This year, it’s eleven. Eleven years since you left. I keep thinking about the significance of that number. It’s prime, of course, like you, capable of being measured out by no one and nobody, but yourself and the incorporeal, inscrutable Number One. And God forbid anyone else -- least of all, me -- should try. But I did. We all did. Although perhaps not enough? And so, it seems you stepped up to do the job for us divvying yourself into a host of separate entities; the cantankerous lot of you confined in that too-tight space, engaged in a constant argument, and imagined subterfuge, and self-destructive drama. Until maybe the cacophony was too much, too much for you to bear? I wonder about that sometimes -- about how you coped with the internal racket and exactly when it was you decided to stop, and how you must’ve felt in that moment of self-determination, in that moment of enough, just enough already; a measure of silence, a measure of peace, please. And whether you’ve found it at long, lost last?
Jack Andrew Urquhart was born in the American South. Following undergraduate work at the University of Florida, Gainesville, he taught in Florida's public schools. He earned a Master of Arts degree in English, Creative Writing, from the University of Colorado at Boulder, where he was the winner of the Harcourt Brace Jovanovich Award for Fiction (1991). His work has appeared online at Clapboard House Literary Journal, Crazyhorse Literary Journal, and Standards: The International Journal of Multicultural Studies. He is the author of So They Say, a collection of self-contained, inter-connected stories and the short story, They Say You Can Stop Yourself Breathing. Formerly a writing instructor at the University of Colorado’s Writing Program, Mr. Urquhart was, until 2010, a senior analyst for the Judicial Branch of California. He resides in Washington State.
Every Man Jack ... 