For the past two summers, I’ve felt like a ghost. Sitting alone at home for long periods of time, forgotten and lonely. Invisible, really.

I just read two books about loneliness. When you are lonely, what better thing to do than study the state that you are immersed in? Or, maybe not.

Well, the first one, by Johann Hari, dealt with depression, but it delved into the roles of loneliness (and trauma), rather than the chemicals in our brains, for causing so many to be depressed. I won’t argue for or against his premise. His book has caused a shitstorm in certain circles, mainly those places where pushing pills for every malady is the solution. My reaction after reading it was, “meh.”

The second book, by John T. Cacioppo and William Patrick, Loneliness: Human Nature and the Need for Social Connection, had more resonance with me. This was mainly due to the state of loneliness that I regularly find myself in.

In 2014, after a break-up with his girlfriend at the time, Mark went through a period of loneliness. I’ve pieced some of this together after his death. It was why, I think, that he made such a push the last years of his life to get out and engage with others. He even recognized the importance of doing this from a health perspective, which is what Cacioppo and Patrick spend time unpacking in the book. Their findings indicate that prolonged bouts of loneliness can be as harmful to health as smoking or obesity. They also demonstrate the therapeutic aspects of social connection.

The problem I encountered in plowing through both books is that it made me feel like somehow, being lonely was my fault. Like I’d been working overtime to create my current state of isolation. Finding a way to connect with people isn’t as easy as simply willing yourself to have friends. This is especially true in our digitally-based world. Losing a son I was especially close to hasn’t helped, either. Oh, and being a freelancer by necessity (often) also has been a solitary endeavor, especially the past few years.

I’m trying, though. Last Friday, I drove to Lisbon Falls for opening night of the Worumbo Blues Festival. Partly this was wanting to see Kevin Kimball, a blues guitarist of considerable talent play. The other reason (and I could almost hear Mark saying to me, “that’s great, Dad”) is that I thought I needed to get out of the house.

I haven’t spent much time in the ‘ole hometown over the past few years. To be honest, there’s not much there I’m particularly interested in. But, I have been hearing some reports of “revitalization.” On Main Street, the former hangout for the town’s senior set, Dr. Mike’s Madness Cafe, has experienced a makeover via new ownership. It is now Flux, an upscale eatery that people from away are finding interesting. Not sure if the locals are on-board or not.

Sitting at the bar, having a beer, I looked around and didn’t recognize a soul. Granted, lots of people live in Lisbon Falls (along with Lisbon and Lisbon Center) that I don’t know, so for all I know, it could have been jammed with locals.

Drinking alone isn’t much fun. It’s lonely really, especially when the bartender is too busy to carry on a conversation. I’m not complaining. I was happy to see Main Street flush with cars parked along it. A much different site than I’ve seen most times I’ve passed through town on Route 196. A few doors down, the former Kennebec Fruit Company hasn’t looked this good for decades.

I paid for my beer, looked around at the patrons laughing and having a good time, and made my way over to The Railroad Café (or pub/diner), a place that will never be mistaken for a high-end eatery. It’s a dive bar in the best sense of the term that serves passable food and occasionally, some decent grub. I’ve never had an issue with the place and in fact, have always found it welcoming. Except on this night.

Again, I wasn’t expecting to be greeted like a regular on an episode of Cheers when I walked through the door. I was taken aback by the emptiness of the place, however. There was a musician sitting at the bar when I ordered a drink. Another couple were seated at a table. That was it.

Outside, under the tent, a band was cranking through some electric Chicago blues. There were perhaps 20 people sitting there. Most were smoking, which was weird. It’s been awhile since I’ve gone to see music and had to ward off secondhand cigarette smoke. Being technically, “outside,” I guess it’s legal. It was off-putting for me.

They were raffling off a Moxie-orange Fender electric and a small amp. Missing my electric rig that I sold in 2008 to finance my trip to LA to visit Mark (and Gabi), I had hopes I might win. I bought an arm’s length. I didn’t win. But, the raffle helps fund the Maine Blues Society’s Scholarship Fund, which was what the festival was serving as a benefit for.

No orange guitar for me.

Not one conversation was to be had. That’s fine. People were there to listen to music (and smoke), not talk to me and mitigate my loneliness. There wasn’t a solitary person sitting there that I recognized.

Back in 2009 (or it might have been 2010), I was at the Railroad during Moxie Fest, listening to a band of locals “kick out the jams.” It felt like half the town of Lisbon was there that afternoon. I saw a bevy of old friends and high school buddies I hadn’t seen for years. It was like a homecoming of sorts, which is what Moxie used to be for me.

I didn’t make it over this year, but in 2017, I wandered up and down the parade route and save for seeing someone from the LHS Class of ’80 and Faye Brown, there wasn’t another familiar face lining Lisbon Street (or Main). On my way up High Street where I’d parked, I did see an older couple sitting on the porch of the house I used to visit daily back in the day, when I was good friends with their son. We chatted briefly, and then, I drove back to Brunswick. I was thinking, “this will probably be my last Moxie Festival.”

I don’t know what the answer to being lonely is. Some people will callously say, “have more friends,” as if having friends is like a game of tag. Tag. “You’re my friend.”

If life were only that easy.

The world-weariness inherent in the music of the late Jason Molina is something I’m familiar with.