The Summer of One

lj-tags: Philosophy, love, Mom, Swiss Cheese

“One is the Loneliest Number,” croons someone doing a bad rendition
of this song on my radio as I drive up Vineland Avenue on a sunny
(are there any other kinds) LA day. In my head, I hum along with
the Aimee Mann version. Actually, I belt it out . . .

“One is the loneliest number that you will ever doooooo ….One is the
loneliest number you will ever knowowowowowowow . . . One is the
loneliest number you will ever dooooooo . . . One is the loneliest
number, much, much worse than two . . . “

I stop.

Worse than two?

Though I am not a math teacher, this does not seem to add up. … I
scan my brain for evidence of twoness in my life. The time I had to
pay rent on two places as a move overlapped. ... definitely not
better than one. The time I had two roommates . . . so not better
than one (or none). Still have two student loans to pay off . . .
again, one or none would not be worse.

Right. That’s not the point of the song is it? Two, as in partner,
marriage, lover, better half. But even then, isn’t the two just an
illusion? Are we always just two ones who are sharing certain time
and space for a bit?

If this summer is supposed to teach me something, perhaps it is that
One is not the loneliest number. Loneliness is has nothing to be
with One, but with disconnection. Anything other than oneness is
just temporary, either a supplement to our oneness or an avoidance of
it, but never can it be an escape or elimination.

Think of Swiss cheese. I heard that in the cheese business they have
been trying to develop new processing so that Swiss cheese no longer
has holes. This made me sad. I like the texture of the holes in
Swiss cheese, the way the edges feel on my tongue, the occasional
absence of cheese and flavor emphasizing the presence of it. Some
holes are not meant to be filled. The holes are part of its essence,
its basic characteristic

Our Swiss cheese-ness is never more apparent as when we lose
something that can never be replaced – old pictures, friends, lover,
and, most of all, parents.

My mother’s birthday card thanked her for giving me what no one else
could, a Mother’s Love. For once, a card that I actually felt
expressed what I felt. I knew that once she is gone no one could be
what she is to me. A new hole as life slowly ages me, pushing the
substance into a denser more poignant me.

A me, one and complete, wrapping around the various twos that have
come and gone in my life, keeping that space open for the ones who
might return. One . . . complete . . . much, much better than two.