Truth as revealed in a sandwich, found in a place unexpected. Roadside sub shop franchised, branded, and with all the chips from your boyhood. Stickball special they call it but you know it as the sandwich that meant you were home.
Home. Cheese, ham and capocollo with the usual suspects. And funny how it warms you up, maybe even brings a slight tear to the eye, because of that feeling of home. Nostalgia wasn't on the menu, not a condiment, not a cellophane-wrapped chocolate chip cookie next to the register. No, it was none of those things, and everything.
To find the past you left behind, the days of idle wonder in the summer and stultifying boredom (sometimes) in the school year, the laying on your back in the grass while falling asleep to the drone of airplanes...to find these things and more in between the bites of lettuce and onion, tomato and hot pepper relish, is a minor miracle.
Watching the wine vinegar and the olive oil drip off the bun, running down the heel of your hand you can give thanks that you aren't truly weeping in the fluorescent glare of the sandwich shop. Seeing yourself in the window glass under that dead-making light is a bit of a shock. So much older now. Unknown if you are much wiser.
What you do know as you wash down the last bite of the sandwich with gulps of unsweetened tea is that you were a young lad once. A young lad who only needed a favorite sandwich and a book to know he was home. He is there, you see. In the glass looking back at you and wondering who that fellow is, so near and so far from home.
Showing posts with label driving home with a tank full of nostalgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label driving home with a tank full of nostalgia. Show all posts
31 January 2016
17 December 2012
Magpie Tales 148: Through the Front
photo by Andy Magee, via Magpie Tales
Worrying about the drive,
you play a zero-sum game
Turn your attention front and center
to gaze the rain-slick track you ride
Low radio murmur is no sin
Songs offer their own warm company
to those bursting through the front,
Wheels like pigeons wayfinding home
you play a zero-sum game
Turn your attention front and center
to gaze the rain-slick track you ride
Low radio murmur is no sin
Songs offer their own warm company
to those bursting through the front,
Wheels like pigeons wayfinding home
Ladies and gentlemen, this is a very different creation from that of my first impulse. That first impulse was a story, not blank verse, and it involved elements that, in the light of recent tragic events, were too visceral and dark. I owe a debt of thanks to Tess Kincaid, whose Magpie Tale I read before I wrote my own, but after I had that first inspiration. Because of that poem, because of 'dreich', because of rain, I made something from light. Thanks be to quantam entanglements and thank you, Ms. Kincaid.
07 August 2012
Green Flash of Youth
Jesus H. why do these things happen? Especially begging the question, yes, sir, why do these things happen in places like a card store for the love of Pete? No, no, no it shouldn't be that way. Nope. Not a goddamn mass-produced sentiment like the ones I saw there while browsing and waiting on her. Her. The manifestation, the avatar if I may, of my memory of the past and guarded optimism about the future.
My daughter, the Wee Lass, Her Royal Cuteness was in search of a card for her mom. I was the Captain of the Guard, awaiting her Majesty's attention there in the stacks of the Hallmark store in Kansas City. The store is big, a stone's throw from the corporate HQ, and there were more cards than anyone could possibly use. I was idly scanning the stacks when it hit me.
An inner tsunami of nostalgia and grief for something gone. "Something is missing," I heard myself saying, "something has been lost," and I had trouble swallowing the lump in my throat. My heart flopped over in my chest. The screens behind my eyes rolled old, scratchy films of a childhood missing and youth faded away. Flickers, shadows, the laughter of my brother, the faces of my mom and dad when they were younger, too. My grandmother in the background with hand on hip and cigarette poised for another drag before that large laugh that made me feel like I had roots.
Laughter like that is all the more powerful because of its grounding in the understanding that life can be rough and brutal. The only way to survive is to learn to laugh, to break it down and let the water flow around the stones of our soul.
I blinked to clear my eyes but it did no good. I saw myself in the backyard chasing a Frisbee, flung like a skeet from the backhand of my Big Bro. The afternoon sun was gold tinged with silver splashed across the backdrop of that sweet cerulean sky we seemed to have more often when were young. Dinnertime was not far way. I had hunger in my belly. The kind of hunger that blooms from the blissfully ignorant discharge of energy we always thought was boundless, energy that is the province of children. This is a hunger I rarely feel, anymore. Adult hunger tends toward the satisfaction of the base desire to get calories in the belly and avoid starvation. It is a hunger that too often feeds Pragmatism instead of Delight.
The store lights seemed too bright there. Shaking my head seemed not to work. The imps of the perverse were not yet sated, their claws feather-light and sunk in deep. The sadness of loss threatened to carry me away, and those movies of what I used to have kept running. The images stained, faded and scratched with a soundtrack distorted by the reels slipping off their sprockets. I breathed deep, trying to gain some composure while feeling thoroughly ridiculous in all that air-conditioned comfort.
"Snap out of it, man. Thoughtful cards are no reason to bemoan the loss of the youth, the future you once thought was guaranteed," a scolding voice in my head. I am the man that I am, 'myself plus my circumstances' to borrow a phrase from Spanish philosopher Ortega y Gasset.
I am myself...plus my circumstances...this is inescapable. I am myself plus my losses plus my future, even though that is something I cannot know until it becomes the Now. To know this is to understand what the sequoias know, should they deign to speak to us (or we deign to listen).
I dropped my head in weariness. My daughter was a few aisles away, gleefully reading the cards and clutching what proved to be her final selection. Finally, my vision was clearing. I rubbed my eyes hurriedly to erase the bittersweet evidence of jadedness before she could see it to ask. She approached me on the bounce with a smile on her face. She held out the card for my inspection.
The sun was setting over the unsettled ocean of my mind. I was on the beach holding my breath, waiting and hoping for that split second flash of recovering my loss. Hope began to fade until my daughter's enthusiasm and glee spilled over into the atmosphere, and there it was: the cloud lifted while my heart opened up to blossom into a darkening sky. I saw the green flash of youth, of promise, brought forth from the depths by the laughter of my legacy.
My daughter, the Wee Lass, Her Royal Cuteness was in search of a card for her mom. I was the Captain of the Guard, awaiting her Majesty's attention there in the stacks of the Hallmark store in Kansas City. The store is big, a stone's throw from the corporate HQ, and there were more cards than anyone could possibly use. I was idly scanning the stacks when it hit me.
An inner tsunami of nostalgia and grief for something gone. "Something is missing," I heard myself saying, "something has been lost," and I had trouble swallowing the lump in my throat. My heart flopped over in my chest. The screens behind my eyes rolled old, scratchy films of a childhood missing and youth faded away. Flickers, shadows, the laughter of my brother, the faces of my mom and dad when they were younger, too. My grandmother in the background with hand on hip and cigarette poised for another drag before that large laugh that made me feel like I had roots.
Laughter like that is all the more powerful because of its grounding in the understanding that life can be rough and brutal. The only way to survive is to learn to laugh, to break it down and let the water flow around the stones of our soul.
I blinked to clear my eyes but it did no good. I saw myself in the backyard chasing a Frisbee, flung like a skeet from the backhand of my Big Bro. The afternoon sun was gold tinged with silver splashed across the backdrop of that sweet cerulean sky we seemed to have more often when were young. Dinnertime was not far way. I had hunger in my belly. The kind of hunger that blooms from the blissfully ignorant discharge of energy we always thought was boundless, energy that is the province of children. This is a hunger I rarely feel, anymore. Adult hunger tends toward the satisfaction of the base desire to get calories in the belly and avoid starvation. It is a hunger that too often feeds Pragmatism instead of Delight.
The store lights seemed too bright there. Shaking my head seemed not to work. The imps of the perverse were not yet sated, their claws feather-light and sunk in deep. The sadness of loss threatened to carry me away, and those movies of what I used to have kept running. The images stained, faded and scratched with a soundtrack distorted by the reels slipping off their sprockets. I breathed deep, trying to gain some composure while feeling thoroughly ridiculous in all that air-conditioned comfort.
"Snap out of it, man. Thoughtful cards are no reason to bemoan the loss of the youth, the future you once thought was guaranteed," a scolding voice in my head. I am the man that I am, 'myself plus my circumstances' to borrow a phrase from Spanish philosopher Ortega y Gasset.
I am myself...plus my circumstances...this is inescapable. I am myself plus my losses plus my future, even though that is something I cannot know until it becomes the Now. To know this is to understand what the sequoias know, should they deign to speak to us (or we deign to listen).
I dropped my head in weariness. My daughter was a few aisles away, gleefully reading the cards and clutching what proved to be her final selection. Finally, my vision was clearing. I rubbed my eyes hurriedly to erase the bittersweet evidence of jadedness before she could see it to ask. She approached me on the bounce with a smile on her face. She held out the card for my inspection.
The sun was setting over the unsettled ocean of my mind. I was on the beach holding my breath, waiting and hoping for that split second flash of recovering my loss. Hope began to fade until my daughter's enthusiasm and glee spilled over into the atmosphere, and there it was: the cloud lifted while my heart opened up to blossom into a darkening sky. I saw the green flash of youth, of promise, brought forth from the depths by the laughter of my legacy.
29 July 2012
Thoughts of Rain and Road
July 26, 2012. 9:38 PM. On the road, contemplating the view from my hotel bed.
The air conditioning shut off a few minutes ago. I am slightly taken aback by the weight of the quiet in the room. The ambience isn't noise-free, but the little noises I hear only make the gaps in between that much heavier.
There is a trickling noise from the bathroom. Slight thumps above and to the sides, the muffled voices from down the hallway outsid my door. Hum of the lamp whose light is a peculiar shade of what I think of as watered milk. Or a miner's lamp through a plate of opal glass.
A faint flash through the window leads me to believe the is lightning outside, perhaps the threat of storm made good. That impression is strengthened bybthe room lights flickering, once, twice, three times in less than two minutes. The rain I cannot say if that is a good thing or no; the city outside my room is not the one that makes my home these days. I hear the rumble of thunder, that stentorian promise of rain and I wish I could take some of that with me on my return trip tomorrow.
Tomorrow. On the plane again, my daughter with me for a summer visit. Her presence and energy give the lie to the jaded road tripper I imagine myself to be, those times when I find myself between stops, the edges of my mind worn smooth by the grit of internal journeys. I look to her very often for inspiration, that something to push me out of the personal Bermuda Triangle of introspection in which the ship of my soul too often disappears. She is, perhaps, my stargate.
The air conditioning kicked back on. The temperature in the room drops precipitously, and it makes me think of good sleeping weather. The fatigue of the day seeps into my bones. Time perhaps to head off to bed. I will close my eyes, dreaming my way into sunny days and laughter, of those I hold dear, and the love they rain down on the grand desert of my road dog heart.
The air conditioning shut off a few minutes ago. I am slightly taken aback by the weight of the quiet in the room. The ambience isn't noise-free, but the little noises I hear only make the gaps in between that much heavier.
There is a trickling noise from the bathroom. Slight thumps above and to the sides, the muffled voices from down the hallway outsid my door. Hum of the lamp whose light is a peculiar shade of what I think of as watered milk. Or a miner's lamp through a plate of opal glass.
A faint flash through the window leads me to believe the is lightning outside, perhaps the threat of storm made good. That impression is strengthened bybthe room lights flickering, once, twice, three times in less than two minutes. The rain I cannot say if that is a good thing or no; the city outside my room is not the one that makes my home these days. I hear the rumble of thunder, that stentorian promise of rain and I wish I could take some of that with me on my return trip tomorrow.
Tomorrow. On the plane again, my daughter with me for a summer visit. Her presence and energy give the lie to the jaded road tripper I imagine myself to be, those times when I find myself between stops, the edges of my mind worn smooth by the grit of internal journeys. I look to her very often for inspiration, that something to push me out of the personal Bermuda Triangle of introspection in which the ship of my soul too often disappears. She is, perhaps, my stargate.
The air conditioning kicked back on. The temperature in the room drops precipitously, and it makes me think of good sleeping weather. The fatigue of the day seeps into my bones. Time perhaps to head off to bed. I will close my eyes, dreaming my way into sunny days and laughter, of those I hold dear, and the love they rain down on the grand desert of my road dog heart.
30 August 2011
New for 2012: The 2-Door (Hatch) Back Spasm!
Maybe its just me. Whenever I see the little car known as the Fit (by a car maker whose name rhymes with "Rhonda"), I cannot help but laugh.
You see, when I read the word Fit, I don't think of it in the senses of "appropriate for the circumstances" or "suiting the dimensions and shape of something". I mean, I do, but not when I see that word applied to car. When I see it capitalized and in a logo, my mind automatically leaps to the definition of fit as in "having a tantrum" or "a state of being characterized by involuntary spasms, tics or outbursts, and usually associated with extreme emotional upset".
So when I see the Fit on the roadways? I laugh, and I hope there won't be a fit. What about you?
You see, when I read the word Fit, I don't think of it in the senses of "appropriate for the circumstances" or "suiting the dimensions and shape of something". I mean, I do, but not when I see that word applied to car. When I see it capitalized and in a logo, my mind automatically leaps to the definition of fit as in "having a tantrum" or "a state of being characterized by involuntary spasms, tics or outbursts, and usually associated with extreme emotional upset".
So when I see the Fit on the roadways? I laugh, and I hope there won't be a fit. What about you?
31 July 2011
Church Yards
Flashing by, red orange blurs
that taste of heaven
and damnation, soul sheds and
bone markers reminding us of
our time on a mortal trip
and we roll on down the highway
filling up with questions
or purging our spleen,
but quietly, quietly, innocents
are within earshot, and their
questions we may not be
ready, if we are ever ready,
to answer, because there is
(trust us on this)
there is no real way to answer
the unanswerable,
to a mind that thinks
there is an answer to all,
believes there is answer to all
Which perhaps, is grace.
But is not like us,
who have grown up and
wonder if the fall was was worth it.
that taste of heaven
and damnation, soul sheds and
bone markers reminding us of
our time on a mortal trip
and we roll on down the highway
filling up with questions
or purging our spleen,
but quietly, quietly, innocents
are within earshot, and their
questions we may not be
ready, if we are ever ready,
to answer, because there is
(trust us on this)
there is no real way to answer
the unanswerable,
to a mind that thinks
there is an answer to all,
believes there is answer to all
Which perhaps, is grace.
But is not like us,
who have grown up and
wonder if the fall was was worth it.
26 July 2011
Death Becomes The Grasshopper
Road Trip, Part Deux...
Yesterday, I related some highlights of my road trip down to Virginia to attend a wedding, with my daughter in tow. Today, I'd like to relate a lowlight of that same trip, courtesy of a grasshopper who just couldn't get out of the way. I shall call him "Puck", as in 'hockey puck'. As in something that gets hit hard and caroms crazily all over the place when struck at the right angle.
It happened shortly after the air conditioner crapped out on my car. The windows were down, and I was praying for some open road to pick up speed, get some air (hot as it was) in motion in the car. I was leaning forward in the seat, anticipating that the cars in front of us were going to move, opening up some space. which they did, to my relief.
The car in front of us had opened up about two car lengths of road, and I accelerated to take advantage of it. I was watching the car carefully when I noticed this bright tan-colored blur strike the leading edge of the car's roof, bouncing high in the air. I determined that it was an insect of some sort, and I watched it dive gracefully in a smooth parabola, heading downward...
It was then that we made the acquaintance of Puck.
Right into my windshield, with an audible thwack, did the grasshopper greet us. It left a greenish smudge on the glass, and at first I thought the speed and wind would carry it up the windshield and over the car. It carried it up the windshield, alright.
Then the poor bastard got lodged in the arm of the driver's side wiper blade. Just our luck, trajectory and physics smashes Puck, then wedges his ass in tight in a notch in the metal. And he wouldn't come out!
I drove as fast as prudent, hoping the wind would blow him out. No dice. I then turned on the wipers, hoping the centrifugal force would toss him out. No such luck. In fact, I think that wedged it in tighter. I tried squirting the wiper fluid, and that didn't work.
Not wanting to pull over for a bug, I kept on driving. The Wee Lass chimed in from the back, with helpful comments like "Ewwwww..." and "Daddy, that grasshopper is freaking me out!". I tried to put it out of my mind, but it was too much in my field of vision.
So I drove the next three plus hours with a dead grasshopper's butt pointing right at me, frizzled wings vibrating in the laminar air flow over the windshield like some sort of bizarre totem designed to ward evil spirits away from unwary travelers. Puck seemed to be saying to me "I'm coming for you in your dreams..."
I felt I should appease the grasshopper spirit when we arrived at our destination, so my plan was to gently extract the carcass and place it in a nearby flowerbed. No such luck. The wind and the heat had baked poor Puck, and when I when to pull it from the wiper blade, the dry carcass exploded like a puffball mushroom in a cloud of dust and exoskeleton fragments.
Alas, poor Puck, we didn't know ye well, but please know we tried. Please don't haunt my dreams.
Yesterday, I related some highlights of my road trip down to Virginia to attend a wedding, with my daughter in tow. Today, I'd like to relate a lowlight of that same trip, courtesy of a grasshopper who just couldn't get out of the way. I shall call him "Puck", as in 'hockey puck'. As in something that gets hit hard and caroms crazily all over the place when struck at the right angle.
It happened shortly after the air conditioner crapped out on my car. The windows were down, and I was praying for some open road to pick up speed, get some air (hot as it was) in motion in the car. I was leaning forward in the seat, anticipating that the cars in front of us were going to move, opening up some space. which they did, to my relief.
The car in front of us had opened up about two car lengths of road, and I accelerated to take advantage of it. I was watching the car carefully when I noticed this bright tan-colored blur strike the leading edge of the car's roof, bouncing high in the air. I determined that it was an insect of some sort, and I watched it dive gracefully in a smooth parabola, heading downward...
It was then that we made the acquaintance of Puck.
Right into my windshield, with an audible thwack, did the grasshopper greet us. It left a greenish smudge on the glass, and at first I thought the speed and wind would carry it up the windshield and over the car. It carried it up the windshield, alright.
Then the poor bastard got lodged in the arm of the driver's side wiper blade. Just our luck, trajectory and physics smashes Puck, then wedges his ass in tight in a notch in the metal. And he wouldn't come out!
I drove as fast as prudent, hoping the wind would blow him out. No dice. I then turned on the wipers, hoping the centrifugal force would toss him out. No such luck. In fact, I think that wedged it in tighter. I tried squirting the wiper fluid, and that didn't work.
Not wanting to pull over for a bug, I kept on driving. The Wee Lass chimed in from the back, with helpful comments like "Ewwwww..." and "Daddy, that grasshopper is freaking me out!". I tried to put it out of my mind, but it was too much in my field of vision.
So I drove the next three plus hours with a dead grasshopper's butt pointing right at me, frizzled wings vibrating in the laminar air flow over the windshield like some sort of bizarre totem designed to ward evil spirits away from unwary travelers. Puck seemed to be saying to me "I'm coming for you in your dreams..."
I felt I should appease the grasshopper spirit when we arrived at our destination, so my plan was to gently extract the carcass and place it in a nearby flowerbed. No such luck. The wind and the heat had baked poor Puck, and when I when to pull it from the wiper blade, the dry carcass exploded like a puffball mushroom in a cloud of dust and exoskeleton fragments.
Alas, poor Puck, we didn't know ye well, but please know we tried. Please don't haunt my dreams.
25 July 2011
Adventures in Sub-Saharan Virginia: A Wedding Story
Ah, summer. Long days. Hit nights. Vacations. Travel. Hit nights. And hot days. Chillaxin'. And hot days and nights. We all love summer, right? What better time than to load up the car, throw the chillun in the back, and road trip out of state for family visit and a wedding! Woot! That is precisely what I did this past weekend.
Well, I'll tell you what would be a better time: a road trip that doesn't start in the afternoon of one of the hottest, if not THE hottest day so far this year around these parts. A road trip on said hot day during which the car air conditioner stops working about a half-hour into a 4-1/2 hour road trip (excluding dinner break and hopefully not getting any speeding tickets). A road trip on which I have a nearly 7-year old daughter in the back with nothing but a Leapster to keep her occupied.
It. was. hot. Like, hell hot. "Hotter than the Devil's hatband" as my dad often says. Temperatures were in the triple digits and humidity was near or at 100%. Not to put too fine a point on it, it sucked donkeys.
I had left straight from work and in an effort to save time skipped going back home to change into shorts. I ended up driving down the highway with my pants legs pulled all the way up to my knees, and leaning forward in my seat so I wouldn't sweat out my kidneys. The Wee Lass usually complains about wind in her face but this time she had her window down all the way, face into the breeze blasting through the opening. From time to time I would glance in the rear view mirror and see Her Royal Cuteness lolling around like a boneless Weeble, slumped in her booster seat with tongue hanging out. Fortunately, I did have some water on hand, and we topped of big cups of iced tea at our dinner stop.
The drive through Virginia was, to my relief, not as bad as it could have been. Traffic cooperated, and to her credit the Wee Lass complained almost nil. We sang songs and looked for traffic signs. Amazingly, we arrived at the ancestral Gumbo homestead with sanity intact, if a little soggy and wrung out.
The next day was wedding day, for my nephew (Son of Big Bro) and his fiancee. They had planned an outdoor wedding, on the water, and the show was going to go on. Poor things, there was no way for them to know that on their wedding day, the temperature was going to be over 100 degrees.
Did mention it was hot? Like hell hot?
But in the end, it really wasn't that bad. The wedding party held up well, no one fainted or threw up and the ceremony was beautiful. My nephew is quite a handsome lad in a tux (and taller than I am!), and the bride...well...the bride was in a word, gorgeous. Watching the two of them exchange vows, and the emotions that crossed their faces, reminded me of just how precious love is, and what we as human beings can mean to one another. For a few minutes, the heat and the discomfort and the fatigue of travel disappeared, and we all basked in the radiance of love.
It was wonderful. I know my Big Bro was watching from somewhere, with pride, at the joy that is his son and my nephew. He was there, too, I think, because we carry him in our hearts.
Later, as the newlyweds were leaving, we blew bubbles and wished them well. Their road trip is just beginning, and it is my dearest wish that it be a long and fruitful one.
23 April 2011
Lookin' At The World Through a Windshield
Only one trucker song came up on the iTunes today on my drive back home ("Little Liza Jane" by Dave Carter & Tracy Grammer), and a what a doozy. I think it is a good thing that my drive did not have the same level of excitement, much more than I or my darling Wee Lass need in real life.
It set me to thinking about the life of a road dog, however. I don't kid myself that I'll ever be able to sell everything, buy an RV or a motorcycle, and spend my days just cruising all over the continent; that remains a dream deferred. It did occur to me that long drives are not as tiresome to me as they used to be. Impatience to get to Point B from Point A always colored my perceptions of time and space, always leaving me totally exhausted and irritated by the time I arrived at my destination.
That went hand in hand with a near complete lack of acknowledgment of the places I had been or sights I had seen along the way. And that is a minor shame.
Now I seem to enjoy the process more. I take better note of the buildings and terrain and am starting to see a timeline and changes in the landscape. I am starting to care more about the Between in relation to the Here and There.
This is a good thing. I believe that, for perhaps the first time in my personal history, I have learned to treasure the process rather than shortchange it. One of my architecture professors tried to get that through my thick head, many years ago in Big Gumbo On Campus days.
Pity it took me so long to learn. I can tell you this: It's about time, and to borrow from the great sage Dr. Seuss, "Oh! The places I'll go!". I'm dreaming of some road trips, and of the places and people I'll see.
It set me to thinking about the life of a road dog, however. I don't kid myself that I'll ever be able to sell everything, buy an RV or a motorcycle, and spend my days just cruising all over the continent; that remains a dream deferred. It did occur to me that long drives are not as tiresome to me as they used to be. Impatience to get to Point B from Point A always colored my perceptions of time and space, always leaving me totally exhausted and irritated by the time I arrived at my destination.
That went hand in hand with a near complete lack of acknowledgment of the places I had been or sights I had seen along the way. And that is a minor shame.
Now I seem to enjoy the process more. I take better note of the buildings and terrain and am starting to see a timeline and changes in the landscape. I am starting to care more about the Between in relation to the Here and There.
This is a good thing. I believe that, for perhaps the first time in my personal history, I have learned to treasure the process rather than shortchange it. One of my architecture professors tried to get that through my thick head, many years ago in Big Gumbo On Campus days.
Pity it took me so long to learn. I can tell you this: It's about time, and to borrow from the great sage Dr. Seuss, "Oh! The places I'll go!". I'm dreaming of some road trips, and of the places and people I'll see.
19 April 2011
Compass Rose
I'm writing this ahead of time, I'll be on the road later this day. The Gumbomobile will be loaded up with the essentials and my Wee Lass and we are headed for the Gumbo ancestral lands in southeastern Virginia. Its a trip I'm looking forward to, for some much needed R & R, and much needed face time with the family.
The compass of the heart ever points to Home.
The compass of the heart ever points to Home.
13 April 2011
The Poles of Life and Death
It is probably my favorite jacket, dark blue cotton with a leather collar. I've had it for ten (?) years at least, I think. It is a little threadbare on the cuffs, but has the look of something well-made and wearing well. I had this jacket when my twins were born so long ago; it carries memories just as I do.
On the left lapel of the jacket there are two ribbons. It is a duo of small satin curios, each one made of pink and blue fabric intertwined. A small safety pin in each assumes the fastening duties. Each ribbon is also getting frayed, the result of years of me wearing them. I picked them up at an annual memorial walk, given each year in honor of children who have died. It is a way for the parents and families to remember the little ones. Each year they have ribbons available, and I have yet to take mine off.
A co-worker of mine asked me about them today. This is the first time anyone has asked in months, if not a couple of years. My co-worker didn't know my story yet, and I think it was deeper than he was expecting. It is a testament to how far I have come that I can now answer that question evenly and with peace instead of grief. I find it less draining to tell the story, and I am grateful for the chance to share. It was also a perfect segue into talking about my lovely daughter, too, and she is a welcome topic of conversation.
On the drive home, I was musing on all that had transpired. It occurred to me that I don't need a ribbon for my daughter, because obviously I have her, in the world here and now. For the twins, the ribbons are what I have, at least in a form I can easily carry around with me. I have a person and I have symbols: all to be treasured for all the hours of my days.
Rolling down the highway, under a hammered-pewter sky, I felt myself in a delicate state of tension. It wasn't a stressful feeling wrought with anxiety. I fancied it to be that which a finely-tuned piano wire feels as it is stretched out in the instrument. Taut, sleek and brimming with potential. I found myself in a new, bright country of the soul.
I was caught between the poles of Life and Death, balancing ever so carefully in anticipation of that decisive moment when I am struck just so, to vibrate with Beauty.
26 March 2011
Spring Poetry Slam #2: Traffic
Surprisingly cool,
traffic sound on wet pavement.
Heart follows the cars.
traffic sound on wet pavement.
Heart follows the cars.
17 March 2011
Emerald Currents
My address is in America
not waterside by the Shannon
My house a bungalow
not warmed by peat
I do have dreams
of the Emerald Isle,
that leave me longing
for hills I've never walked
I do not have
an Irish accent
nor is the auld sod
beneath my feet
But what I have is
Eire in my heart
and in my veins
For now, it is enough
not waterside by the Shannon
My house a bungalow
not warmed by peat
I do have dreams
of the Emerald Isle,
that leave me longing
for hills I've never walked
I do not have
an Irish accent
nor is the auld sod
beneath my feet
But what I have is
Eire in my heart
and in my veins
For now, it is enough
16 March 2011
Least of Three Bodies
La·gran·gi·an point (l-gr
n
j
-
n.
Astronomy - Any of five points, stable with respect to gravitational forces and in the orbital plane of two bodies, one of which is much larger than the other. A third, smaller body placed at one of these points will remain in equilibrium with respect to the other two bodies.
Amidst the churches and farms
a country highway stretched on forever
beneath a sky of hammered pewter
past trees of gilded dust and bronze
Car and driver weightless over distance
the tug of one gravity lessens before another,
somewhere between silver river and green rows
a heart fell into equilibrium far from both
What is this gravity called love? he sighed,
the crows had no reply, from their weathered perch,
except to flutter wings of feathered ebony,
bidding adieu to this least of three bodies
a country highway stretched on forever
beneath a sky of hammered pewter
past trees of gilded dust and bronze
Car and driver weightless over distance
the tug of one gravity lessens before another,
somewhere between silver river and green rows
a heart fell into equilibrium far from both
What is this gravity called love? he sighed,
the crows had no reply, from their weathered perch,
except to flutter wings of feathered ebony,
bidding adieu to this least of three bodies
02 February 2011
Vase
A fitting metaphor, this vase of mine. It is empty, and dusty, and has been for more than a year. Excuse me, please, it isn't quite empty. It does hold, after all, the memory of flowers.
The vase was waiting patiently for me tonight, as it has done every night since I moved into the house. It is simple, plain clear glass, with curves that are just pleasant enough. The vase rests on top of combination bookshelf/television cabinet, which in turn is just across the room from the couch. In some lights, it almost disappears. Tonight I sat down on the couch and stared at it. It said nothing. Frankly, there are hours and days that pass where I do not so much as register its existence. It sits, quietly, and dreams of being filled with something beautiful, and wonderful.
04 December 2010
Awake in Tierra del Fuego
It wasn't bad pizza what made me start writing tonight, nor was it a virus, or too much alcohol (or any alcohol, for that matter). This probably isn't my Jerry Maguire moment, supposing I ever have one of those. No, really, this is the result, I think, maybe...
...see, I can't even pull the trigger on that thought. 'Cause apparently I have commitment issues. Or something like that. And I write a lot like I often talk. In short, choppy disjointed sentences. With odd punctuation.
So the problem is maybe the way I think. My thoughts are like ball bearings rolling down a billion narrow tracks placed side by side on a shaker table, which itself is randomly whacked causing the bearings to jump their tracks and start all over again.
Gahhh. Scrap that. I don't like the machine analogy. I am not a machine, although I sometimes feel like one. A tired, stressed out machine about to be replaced by the next generation of shiny, noisy things. They may not be better, but they look better, and therein lies the rub. I may have the content, not sure I have the form. My surface, maybe it ain't so shiny.
So there I go again, off on another tangent which barely makes sense to me. If it doesn't make sense to me, I can't expect it to make sense to you, dear readers (to whom I'm very grateful that you've stuck it out this far). Analogy, analogy, I'm looking for an analogy. Or is it a metaphor? A simile? Gahhh, again. See? Distracted by my own self, or the shiny things that are my thoughts.
Crows. My thoughts are like crows. Bright, clever but so easily distracted.
This rambling edifice is the result of being tired and run-down. "Shagged out from a long squawk" to borrow from Monty Python. The stresses and strains of the week have taken the starch out of me, and tonight for the first time in a long time I laid down on the couch after eating alone (again) at my neighborhood tavern, and channel surfed the television. Watching things about which I either cared too little or cared too much. I melted into the couch cushions. My eyes absorbed food porn and real-world obscenity, and suddenly I was off my feed. Two sides of a very disturbing coin.
I gave up, eventually. Watching stories about people stuffing their faces and about humans killing each other for the sake of flag and religion, well, it was too much. I laid back on the couch and fidgeted with my camera, thinking I would take a picture of myself and use it as source material for a Really Intense Post about the life of a would-be Artist...and I did take some pictures of myself and the view from the couch. But I don't know if I'll share any of those. The notion took on some absurdity as I scrolled through the pictures I still haven't downloaded from the past week or so. A strange melange of my daughter, an aunt of mine, and scenes from the church of my boyhood.
The images of my blood and kin, of the cross, of the stained glass panels aglow with afternoon sun...an intensity of emotions I am at a loss to describe. I sat and stared at these images, scrolling back and forth, zooming in and out, while the radiators creaked and popped in little echoes resounding through the barren temple of my house. Friday night, and a payday, and what am I doing? Laying on the couch, wondering just how I got here, and analyzing the best angle to create a weird photo of the ceiling fan in my living/dining room.
I am attempting to surround myself with artifacts that mean something to me on a deep personal level. I have a start with three big framed prints of mine, but it isn't enough. The three prints only serve to highlight just how much room there is left to fill. The echoes of the radiator gain amplitude in the remaining emptiness, a feeling only intensified when I look at the images on my camera, tiny pictures of a big lonely head.
It's cold here tonight, with the possibility of snow flurries. Perhaps it is time to turn in, gather the blankets around and keep in the heat. Yes, it is time. I'd better get to it, because if I'm still awake when the next train horn blows, I may just jump in my car and drive to Tierra del Fuego.
...see, I can't even pull the trigger on that thought. 'Cause apparently I have commitment issues. Or something like that. And I write a lot like I often talk. In short, choppy disjointed sentences. With odd punctuation.
So the problem is maybe the way I think. My thoughts are like ball bearings rolling down a billion narrow tracks placed side by side on a shaker table, which itself is randomly whacked causing the bearings to jump their tracks and start all over again.
Gahhh. Scrap that. I don't like the machine analogy. I am not a machine, although I sometimes feel like one. A tired, stressed out machine about to be replaced by the next generation of shiny, noisy things. They may not be better, but they look better, and therein lies the rub. I may have the content, not sure I have the form. My surface, maybe it ain't so shiny.
So there I go again, off on another tangent which barely makes sense to me. If it doesn't make sense to me, I can't expect it to make sense to you, dear readers (to whom I'm very grateful that you've stuck it out this far). Analogy, analogy, I'm looking for an analogy. Or is it a metaphor? A simile? Gahhh, again. See? Distracted by my own self, or the shiny things that are my thoughts.
Crows. My thoughts are like crows. Bright, clever but so easily distracted.
This rambling edifice is the result of being tired and run-down. "Shagged out from a long squawk" to borrow from Monty Python. The stresses and strains of the week have taken the starch out of me, and tonight for the first time in a long time I laid down on the couch after eating alone (again) at my neighborhood tavern, and channel surfed the television. Watching things about which I either cared too little or cared too much. I melted into the couch cushions. My eyes absorbed food porn and real-world obscenity, and suddenly I was off my feed. Two sides of a very disturbing coin.
I gave up, eventually. Watching stories about people stuffing their faces and about humans killing each other for the sake of flag and religion, well, it was too much. I laid back on the couch and fidgeted with my camera, thinking I would take a picture of myself and use it as source material for a Really Intense Post about the life of a would-be Artist...and I did take some pictures of myself and the view from the couch. But I don't know if I'll share any of those. The notion took on some absurdity as I scrolled through the pictures I still haven't downloaded from the past week or so. A strange melange of my daughter, an aunt of mine, and scenes from the church of my boyhood.
The images of my blood and kin, of the cross, of the stained glass panels aglow with afternoon sun...an intensity of emotions I am at a loss to describe. I sat and stared at these images, scrolling back and forth, zooming in and out, while the radiators creaked and popped in little echoes resounding through the barren temple of my house. Friday night, and a payday, and what am I doing? Laying on the couch, wondering just how I got here, and analyzing the best angle to create a weird photo of the ceiling fan in my living/dining room.
I am attempting to surround myself with artifacts that mean something to me on a deep personal level. I have a start with three big framed prints of mine, but it isn't enough. The three prints only serve to highlight just how much room there is left to fill. The echoes of the radiator gain amplitude in the remaining emptiness, a feeling only intensified when I look at the images on my camera, tiny pictures of a big lonely head.
It's cold here tonight, with the possibility of snow flurries. Perhaps it is time to turn in, gather the blankets around and keep in the heat. Yes, it is time. I'd better get to it, because if I'm still awake when the next train horn blows, I may just jump in my car and drive to Tierra del Fuego.
29 November 2010
The Tree at the Center of the World
The countryside is a particular shade of gray-brown outside of the towns, everything the luster of a dirty hen's egg laid bare in the wan November sunlight. It is a color that has no name, I think, or at least not one you would care to remember. Because who would want to remember something that reminds them of ghosts and distant love?
The trees all start to look the same, except the pines (of which there are more than a few) and the occasional leafy holdout showing off in a last gasp of red or gold glory. Even those few specimens look downcast, like a king who just lost the war, taking off his crown to hand over to the victor. The only thing missing is a cast of crows alighting in the barren fields. The few birds to be seen usually manifested as seagulls and waterfowl down by the many rivers crossed on this journey. Every rule has an exception it seems, and this day was no different. Somewhere close to the halfway point a quartet of turkey vultures was observed sitting on the ridge line of a small outbuilding on a farm that was passed. Fitting for the time and mood, they had their backs to the sun and wings outspread, like exotic flowers soaking up the heat on a cold fall day, their feathers the petals.
The radio kept to a murmur, because the flower of my heart was napping in the backseat. There are only so many farms she can see, barns and twisted oaks before the novelty (for her) wears off. I didn't mind so much. She needed the rest and I needed the quiet. This drive through the eastern Virginia tidewater flatlands, from my boyhood home back to the place where my adult self keeps a bed, it lends itself to reflection and rumination. There is a general lack of elevation, a scattering of 'artifacts' of civilization (silos, houses, tractors, signs) in combination with a sparseness of actual humans in the landscape. I am attracted to this terrain, yet unsettled by it. I want to live in this place, but fear I'd be more alone than I feel now.
So how far away is far enough? How close is close enough? These thoughts loop over and over as cruise control takes me closer to where I'll sleep tonight. Almost all of the family that gave me life is slipping further and further behind. I am a lighthouse keeper on a far, frozen rock and I'm watching the supply ship sail away into the mist. I wave until my arms ache, the ship dissolving into the gray rim of the horizon, and I can only hope things will last, that the ship will come back.
It is no ship I'm on, only the 12-year old fading gray seat from which I captain the nondescript vehicle that is my car. The wheel is worn under my hands, as is the shift lever, but they feel good. Solid, in their own way. The analogy I can think of is like well-made tools used for decades by the same craftsman, or perhaps a well-worn saddle perfectly broken in. I do not kid myself that this car is a miracle of modern engineering, like some Swiss watch on wheels. It does make me a tad melancholy to think that soon I may have to replace it. It has indeed served me well, but the pasture beckons, as it were.
If only I had the stable in which to keep it.
Lunchtime approaches, as does the small town which is home to where I will eat, as is my new tradition. The daughter isn't so thrilled, claiming she doesn't like their food, but my craving for a fried oyster sandwich will not be denied. We always stop here on our way back. The restaurant proclaims it is a family "tradition since 1938" and that simple phrase sends a pang through my heart, as we sit and scan the menu. I look around at the old wood paneling, the heavy brown wood tables, the lines on the faces of some of the patrons. A few look as if they have been coming here since 1938, but today I don't see that as the punchline to a joke. I see it as a lifeline. A thread. A root connecting people to their past, through the soil of the present. I am envious.
There is no drama to our order, the fried oysters a fait accompli for me, and Her Majesty confessed that she might eat a turkey sandwich, should one be brought before her. And so it was. I devoured mine with gusto, she had to be alternately plied with humor and threatened with loss of wishing well privileges in order to secure passage of a few nubbins of turkey down her gullet.
The wishing well is in the back, a treat for the kids, where they use a small "fishing pole" to snag any one of a number of plastic fish from the bottom. They can then redeem the "catch" at the register for a trinket selected from a case at the front. Her choice today was a plastic link bracelet, multi-hued and adorned with a green frog motif cast into the surface of each link. Quite fetching, she thought, and just the sort of thing that her mommy would like. I smiled as she tried it on, and we turned to go.
It was then the insight flashed on me. Watching my daughter skip-hop-march to the car, I felt my earlier envy fade. I have my lifeline, my thread: she is right there in front of me. As she laughs in the November sunlight, I feel my roots spread out a little further, a little deeper. Home may not be so far away as I think.
The trees all start to look the same, except the pines (of which there are more than a few) and the occasional leafy holdout showing off in a last gasp of red or gold glory. Even those few specimens look downcast, like a king who just lost the war, taking off his crown to hand over to the victor. The only thing missing is a cast of crows alighting in the barren fields. The few birds to be seen usually manifested as seagulls and waterfowl down by the many rivers crossed on this journey. Every rule has an exception it seems, and this day was no different. Somewhere close to the halfway point a quartet of turkey vultures was observed sitting on the ridge line of a small outbuilding on a farm that was passed. Fitting for the time and mood, they had their backs to the sun and wings outspread, like exotic flowers soaking up the heat on a cold fall day, their feathers the petals.
The radio kept to a murmur, because the flower of my heart was napping in the backseat. There are only so many farms she can see, barns and twisted oaks before the novelty (for her) wears off. I didn't mind so much. She needed the rest and I needed the quiet. This drive through the eastern Virginia tidewater flatlands, from my boyhood home back to the place where my adult self keeps a bed, it lends itself to reflection and rumination. There is a general lack of elevation, a scattering of 'artifacts' of civilization (silos, houses, tractors, signs) in combination with a sparseness of actual humans in the landscape. I am attracted to this terrain, yet unsettled by it. I want to live in this place, but fear I'd be more alone than I feel now.
So how far away is far enough? How close is close enough? These thoughts loop over and over as cruise control takes me closer to where I'll sleep tonight. Almost all of the family that gave me life is slipping further and further behind. I am a lighthouse keeper on a far, frozen rock and I'm watching the supply ship sail away into the mist. I wave until my arms ache, the ship dissolving into the gray rim of the horizon, and I can only hope things will last, that the ship will come back.
It is no ship I'm on, only the 12-year old fading gray seat from which I captain the nondescript vehicle that is my car. The wheel is worn under my hands, as is the shift lever, but they feel good. Solid, in their own way. The analogy I can think of is like well-made tools used for decades by the same craftsman, or perhaps a well-worn saddle perfectly broken in. I do not kid myself that this car is a miracle of modern engineering, like some Swiss watch on wheels. It does make me a tad melancholy to think that soon I may have to replace it. It has indeed served me well, but the pasture beckons, as it were.
If only I had the stable in which to keep it.
Lunchtime approaches, as does the small town which is home to where I will eat, as is my new tradition. The daughter isn't so thrilled, claiming she doesn't like their food, but my craving for a fried oyster sandwich will not be denied. We always stop here on our way back. The restaurant proclaims it is a family "tradition since 1938" and that simple phrase sends a pang through my heart, as we sit and scan the menu. I look around at the old wood paneling, the heavy brown wood tables, the lines on the faces of some of the patrons. A few look as if they have been coming here since 1938, but today I don't see that as the punchline to a joke. I see it as a lifeline. A thread. A root connecting people to their past, through the soil of the present. I am envious.
There is no drama to our order, the fried oysters a fait accompli for me, and Her Majesty confessed that she might eat a turkey sandwich, should one be brought before her. And so it was. I devoured mine with gusto, she had to be alternately plied with humor and threatened with loss of wishing well privileges in order to secure passage of a few nubbins of turkey down her gullet.
The wishing well is in the back, a treat for the kids, where they use a small "fishing pole" to snag any one of a number of plastic fish from the bottom. They can then redeem the "catch" at the register for a trinket selected from a case at the front. Her choice today was a plastic link bracelet, multi-hued and adorned with a green frog motif cast into the surface of each link. Quite fetching, she thought, and just the sort of thing that her mommy would like. I smiled as she tried it on, and we turned to go.
It was then the insight flashed on me. Watching my daughter skip-hop-march to the car, I felt my earlier envy fade. I have my lifeline, my thread: she is right there in front of me. As she laughs in the November sunlight, I feel my roots spread out a little further, a little deeper. Home may not be so far away as I think.
23 November 2010
Travelogue of the Seeker
I wonder if I could live my life as a traveler, if a living could be made from roving from place to place and writing whatever came into my head. Picture that: a life illuminated by random throws of darts at a map, to go where the sharp end takes me.
That sounds vaguely like the life of a travel writer, doesn't it? I'm not so sure I could do it. Still, the idea of it appeals to me. More so because the chance to get away, than for the opportunity to write a "review". Wait, reviews would mean 'travel guide' writer, not so much just travel writer. Maybe that's what I mean. I could be a travel writer, if that entailed me traveling, then writing about the aspects that interest me, not critiquing things or experiences for others.
There are days where I want to do it. Sell all my stuff, by an RV and drive around observing, watching, listening. I'd want to know more about how life is conducted in places outside my own. How people earn their daily bread (or how they make their daily bread), the terrain of their surroundings (urban, rural or in between), and what they like to eat (and where they get it). The flesh and bones of this world enchant me.
Then, I could retreat to my room in a local bed & breakfast, or hotel, and calmly, deliberately, parse out the evidence of my senses on the page or the monitor. Would that not be grand, to lay eyes on a different body of water, fill the lungs with different air, anoint the ears with the sound of a different voice? Then, have the luxury of writing it out? Yes, yes it would. To travel far, and see the moon from a different angle, and shape it with words: that would be contentment.
The waters of the Gulf of Mexico and Nantucket Sound are a shared ocean, but the waves in each are separate voices. I want to listen to them all, write their biographies. That way, when I return home, as I always do, I'll have some company at the fireside. We'll raise a toast, and dream of our next adventure.
Where do you want to wake up next, what voices do you want to hear?
That sounds vaguely like the life of a travel writer, doesn't it? I'm not so sure I could do it. Still, the idea of it appeals to me. More so because the chance to get away, than for the opportunity to write a "review". Wait, reviews would mean 'travel guide' writer, not so much just travel writer. Maybe that's what I mean. I could be a travel writer, if that entailed me traveling, then writing about the aspects that interest me, not critiquing things or experiences for others.
There are days where I want to do it. Sell all my stuff, by an RV and drive around observing, watching, listening. I'd want to know more about how life is conducted in places outside my own. How people earn their daily bread (or how they make their daily bread), the terrain of their surroundings (urban, rural or in between), and what they like to eat (and where they get it). The flesh and bones of this world enchant me.
Then, I could retreat to my room in a local bed & breakfast, or hotel, and calmly, deliberately, parse out the evidence of my senses on the page or the monitor. Would that not be grand, to lay eyes on a different body of water, fill the lungs with different air, anoint the ears with the sound of a different voice? Then, have the luxury of writing it out? Yes, yes it would. To travel far, and see the moon from a different angle, and shape it with words: that would be contentment.
The waters of the Gulf of Mexico and Nantucket Sound are a shared ocean, but the waves in each are separate voices. I want to listen to them all, write their biographies. That way, when I return home, as I always do, I'll have some company at the fireside. We'll raise a toast, and dream of our next adventure.
Where do you want to wake up next, what voices do you want to hear?
23 October 2010
Sou(l)p
This week was, in a psychic sense, a long one. How the same amount of hours could last longer than the equivalent hours of last week, I'll never know. Frankly, I am too tired to care.
The physical demands of my daily bread-winning activities are not great. The mental demands are somewhat more strenuous, and maybe that is why I have been so sluggish this past week. I left work this Friday at quittin' time, dithering over dinner, and watching the sun go down in a spray of white gold. Hunger, physical hunger, was not an attention getter. In an odd turn for me, I didn't feel like eating.
Yeah, I know. Shocking, yes?
Truth is I was exhausted, facing an empty fridge and having no energy and patience to get to the grocery store. I toyed with the idea of stopping at a favorite Italian eatery, but even the prospect of some tasty leftovers for the next days' lunch couldn't budge me from the trenches of my ennui. Since I couldn't decide to decide, I pointed my car in the direction of home and switched on the autopilot.
Arriving at the Crib de la Gumbo, I still had little interest in eating. To assuage the mental programming that says "Eat because it is dinnertime, and we always eat at dinnertime, appetite or no", I undertook a quick scan of the pantry. There I discovered a can of tomato soup wearing a crown in the form of a smaller can of green chiles. As I contemplated this turn of events, I recalled that I had a pepper grinder newly filled with fresh black peppercorns, and a small chunk of feta cheese in the refrigerator. It dawned on me that with the addition of a small amount of the herb mix I keep in the spice cabinet, these humble ingredients could very well be the solution to my Weary Belly Blues.
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting at the dining table, luxuriating in the humble contentedness of hot tomato-chile soup with herbs, black pepper and cheese. I was tired and still not terribly hungry...but I was eating. Simply eating. All I needed to do was lift the spoon and put it into my mouth.
Sometimes hunger begets appetite, and sometimes it works in reverse. The bite of the tomato and chile, the salty creaminess of the feta, and the mild heat of the pepper set all right with the world. For that precious interval, all I was, all I needed to be, all that I am: everything was on center, and it was good.
The physical demands of my daily bread-winning activities are not great. The mental demands are somewhat more strenuous, and maybe that is why I have been so sluggish this past week. I left work this Friday at quittin' time, dithering over dinner, and watching the sun go down in a spray of white gold. Hunger, physical hunger, was not an attention getter. In an odd turn for me, I didn't feel like eating.
Yeah, I know. Shocking, yes?
Truth is I was exhausted, facing an empty fridge and having no energy and patience to get to the grocery store. I toyed with the idea of stopping at a favorite Italian eatery, but even the prospect of some tasty leftovers for the next days' lunch couldn't budge me from the trenches of my ennui. Since I couldn't decide to decide, I pointed my car in the direction of home and switched on the autopilot.
Arriving at the Crib de la Gumbo, I still had little interest in eating. To assuage the mental programming that says "Eat because it is dinnertime, and we always eat at dinnertime, appetite or no", I undertook a quick scan of the pantry. There I discovered a can of tomato soup wearing a crown in the form of a smaller can of green chiles. As I contemplated this turn of events, I recalled that I had a pepper grinder newly filled with fresh black peppercorns, and a small chunk of feta cheese in the refrigerator. It dawned on me that with the addition of a small amount of the herb mix I keep in the spice cabinet, these humble ingredients could very well be the solution to my Weary Belly Blues.
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting at the dining table, luxuriating in the humble contentedness of hot tomato-chile soup with herbs, black pepper and cheese. I was tired and still not terribly hungry...but I was eating. Simply eating. All I needed to do was lift the spoon and put it into my mouth.
Sometimes hunger begets appetite, and sometimes it works in reverse. The bite of the tomato and chile, the salty creaminess of the feta, and the mild heat of the pepper set all right with the world. For that precious interval, all I was, all I needed to be, all that I am: everything was on center, and it was good.
19 March 2010
Mobtown or Charm City: It Depends on the Mood
Baltimore, 8:13 a.m. intersection of South and Baltimore Street:
Just out of frame on the right is the El Basha Hookah Bar. I've never been there, but I've heard it is interesting. 'The Block' is just up ahead, you can see the Hustler Club peeking out above the car in front. Further up is the Baltimore Police headquarters...cheek and jowl with the seedier side. There used to be a sausage place up on the left called "Polock Johnny's", by all accounts a great place to get a Polish sausage sandwich or a hot half-smoke when hunger struck after a night in the strip clubs. Or so I've heard.
Here is another look at my sort of adopted hometown:
Baltimore...I'm not certain how I feel about you sometimes...but I don't know where I'd be if not here...
Photo credit, top: Irish Gumbo
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