He'd been present years later to recall the story, so it'd worked out for him as such things often do.

I wanted a metaphor on hand to discuss 2016. This is what I came up with.

2016 is that moment, wind in my hair, a great cruising song on the sound system -- Looking For a Place To Happen by The Hip, or Offer Your Light by Devin Townsend Project, maybe--, sun melting on the horizon, sky clear and endless, road stretching to the vanishing point, when the steering wheel came off in my hands.

Positive notes:

I was published in Apex magazine. My story The Teratologist's Brother was described as Lovecraftian by the editors, but I'd argue it owes much more to The Ragthorn than The Call of Cthulhu. But whatever: I was happy to see the story published by such an awesome magazine.

Biggie of the year:

I just completed the first draft of my as yet untitled novel (Nithska, A Bellian Arcology, The Albert Camus Quantum Suicide Engine... something like that.) And this is not my first novel ( I have three in the trash bin that I had to write to get to this dark little universe) so I believed I had the chops going in to pull off a long narrative and though I have the real work of editing and rewriting, I feel good about the book.

Next, some short stories before jumping into the next novel. Thinking it will have something to do with my experience of the middle age singles scene.

Speaking of which, ambiguous notes:

I got divorced in 2016.

On her deathbed Joan Crawford is supposed to have said, "Don't you dare ask god to help me," and I feel a similar emotional response as folks comment on the divorce, offering condolences and 'sorry's. They mean well, but I can only remain in mourning for so long.

I went to a divorce support group in the midst of this slow-time collision, while I worked through the stages of grief. We kept the news under wraps to accommodate a planned family vacation and for various other reasons, so the solitude felt suffocating. Though they were nice, decent people, hurting too--I was struck by how many of the folks at the support group had taken on 'divorced' as an identity. One of the guys started out the group sharing session by wishing for some good suffering and my internal observer said "fuck that."

My turn in the sharing circle: complete fucking meltdown. Well, okay motherfucker, there ya go. Grade A prime suffering, baby. I was horribly embarrassed, but it was good, I have to admit, and something I apparently needed.

Taking up the cape of Divorced Man? Nah thanks.

Life takes me to these dark moments when it makes sense to lie down in my seat and wait for the crash to come, or maybe it's more like the crash is behind me, a hulk of origami metal belching flames and smoke and I'm the ghost driving a ghost car and all the world holds its breath in heavy twilight, waiting for me to realize myself.

That's how it feels, reaching that crushing, slow-time instance when every little nightmare proves itself real and in progress and there ain't nothing I can do about it and I'll never be strong enough or wise enough or good enough to affect a damn bit of change, because life has its momentum and there's a line of trees on either side of the road and the steering wheel just came off and for some fucking reason that I don't recall the brakes don't work and a little voice in my head keeps telling me to lay down in the seat, buddy, the end's coming soon, no one gets out of here alive--

Yeah, that's how it feels, but as often happens, we live through these things. And it changes us. People don't want us to change and prefer us to fit nicely into their mental narrative of how we are supposed to look and act and feel post crash.

Fuck that. (Again.)

I've found it uncommon for anyone to ask how I feel, or how I've dealt with grief, or if I'm okay and then simply listen to what mile marker I passed and what it means to me. (I'm sticking with the metaphor, dammit!) Everyone wants to be a didact. People tend to get stuck in their own relationship with who we are pre and post. Present and ghost, and wanting to run as David Gray croons, landscape passing by in parallax. I can't own anyone else's feelings. But I'll be damned if anyone gets a say in my own.

The ugly moments pass and these are simultaneous truths: A marriage ended, and I helped raise a family of amazing young people, we went on adventures, we weathered storms (storms after storm), and there were good times along with the hard. Amazing times. I have to count the last two decades of my life as more success than failure.

The good:

This crash freed me.

I've been emotionally shut down on certain levels for a long, long time. Plenty of people who genuinely cared about me might never have known... because I can do alone. But alone does not do well for me.

I lived in that crash for a season, I had my breakdown moments, those slow-mo endless nows as one after another shock hit me, did their damage, moved through me, and left me for whatever might come next. And, life went on. I have no doubt that the best times are ahead. I hope to share those times with my kids, my friends, and all those I love

Even better:

I'm meditating again, I'm writing regularly again after letting my practice fall away in the midst of so much change and turmoil... and I have people in my life who are supportive and real with me.

It's a nice feeling.

There's nothing like a crash to give one pause. Time to reflect. We are uncomfortable with changes. Change is vexing, but striving for a mode of radical acceptance --I can't recall which Buddhist teacher used that phrase, but I like it-- helps. I'm being healthy for myself first and foremost, but no mistake it allows me to be a better father and friend, and it opens my heart up... to love and be loved. And that's an amazing feeling.

Life isn't on rails. It never was. But it can be tempting to think it is. To believe that we are good people and will be rewarded, by god or by karma. I choose to believe in karma while simultaneously knowing that I have no reconciliation in this or any world.

And I'm not a ghost, but flesh and blood and thus infinitely fragile and infinitely disposed to suffering (to paraphrase T.S. Elliot), and the highway languishes ahead, straight like a crack in thin ice all the way to a horizon where the nearest star paints the sky bronze, clouds ablaze with the brilliance. No one gets out of here alive is a truism, but that road is so straight ahead and the front end alignment on this beaut is impeccable.

There's a tune on the radio (Incinerate by Sonic Youth, Thirty-Three by The Pumpkins, or maybe Pork and Beans by Weezer) and I stand up in my seat to feel the wind full in my face. I've thrown the steering wheel away. It'd become useless. But I won't lay down and wait, hoping for minimal damage.

Fuck. That. (Say it with me?!)

It's pedal to the metal, baby. There's miles to go, and I'm taking in every moment. I might be screaming, crying, smiling, or silent. Each moment is its own eternity. What a precious fucking gift.

Here's to the journey. I defy the fear of crashes to come. The road does not abide survivors. If not a crash you eventually run out of gas and maybe you make it a few more miles jogging, walking, crawling before a final collapse. The car may emerge from the forest only to steer off the road and tack a path all its own. We can't know. What use worry? The stars emerge as the sun sets and the engine rumbles in the chill of early evening and I can breath and I can smile and I can stare up into infinite space.

More miraculous, I can turn and stare into your eyes. I'm happy we're here on this journey together. I hope I can offer you some measure of solace in these precious moments. I hope to learn something of your mysteries as I share, with you, my own.

Happy, fleeting, eternal moments to come, fellow traveler.

Brandon H. Bell, December 2016

More from Brandon H. Bell:
Read my article about Absurdity in Jeff VanderMeer's Southern Reach Trilogy
Buy the Torn Pages Anthology (Look Inside option allows you to read the introduction online)
More of my work (as author or editor) in print or my short novel Elegant Threat in the MBrane Double