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Steve, an Epilogue
By Corvus | August 7, 2006
I’m not quite certain why I decided to post about Steve over the last few weeks. Well, that’s not entirely true. Saturday night before the first post, I dreamt that I posted about him in three separate posts on three consecutive Sundays. When I woke up the posts were already written, so I transcribed all three of them that morning, post dating the second two posts.
By why did I have the dream? What story was I telling myself? What story was I trying to tell the world? Why is Steve, a homeless man, a drunk, a man that I met over fifteen years ago, still such an important figure in my personal mythology?
I think on some level I feel that I failed Steve. After our first conversation he seemed so full of hope. I communicated a spiritual message to him that was empowering and because he was more familiar with self loathing, he followed that path instead. Our first conversation seemed to be an actual conversation, with give and take, actual communication. Our second was two people talking past each other. Our third interaction never even happened – a single nod and a hello met with a wall of blank incomprehension.
Reason failed to win out. I failed to help. How could I have helped? I’m not certain. Personal circumstances aside, I firmly believe that you can only really help those willing to work hard on their own. Was Steve willing? It wouldn’t appear so, but I only saw him three times, so who am I to judge?
Steve represents an unknown. I often wonder if Steve is still alive, and if so, how he’s doing. My reactions to the Steve story are a mix of vague regret, mild sorrow, and idle curiosity. That’s me having perspective. Run a vein of intense passion for understanding people, a desire to see everyone reach their full potential, and a nearly paralyzing capacity for empathy through that mix of vague-mild-idleness, and perhaps you’ll get a clearer picture. I don’t dwell on Steve, but when I think of him, it’s poignant and at times quite sharply painful.
But, as a storyteller, a participatory storyteller at that, I like to tell stories that aren’t for me. Looking at the structure of the Steve posts, I wasn’t trying to tell you how I felt, but to give you the pieces I could and let you see how you felt. The time between the posts lent an element of distance and expectation to our meetings. The length of the posts conveyed their emotional content and length. I was a specific as I could be without going into too much detail so that you could project your own ideas onto me, or onto Steve. I do this, I think, hoping for reactions, hoping that something someone says after seeing Steve through my eyes, will help me see him, or myself, more clearly.
So let’s hear it – what story did you make of Steve and me?
Steve, Pt 1, Steve, Pt 2, Steve, Pt 3
August 7th, 2006 at 9:17 am
I’ve met a few people like Steve. Anyone who lives in a city probably does. Most of us probably don’t engage with them much. I’m not sure we learned much about Steve, but we did learn a bit about you.
August 9th, 2006 at 5:35 am
When the first post appeared, I thought: this is unusual. I wonder what story Corvus is trying to tell? For some reason, I presumed didactic intent.
When the second post appeared, I felt: oh, this isn’t going to have a happy ending. I feared the worst.
When the third post appeared, I felt relieved. Although the overall narrative was a somewhat bleak tale, at the end the outcome was far less tragic than my fertile imagination had originally painted.
The desire to help is an admirable trait, wherever it is found, but it is coupled with an immeasuarable cost – by personally connecting with others, one always risks emotional harm. So devastating can the cumulative effect of such encounters become that those in professions whose goal is to care for others become necessarily numb to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. They have to, otherwise they could not go on.
You met someone, and your lives briefly crossed. Your encounter did not have the power to change Steve’s life. One cannot be wholly surprised. But on the other hand, it *could* have done. And this is perhaps why we should not let the evidence of the instances prevent us from following our moral hearts when they spur us to act.
The blight of the later half of the twentieth century was perhaps the erosion of community. Perhaps this has been going on for longer than that. Any attempt to resist this is to be applauded in my eyes.
Take care!