The Broken Promise

The guilt continues...

Part One

Around 4PM on January 18th, 2025, I logged off Zuckerberg’s collection of opiates. I immediately felt lighter. I convinced myself that I have the discipline to join other like-minded dissenters in order to free myself, temporarily or permanently, from the prison that is Meta. Even in this short period away from that addiction, I feel unencumbered by the algorithms that feeds me the drug that drives me to scroll endlessly through reel after reel of carefully curated people doing banal activities.

Since I’m a hetero guy, the algorithms feed me reels of scantily clad women doing acrobatics or weight lifting, or videos of women (mostly) hitting golf shots in tight shorts and braless tops. On the upside, there is a woman who makes deliberate fun of those near naked women by clumsily imitating their movements; those reels are hilarious.

The manipulative algorithms know my addiction to music, and that I am a guitarist, so the bots (if that’s what they are) feed me dozens guitar player reels. There are some wonderful clips of guitarists playing absolutely gorgeous music. And a plethora of six string bangers whose sole purpose is to show off their speed demon chops - playing fast is their raison d'être. No sense of melody, no harmonic clarity. Certainly no sense of taste. At least not to my ear-buds. Speed and dexterity are part of the craft. But speed also kills.

Then there are the political posts. Like millions, I would gorge myself on the division within our national politics. I saw thousands of political memes each having one purpose: to raise my ire and rage against those who are the extreme opposite of my ideology. My bubble. My cocoon. The posters always return to the scene of their crimes to count how many of those thumbs-up-likes or hearts they’ve amassed, their egos bolstered by the the number of shares their meme has accumulated. I know because I’ve done that.

This is the social media algorithm that strokes egocentric ideas and inflames self importance. To make you feel as if your level intelligence is being shouted to the world. It is a level of stupidity. God, what a fucking mess. We are mere occupants in this land for the lost; a digital realm that has evolved only to ensure our online relationships remain at odds for one purpose: to make certain we are lab rats and that we remain glued to our screens. The more we’re glued the more ads we see.

That decision has come with a couple of downsides. The first of which is, like I just stated, the face slapping reality that posts are ideological garbage (mine included) and serve no other purpose than to belch these beliefs to the world - well, it isn’t the world — its the bubble. And to get some likes and shares.

Before I shut the door on Meta for the week I reread some of my own bursts of self indulgent nonsense. Yes, they are for the most part garbage. Especially the political ones; far to the Left, and sometimes in the middle, they are truly biased showing no signs of deep research. Like millions of others I was often reiterating vomited words I had read within bubbles. But, hey, its a First Amendment thing and Zucky’s algorithms are highly adept at feeding me irritants.

Meta and X and others are promoting “freedom of speech” on their platforms in order to justify no longer moderating posts to diminish the lies. That means everyone on the planet with an account are free to post bullshit without fear of retribution, i.e. being placed in Facebook Jail which, for many, was a badge of honor. Now Meta and X are the virtual Speakers Corner.

I’m siding with Yuval Noah Harari - it’s not about the information in these posts, nor is it about the notion of free speech. People should, and do post, what they want. But it is the algorithms — by design — that keeps us addicted and infuriated by what it wants us to see and hear and read. And that infuriation has us at each other’s throats. That is the fault of Meta and X.

The second downside is far more poignant and it happened after I had a very restless sleep the night I turned off Meta. I remember dreaming about this decision to quit Meta for the week and in the dream I had an argument with this faceless friend. In the dream I said that being part of the Meta moratorium was important. They fought back saying that I didn’t have to participate in any of the political nonsense and that I should remain on Meta to stay in touch with family, friends, and colleagues. Both of us, in the dream, were correct. And the reality is that both notions are true.

It was very early in the morning when I woke from that dream. I felt as if I couldn’t get back to sleep. I crawled out of bed, showered, dressed and made my way to the kitchen to make coffee and feed our dog. After the coffee maker sputtered the last bit of water through the grounds I poured a cup, went to the dog bowl to make sure our pooch had finished her breakfast, then made my way down the hallway leading to the living room.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the painting my dad done of my brother. An oil painting of him relaxed on the back porch of their home near Milford, Michigan. My brother had been living at my parent’s home for many years. He had retired from the Air Force and was living in Cheyenne, Wyoming spending his days fishing, and evenings building models or noodling with some electronic kits of one sort or another.

At my dad’s request, he left his home in Wyoming and moved back to Michigan to help my dad take care of our ailing mother as she declined into the oblivion that is Alzheimers. Ten years of the long goodbye. And those were hard, very difficult years. After a fall she refused to walk. They’d carry her from her bed to a wheel chair. My brother would have to bathe and wash her hair. Feeding her became more difficult over time. Getting her into the car to take her to appointments was always a near impossibility. She could no longer listen to music as it irritated her. Reading was out of the question. Dad would read to her but she couldn’t comprehend what he was reading. She no longer could recognize family members in photographs or know them by voice. My brother’s job was not just difficult it was heartbreaking. For all of us. But he took the brunt of the work.

After she died in 2004, he stayed at their home to continue to take care of the house, the cooking, and, now, care for my dad as he went through several heart surgeries. He unselfishly took care of my mom and then my dad all those years while my wife and children and I lived in California.

My brother did find the time to do things for himself. He loved to work with wood. A craftsman, he was detailed oriented and would spend hours planning his projects and was a believer in “measure twice cut once.” He designed and built a studio in a large room of the house so my dad could carry on drawing and painting. In his planning he made sure to take advantage of northern facing light. He also built the furniture to accommodate all of dad’s paints, supplies, and brushes and installed shelving around the room to display finished paintings or works in progress.

In this oil painting of my brother he is wearing the same old denim shirt and jeans I had seen him wear nearly every time I visited. They were his work clothes. His everyday clothes. His main wardrobe consisted of a few of pair of bluejeans and a few denim shirts of varying colors. And he had one sport jacket and slacks and a few ties and casual shirts that were rarely worn except when my dad had showings at art galleries or museums or for a wedding or funeral.

He looks relaxed in the painting. At peace. He is standing on the deck he built for mom and dad not long after they moved into the house. His right hand and left forearm resting on the railing. In the background is a large Maple tree. His body obscures a swing that he made: a plywood seat and thick rope secured to a huge branch. They would often see neighborhood kids playing on that swing. Somewhere in all our printed (real) photographs is one of our youngest when he was about 6 or 7 years old. It’s summertime and he is looking off into the distance, sitting on the plywood seat, holding onto the ropes, daydreaming the dreams of a child.

My brother rarely spent money on himself. Except books. Biographies, history, science and science fiction. Magazines on model building and woodworking. He would often reread the works of Isaac Asimov or Mark Twain. Later, in his life he would buy books in digital form that he read on a small iPad. That’s as deep into technology as he wanted to go.

As I looked at the painting of my brother I began to weep. Weep in an uncontrollable way as I did when I first learned of his death. I wept in the same manner I did when my wife and daughter accompanied me to the house two days after he died, the same house where he and mom and dad spent their last years. As we walked in the front door I looked ahead into the living room and saw the corner of the sofa where he would sit in the evening, feet propped up on coffee table, his eyes fixed intently on the book, or magazine he was reading. Upon seeing those images in my minds eye I broke down in the same manner I did today. A howl of grief.

But this was not a mournful cry about his death. This cry was because of a broken promise. A promise I made to my dad about my brother that I did not keep.

Part Two

A few years before my dad died I made a detour while on a business trip to visit with them. I had done this whenever I would schedule trips to Eastern Canada. I’d fly to the Detroit Airport, rent a car, drive to their house in Milford, then spend a day or two with them before leaving to drive across one of the bridges or through the Detroit Windsor tunnel into Canada.

It was Autumn on this particular visit. That first night we all went out to dinner at a local eatery, then spent the rest of that evening sitting around the living room talking about my work, dads paintings, what my brother was reading or building. We then turned on the idiot box and watched a Lions game. The next morning my brother was already outside raking and bagging the plethora of leaves in the backyard. I was about to head outside to help him but as I passed by the living room my dad motioned for me to sit down for a minute.

He came right to the point. He was very worried about my brother. I asked why and he said, “you know that your brother has always been very quiet. I don’t think he’s ever had a girlfriend and as far as I know he has never kept in touch with any of the people who he worked with while he was in the Air Force.” I always knew that about my brother.

I had always been happy that he moved back to Michigan to live with mom and dad. It was a huge responsibility taking care of the both of them and the house, and doing all the shopping and cooking. I was also happy because since moving back he had come out of that quiet, reserved shell. He became close with a few good neighbors and friends my parents had made over the years. The type of friendships that you make along the way where there are shared interests in life - in art, music, literature, and political leanings. They all had so much in common.

Dad and my brother would often have these friends over for dinner, or for some light snacks and wine. Or they’d visit their homes. Regardless of where they were, the conversations they had with these wonderful people would go on for hours. I witnessed a few of these wonderful evenings. I regret I was not there for more.

A few times dad and my brother would drive to a friends cottage in Indiana. I have this photo of my dad and brother while they were there on one of those visits. They are standing in a grove of trees, close to a lake, and looking at something my dad had in his hands. They are in shadow but, to me, even though their features are obscured, it captured a shared interest, a shared experience in something. Maybe he was holding a small stone. Maybe it was a leaf. Maybe it was an artifact of some sort. Whatever it was they seemed focused on it and embroiled in conversation. It was a common to see them like this - deep in discussion about something. It is one of my favorite photographs of the two of them. There’s this huge hole in my heart as I remember these friends and that particular photo.

Dad and my brother were always close. I was close to dad, too, but not in the same way as my brother. He and dad shared unique interests that bonded them. They loved to build model airplanes. They loved to absorb books and magazine articles and then they’d compare notes. They loved the Tigers and Lions even when they had losing seasons, which was often. They loved taking walks, going to area parks to shoot roll after roll of film and later digital (something my dad marveled at).

Given how close dad and my brother were I was concerned about dads statement about my brother being the loner - which, as I said, was no longer true in the sense the he now had close friends. But I sensed something else. Dad’s concern was in acknowledging his mortality - something we all must come to understand about ourselves. And dad was a realist on all matters of life and death. We were raised to believe what we wanted to believe about the existence or non-existence of a hereafter. We all chose various anthems of atheism. And when it came to an afterlife none of us thought of a heaven or hell or meeting or going through a tunnel of light or any of that other stuff. We’d have discussions about the possibilities. Especially knowing that we are made of star stuff and energy and that energy does not die - it simply goes on into another form. We all take comfort in that. I guess, in a way, star stuff is our religion.

Dad was simply acknowledging that he was 91 years old and his time was more limited than that of me or my brother. That is if life allowed us to follow the order of things where grandparents and parents pass into that next bit of star stuff before their children. That isn’t always the case.

He wasn’t concerned about his own demise. He was somewhat assured that my brother would continue seeing the friends they had made over the years, but was deeply tormented that my brother would be alone in this house when his time came to die. He then asked me to promise him that I would do everything I could to ensure that he was not living alone at the end, that maybe he would move out west with us, or we move back to Michigan.

I promised I would. It was a promise I didn’t keep.

For years my focus was on my wife and three children. And I was focused on my career. Always traveling. Always attempting to make more money. Not necessarily climbing a ladder (although that is part of our capitalist way of life).

After my dad died, my wife and I discussed having my brother come and live with us - she was very much in favor of the idea but when I approached my brother he declined the notion. I spoke to him about what his plans were thinking that at least he would come to visit us often, or we the same. I asked if he might travel a bit. He just said he was content living in the house. He was happy spending his time keeping up with chores, reading, cooking, working with a family friend on his art studio, and visiting other friends made in the neighborhood or from our days in Franklin Village.

For the next few years, except for one visit to him in Michigan, our conversations were by phone and the occasional text.

On October 9, 2018 I called him to wish him a happy birthday. No answer. It was evening when I called so I didn’t think much about it as he might be out having a birthday celebration with friends. The next day a family friend called me wanting to know if I had heard from my brother. I told her but that I had left a voice message for him the night before and was expecting a return call. She stated that she hadn’t seen or heard from him either and that she was concerned because they always talked to each other on their birthdays. I called a neighbor across the street from my brother’s house, but she hadn’t seen or heard from him either. She did tell me that the night before she had baked some cookies for his birthday — something she did for my dad and my brother each year. There was no answer at the door so she left a birthday card and cookies just inside the storm door.

After my call to her she ran across the street and knocked on the door. There still was no answer. The bag of cookies and the birthday card she had left were still where she left them.

I became alarmed when she called me back to tell me these things. I called the police in Milford. They in turn called the local fire department. When they arrived at the house they called me and I gave them permission to enter the house by any means possible. The back door to the garage was always unlocked so they entered the garage. His car was there. They knocked on the door leading to the house and did not get an answer. They then used a tool to pry open the door. They entered the house, called his name. Again, no answer. They walked down the hallway to the bedrooms found my brother on his bed. He had been dead for about a day. He died on his birthday. He was just 69 years old.

My tears today were about his dying alone, facing the reality of how I had not followed through on my promise to my dad to do everything I could to be with my brother. Or in some way ensure that, if not me, someone would be there. I had allowed my idiotic career to get in the way of a promise. I will never forgive myself.

Yes, I know he said he was content to stay where he was. But I didn’t push the issue as I should have. Other than the phone calls I didn’t visit him more than that one time since our father’s death. Even after I retired I could have visited more often. I didn’t. I would reason with myself about the expense of air travel and car rentals. Can you imagine that? I was selfish enough to think only about the cost of a plane ticket over visiting my brother or the promise I made to my dad.

It would be poetic justice if I were to take my final breath alone.

In September of this year I visited the Village of Franklin where we lived and my brother and I grew up. I went to the gravesite where the ashes of mom, dad, and my brother are buried. I went many time during that visit. Maybe it was, and is, the start of my penance.

I’m sorry, dad. So very sorry. But I know, in my heart, that you would want me to go on without the guilt and grief. To live my best creative life — to have purpose. To live in peace with my family and be a part of their lives, to watch my grandson, your great-grandson, grow. But guilt and grief rarely fully dissipate. They tend to assuage, rising to the surface on days like this one.

That’s all part of life continuing on.