The Man from Brooklyn (Part 1)

Fiction, a novella

The Man from Brooklyn is a novella about leaving home, academia, and the Maine woods.

Something new happened to me in Maine. I don’t know if it’s the place itself or my moment in time. It’s space-time I guess. Anyway, here I am. And my inner world, my consciousness that I had taken for granted began to merge with the natural world and the metaphysical world. At first, it felt like my soul was being taken away. Like an invisible alien ship hovering over me, pulling pieces of me in pulsating rhythmic waves up into their laboratory.

Eventually, I realized, nothing was being taken from me. In allowing my inner voice to move out and into the world around me, paradoxically in silence, I was merging with the Earth, with the Universe. It had more to give back to me than I had given from deep within myself. We were all becoming One, part of the big Oneness like Zen Buddhists, Thoreau, Arendt, and Heidegger alike talk about in different ways. Although they all have words or representations to explain the phenomenon, it was only in manifestation that I truly understood.

Photo by Richie Bettencourt on Unsplash

I was becoming-native. In the most denotative use of the word, stripped of its semiotic significance, if you will. Trying to, anyway; I still have a long way to go. Because I get that language matters and this is a loaded word. If you humor me, and just think of it at its core please: natural, connected with something in a natural way, born in or innate.

Because of all this, I decided to stay. I could have brought my new understandings anywhere, but it just felt good to be in the place where I had discovered it and where a few other people seemed to understand it as well. I guess. There just wasn’t as much in the way.

It sounds stupid. That’s why most of my life stays trapped in my head. But you’re here, so let me just continue a little bit more and if you’re interested you can read the rest of this story to see how I got here.

Don’t be surprised at the strangeness of my tale! I’ve written my story as fiction because that’s the only way it will make sense. I can weave pieces of facts into this free ellipsis and create new ones side-by-side. I can make reality born in biological sensory information and astrophysical fact, but include or jump to reality that exists only in the mind, the imaginary. All this can still be truth, lead to truth. And to achieve this end, I’ve had to change the perspective to third person. From outside of myself like some abstract energy or an invisible animal by my side, maybe more like an ever-present plant with sensory powers and a nervous system, in this way, I can see what happened. Why I left that enviable life in Brooklyn forever.

---

To be continued…

Author chat

This novella is still in its early stages and I’ll be filling in or chopping up (as needed) to bring you these pieces this summer. I plan to pair it with two others in nascent form as a kind of triptych when all is done.

While growing up outside of Boston, my family used to go to Maine for its beaches, ski mountains, hiking trails, and lakes. I spent four years there as a college student, the first week of which was spent camping and mountain biking at Acadia National Park as orientation. By the end of the second week, my cross country coach had dropped us blindfolded in the woods with walkie-talkies (and seniors who knew exactly where we were — no stress), taken us to run on Popham Beach (famous for the film Message in a Bottle), and sent us on speed training runs by the wild, rocky coast. I was enamored by her great Pines whose strength seemed to represent her resilience and commitment to wildness.

Have you experienced Maine’s magic? Thank you for reading!