by Dan Brook
After considerable sifting, sorting, and shlepping, there were lots and lots of household and other assorted things for sale in his Missoula yard, all on display for anyone interested or just passing by, including the looky-loos, and all items were priced ridiculously cheap, several items even free for the taking like magazines and such, some very well used, and it definitely showed, like all his ratty furniture, his old record player and many albums with torn covers, most of which were folk and classic rock music, given that Marty just loved Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan, and the Beatles, among others, but also lots of jazz and bluegrass and blues, especially Thelonious Monk and B.B. King, because he decided to finally go light and easy and therefore completely digital and in the cloud despite the loss of tactile pleasure from ever being able to touch and flip those albums again, also an old, heavy, cast iron frying pan, remembering many of the delicious dishes he had cooked in it, including hundreds of tofu scrambles with various veggies, turmeric, black pepper, and salt, black salt when he could get it, sometimes pink Himalayan salt when the mood struck, otherwise just regular white table salt, including one time when he got distracted and burned the whole thing and there was so much dark smoke and foul air, in addition to all his other kitchenware, including his favorite spoon with just the right curve, just the right weight, and a classic art deco design, not because he didn’t like the spoon, of course, or didn’t want any possessions, but rather because he liked it so much and didn’t want to be possessed by his possessions, wanting instead to loosen his attachments and reduce his cravings to allow him to be more free, independent, peaceful, and happy, indeed more whole, and then there were some stuff never used at all, such as a vintage toy train for the would-be playful child full of wonder and imagination who tragically never made it past babyhood or even out of the sterile, fluorescent-filled neo-natal intensive care unit at the local hospital, a Hemingway novel that he planned to read yet never got around to and apparently never would, a thick, ornate, and heavy cut-glass vase meant to hold fresh flowers that it never held, and various other household items that he had accumulated and now needed and indeed deserved a new home, probably a better home with more adoring caretakers, who would honor, possibly cherish, and actually use and enjoy those once-precious things, because he was moving out and moving on, maybe to Miami or Mexico City or even Morocco, a land he repeatedly dreamed about, literally and figuratively, imagining the markets in Marrakesh, eating vegetable tagine and couscous, sitting at a café and people watching, drinking spiced coffee, and chatting with locals, getting aboard the train, listening to music, especially Crosby, Stills & Nash’s Marrakesh Express, and whatever else, even though he had never been outside of the country, barely even out of his home state of Montana, but no matter, no matter at all for him, as he was quite happy with his old, worn clothes and his old, faded backpack, and, as an affable guy, was more than ready for new and exciting adventures, new friends, new dreams, and eventually new experiences and new memories, come what may, while he would gently and gratefully leave the old ones by the side of the road with the rest of the garbage, recycling, and compost, and whatever else was no longer useful or necessary for him, regardless of their history and beauty, though could potentially be useful and even vital to others, sincerely wishing those people the best in life, something that came quite easily, indeed almost automatically, for him, like a sort of funny Funes, merrily memorious, or a mad monk, because sad thoughts and miserable memories didn’t stick with him, didn’t saddle him or weigh him down, just like whatever slights and insults he might encounter, both real and perceived, while all the good thoughts and memories, nice things, comedic happenings, heartful conversations, gracious compliments, happy happenstances, and sweet dreams, also both real and perceived, attached right away and stuck permanently (Marty sometimes wondered if this were due to the special tea, a rare variety of yerba mate, that his maternal aunt and Argentinian uncle had brought back for him from Argentina when he turned 13 because he acquired this marvelous ability after that memorable night), filling him up with a vast collection of warm fuzzies, which powerfully fueled him forward with all sorts of good feelings, comforting thoughts, and tremendous positivity, always remembering them all in vivid detail like a happy savant while summarily dismissing the rest, typically even preventing the negative ones from arising in him at all, and so he wasn’t feeling sentimental, nostalgic, nervous, agitated, or anxious—there would be no saudade in his heart for sure—as many others might, actually would, and he certainly wasn’t running away or escaping anything or anyone hateful or horrible in his homeland, because that didn’t exist for him, but instead he was enthusiastically eager and radically open to whatever and whoever awaited him on the road and wherever and whenever he eventually found himself, with enough money even if not a surfeit, enough health and strength for sure, and more than enough self-confidence and desire, and so he was completely confident and assured that the next chapter of his life, somewhere in the middle of his giant book of life, his magnum opus that Marty was writing through direct, personal, and lived experience, would be absolutely wonderful without any doubt or hesitation whatsoever about his present path and future unknown trajectory as he was boldly and excitedly embarking on his momentous, merry, and magnificent adventure.
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