Fault Lines - John Knoop

een like a road movie. Now I get to step away from behind my camera and my
adventures and figure out what my life is about. And what it was about.
On my way to the bank this morning I saw several people rush to the aid of a
well-dressed, elderly gentleman who had tripped in the crosswalk and smashed his face
which was bleeding profusely. I decide there's nothing I can do and continue hobbling to
the bank, leaning on my cane. It's gratifying to notice how many people were concerned.
I can't help wondering if there would have been any help for a shabbily dressed man. Or
a healthy looking greybeard like me. Probably less. On my way back I see the wounded
man surrounded by people and propped up on the sidewalk as an ambulance pulls up.
There are large splotches of blood on the sidewalk and a woman is holding a white
handkerchief over the man's nose.
I come home and over a tamale for lunch I read a piece about Joe Mitchell in the
New Yorker. For years he wrote ‘Talk of the Town’ entries. Would he have joined the
crowd and tried to talk to the wounded man? I realize it's not my nature to do that. If it
had been a fight or dispute I might have lingered to watch. If I could have helped—and I
would have tried if it had happened close to me—that would have given me a way to
connect. What seems to fascinate everyone most about Mitchell, once they finish
praising his work, is that he wrote nothing for the last 30 years of his life, though he sat
at his New Yorker desk nearly every day during all those years. And none of the editors
put any pressure on him to produce. Apparently he was at peace with it.
I can easily identify with his silence those last years as I learn how to accept and
live with my disability. There are days now when it all seems such a charade that there's
really not much worth saying. Or doing. It's a peaceful kind of nihilism. Far more
bearable than earlier and more depressed versions. More like an extreme sort of
detachment--an almost historical perspective about how brief and meaningless our lives
are, re-enforcing my commitment to recognize every significant moment and relish the
most fleeting images of love. There's sadness in it but it's more like resignation than
sorrow. I’ll need to flip that mood into productive introspection and say some
uncomfortable things about myself and my family if I really want to write this book.
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