The alone equation: [ð + φ = ʅ]

Element One (ð): When you think you are alone, you are not.

My family all seems to love Sutter Creek—why we don't actually live there I'm not really sure. We'd gone there for Easter last year and it wasn't much of a spring afternoon, overcast and gloomy and a little too cold. The river that runs right through the town under that old crumbled-concrete bridge poured with full strength, and for a while Mikie and Jarom and I threw rocks at it and watched them sink abruptly, pulling to the left, ready to wash ashore again on another day, in some other place. Jarom was two and it was his first interactive Easter. Because of that, he was the center of attention.

We captured his egg hunt on video. All that enthusiasm, provenance unfounded, excitement that seemed to transfer among us as we watched. There was something so youthful and carefree and joyous, something we'd all been missing and only realized it then, that there was a fragment void in us all. And witnessing a moment of its actual existence temporarily filled that void and caused in us an emotion unexpected, recalled from childhood, and even spiritual.

So we ate lunch and then trekked out that untraveled road an additional 19 miles or so to Daffodil Hill: a place we knew existed but knew of nothing else. It was enigmatic, in the middle of nowhere, and worth venturing down that windy backroad to discover. But upon arrival we found that Daffodil Hill was closed for the season. A sign stated: Due to rain, hail + snow we regret that we will be closed until next year. It wasn't much anyway, just a small ranch with a few miniature windmills scattered about the grounds, and picnic tables here and there.

And then in an odd moment, a gang of motorcyclists happened through—you know the type: leather jackets, bandanas, graying beards and mustaches, doubled up on each bike with the man in front and the woman clinging bravely to said man's chest, dressed alike in their dual presentations of adult rebellion. Each paused at the stop sign before continuing on to an unknown destination, as they crossed some forgotten highway road in the forgotten forests of some tiny nook in the center of Northern California. Those bikers, bound together somehow in Podunk-town camaraderie—they've found similar people where it seemed unlikely for them to exist at all.

And it just kind of sent me this impression—this feeling—that no matter who or what you think you are, or even where, that you're alone—but not completely or permanently, because there are just too damn many people around for that. It's impossible, really. Somehow we always find those similarities, those comparisons, and it makes us feel valuable and loved and necessary. And somehow even through this we are all still unique and strive to be so; we're captured in our whirlwind thoughts and lives everywhere we go, leaving small traces of ourselves, bits and pieces that contaminate the places we pass through and the people at whom we stare, or talk to, or affect in any number of countless ways.

So those bikers. They just passed on. And we took some pictures of it all and piled back into our three-car caravan to leave behind all that only we could leave behind—because the others, they leave us behind. That's just how it goes.

... ....

As we drove I continued these thoughts, and that's when I fashioned my alone equation. It started with the realization of the first element, how even when it seems you're alone, when you're 20-plus miles into nothing—you really aren't (disregarding the company of family of course). And it seemed so odd to me at the time, so strange that these people actually exist and go on existing, indifferent towards me and mine. They have no reason to care about me, nor I them. I am nothing to them. I do not exist. This is always the case, but even so they are always there—and that is the nature of element ð.
But then I also realized that there's the expected opposite, an exception, that when you feel you are not alone you'll inevitably end up forsaken.

... ...

Element Two (φ): When you think you are not alone, you are.

1998—Heavenly, South Lake Tahoe. We snuck in at the same time the El Dorado High School Snow/Ski Team's bus arrived, passing ourselves off as team members at the counter in order to receive the free daily lift ticket. Times were so innocent then.

It was the second time I had ever been snowboarding. The first time was at Sundance, and to this day I have still never re-experienced that sort of brutal pain, never again come so close to severing my right arm in an unrepeatable contortionist position, or crash-hugged a block of ice-granite to the point of having bruised ribs. I took the equivalent of eight Advils that evening: 1600 milligrams of ibuprofen, a ridiculous amount. So needless to say, I was concerned, but determined regardless.

I really didn't know what I was doing. Couldn't carve on my toe edge, only on my heels, and going slower than the three-year old following his father, I was wary and rightfully suspicious of the snow. My friends Jeff and Ben were there, and my brother Mikie—they seemed like such seasoned veterans and so I told them to go on ahead, that I'd be fine by myself on that massive glacier, I'd just figure things out there on my own and ask for pointers later. The group of them took off at my reassuring words: "I'll be fine."

As soon as they rounded the slight bend and disappeared from my line of vision, disaster struck, oh-so-predictably. Riding on my heels I caught my front toe edge—an amateur!—and my body was thrown high ahead of me in a perfect airbound somersault. I came down hard on my left collarbone, even though I tried to roll out of it.

"Oh no." I do believe I said this audibly. Grumbled it, more likely. Playing with my clavicle bone, I conveniently found I could click the two pieces up and away from each other. Click, click, click. Some pain. Some confusion.

Broken! Broken? My worst nightmares realized! Was this possible? What would I do now? Had anyone seen, could anyone help?

But the mass of humans continued buzzing by on my left; I had nearly fallen down the slope on the right and was now an obstacle, a shapeless form to simply avoid. No one stopped, no one pretended to care. Among all these people, and not a soul to notice me. Facing few choices, I stood up and began an excruciatingly long—45 minutes to approximate—trek back down the mountain.

Look at that buffoon holding his left arm! Why's he going so slow?

I know they were looking at me. I'm sure of it. But had I a choice? I've never been the type to call attention to myself, to signal the red-suited white-cross-outfitted snow patrol and sob "Help me! I strongly believe I've broken something! I need medical attention!" Not me. I took it slowly and surely, more carefully than the time I (successfully) loaded a cookie sheet of Jell-o into the fridge. A cookie sheet, mind you, not a cake pan.

But here's the clincher: not one of my group of friends had stopped. Not a single one of them had waited for me. Friends? Brothers? I think not. They had sauntered casually to the bottom, probably had some lunch and some laughs, gone up another lift or two, never thinking to venture out to find he who was missing. They finally remembered me when I flagged them down outside the lodge, from the snowmobile I was laying in. I had finally given in and notified the snow patrol at the base of my predicament, and was being whisked away to their makeshift hospital.
I did learn something from this. Because since then, have I ever gone on ahead, even when I said I would? No. I wait for whoever-it-is, just around the corner. Of course I do.

... ...

But that experience caused no rift in any friendship. In fact, while I was deep into thought and the car hummed over broken road, I'd come across the memory of the whole ordeal longingly. And it made for such a perfect example of element φ—I was so surrounded by people but was left entirely to myself, even injured.

The image of snow brought about another memory, which became the final puzzle piece in my equation. Not an opposite this time, but a companion, a necessary component, the result of the first two combined. Element ʅ.

... ...

Element Three (ʅ): When you wish to be alone, you will never be.

The snow was the culprit, it dirtied our windows and iced over the atmosphere. Our wipers created small clearings for us to see through the windshield; we were traveling to Park City for the first time. Scaling the plateau, up one level from the valley below. My brother Joey and his friend Martin were in a heater-less car behind us—bundled up but still frozen I'm sure—while Amy and I and the kids had the luxury of warmth pouring at high speeds from our car's vents. The little highway road we traveled was like a lighthouse for the valleys, connecting one to another. It stairstepped up and up until the temperature was actually less noticeable—it just can't get any colder—it chaps your lips and eyelids regardless, and the road signs become completely illegible.

Park City welcomes all the fashionistas, the ones who tout the utmost in class and the outdoors. They smell of liquor and heavy perfume. They preach supposed opportunity and lively demeanor; they care about expense, desirability. The lives of the stars. The upward spiraling of the significant. We didn't fit in and it didn't matter. Our cars were filthy, parked next to grand shiny garaged automobiles. Our clothing was less expensive—unwashed or recycled even—our presence seemed like a mistake, but we didn't mind. We had as much a right there as say, Shia LaBeouf—right over there! In the blue sweatshirt, did you see him? Shaking hands and signing autographs, smiling pleasantly, self-assuredly, ostensibly embarrassed by the recognition.

"I love your work."

"I'm such a fan."

"Job well done. Job well done. Congratulations. Excellence."

But we weren't talking to him—though wouldn't have minded if we were—it was just the miniature swarm.

And the beady little eyes from the streetwalkers were always searching, always calculating. With every horde that passed we were stared down, each one of us—you could literally see the question being internalized: Is that someone I should recognize from television, from the theatres, from People? Some of them would continue on, still glancing backward with curiosities unsatisfied. But we all did this; there was no end in sight. A human zoo or attraction of sorts. We all may be celebrity, or none of us may be. Sight itself was deceiving—beanies, scarves, ludicrously oversized sunglasses, they all hid the most recognizable of facial features. You wouldn't have recognized a celebrity anyway (unless they wore only a blue sweatshirt like Shia). We were one and the same, yet we all walked in awe of each other.

But there was still the cold! The one vestige of reality left in that little town. It seemed to want us dead and torn from our sickly-sweet enjoyments with apathetic smiles or gaping gasps of shock still engraved across our cheeks. But we would understand as it would laugh so smugly, "They never saw it coming. They had no idea!"

... ...

That town up in the barren, snow-covered mountains was a mecca of falsehood. You couldn't be alone if you tried, because everyone there wanted to be just like each other. There was no individuality, it was a collective. I guess that's like many places. Most places. It's even like Placerville, I realized after we returned home.

There are always going to be those others around. I sometimes dream of placing the unplaced footstep, walking where no one yet has ventured, but often discard the thought as illogical and pointless. Everyone's been somewhere. Someone's been everywhere. But still we just lead our hapless little lives in the very repetition of all those who've lived so haplessly before. And yet we cling so unwaveringly to our perceived individuality—we just want to stand out, to persist and leave a legacy.

But teenage angst, begone! I used to feel so insignificant, it killed me. Oh please just reel me in, just make me a part of it all, just find me some recognition! I guess the difference now is that I find that same insignificance common, and the hatred of it petty. It's not unique or worth the hours of self-pity. And I've come to terms with it—that's where the equation fits. Because it doesn't really matter, see. Solitude comes and goes. It's a dear companion, but doesn't ever really mean anything at all, it can't ever and won't ever. Because only in our insignificance can we ever really be noticed or even care to take notice of ourselves. Remember the alone equation, ð + φ = ʅ. We must glory in it and our insignificance. It's all that we have.