, if not particularly satisfying. But as I get older, I think I need comfort more than I need answers, so I pray. I pray for the safety of my family, my friends and the world quite a bit these days. Who knows? Maybe Somebody is listening.
