Chess

“The chessboard is the world, the pieces are the phenomena of the Universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature and the player on the other side is hidden from us.”

-- Thomas Huxley, English biologist, "Darwin's Bulldog"

--

Halfway through our first chess game in years, my sister said to me the other night that she always wanted "to be one of those people who plays long-term chess games. Like, they have a chess board in the house that they never touch except when their opponent comes to visit, like a friend or relative. Or they play through mail. I don't know, it just seems cool."

Ironically, we didn't finish that game. The pieces have since been reset.

I sometimes feel that a lifestyle of leaving home and coming back is a sort of ongoing war between the person and the family, a long-distance chess game. You come back, you make some moves and they counter, then you leave. Every return begins with a reassessment of the board and its pieces, often mistaken for nostalgia. You start scoping territory and wondering how this got there, why you feel so hampered and pinned down, why this gambit is of no further use and ought to be abandoned. You hop back into the game and, recalling rules, you try to win.

It's the sort of game that lasts a long time, uses a lot of mental energy and in the grand scheme of things is little more than a false little quibble blown way out of proportion. It's fun, it's frustrating, and it's fake. The chess game is its own little bubble, and once you pop it, the tension in your brow dissipates and the smells, sounds and sights of life come stampeding back. The fury is welcome at that point. The little escapes and escapades you had during the game--little walks, drives around town, movies watched alone after midnight--are nothing compared to the sudden wealth of freedom.

Here it is, three days away from my Big Move (which will be a lot like the first Big Move of my life, college), and I just want to resign. I find myself thinking about starting this acting career, of learning lines and curtain calls and the supreme loneliness of the traveling performer, and I wonder how Nebraska will treat me once I come back for the holidays. Never underestimate the power of a second thought; it can kill dreams with ease. I see ads for shows at the Omaha Community Playhouse or the Rose Theatre and I wonder, Why not stay home? Why move half a country away to do essentially the same thing? Why the hell didn't I look into my own backyard when I was still at home?

Am I doing this life-thing right? Would I have more success as an accountant, a reporter, a banker, a spy? Why did I sentence myself to a life of moments, glimpses and afterthoughts? Was it even my decision?

And I think about chess games and gambits and pitfalls. There is glory in the world, for those who seek it, yet too much lof and dom (or the very taste of it) will bring you to your knees sooner or later. And I know, sitting in this basement, between a chessboard and my bedroom, that it will be the greatest struggle to come home. The rub is this: I love this place, and I love these people. It's a sad irony that whenever I come back, we quibble and squabble like migrating ducks and geese in a small pond. I need to remind myself that the pieces are fake, and so are the battles. It's all "sound and fury, signifying nothing."

Or maybe, like many chess players, I just think too much, trying to see too many moves into the future, all to protect that little king at all costs.

--

"The plans
of kings and queens are like dust on the moths wing,
and nothing matters
except laughter and tears--laughter, laughter and tears!"

-- Forgael, in W. B. Yeats's The Shadowy Waters