Back to Blank Canvas

"Let us then suppose the mind to be, as we say, white paper, void of all characters, without any ideas:  How comes it to be furnished?"

-John Locke,  An Essay Concerning Human Understanding

When it all starts to close in, shine a light.  Rip it down, roll it up, recycle the used, the forgotten, the scarred, the damaged.  Retreat.  Regroup.  Revive.

Paint it all white.

Rebirth is a clean canvas.  A blank slate.  Back to tabula rasa. . . or shine bright like a diamond, if you're more into Rhianna than Locke.

Start over no matter how exhaustive, no matter how many cycles, no matter how many times they question, "AGAIN?"

Yes.  Again.  

I believe "again" is far more interesting as a word and a concept than "finished" or "done." Call it an unmasked appreciation for the evolving self versus the static - or worse - the complacent. A proclivity for kinetics.  A reverence for Whitesnake:

I am inspired endlessly by Kipling's poem "If":

The finish line is merely a benchmark for those who subscribe to the rat race, having lost sight somewhere along the way that the joy is in the journey. 

There is something both terrifying and wonderful in tearing it all down.  You start to appreciate the power of transience. . . and the wonders of masking tape and bubble-wrap. Harold announced firmly, "Let's not do the whole I can do this myself thing" and I concurred. Back to knowing when to accept a little (or a lot) of help from friends and family. . .and the incredible team at Flat Rate Movers.

As our story takes another turn, Harold Moscowitz and I reflect on beginnings. . . the first night. . . (this time we hired movers who did not cancel on Moving Day).

Back to archives - a scroll down BacktoA's cyber lane:

. . .the emptiness (and serenity) of the next morning. . . of mattress shopping and flea market scouring and DIY till we were both exhausted (and happy).

We pause, my little true blue best friend and I, and survey the setting for where so many stories took place.  

"But the thing about remembering is that you don't forget. . . and sometimes remembering will lead to a story, which makes it forever. That's what stories are for.  Stories are for joining the past to the future.  Stories are for those late hours in the night when you can't remember how you got from where you were to where you are now.  Stories are for eternity, when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember except the story."

Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried

We leave with a new addition. . .

. . . accept the heartbreak and losses. . .but carry them with us in our hearts. 

Francesca 'Frankie' Fiola was run over by a taxi cab on February 24, 2013 at 3:24 p.m.  She was wearing her angel wings, and died in my arms before I reached the Animal Medical Center. I will never forget the day, forgive the occurrence, or fully heal from a wound I cannot begin to describe. She and Luigi shared the same birth mother - and she was my little girl, as well as my heartbeat. It's a sadness which bears heavy; a grief I cannot yet put into appropriate words. 

"And this also," said Marlow suddenly, "has been one of the dark places of the earth."

Joseph Conrad, The Heart of Darkness 

Another story will be told here. The three of us leave The Fairfax, which was hardly a dead-end for those who read the signs and appreciate that life is an odd mix of fate and Choose Your Own Adventure. . .it was just one turn in the road, with many directions still left to explore.

Back to our next adventure and the indomitable spirit that is - has always been, will always be - Back to A - rooted firmly in the meaning of my name: