Just remember that.
Just remember that.
NEW STUFF/louisville writing in progress
If I could only choose one reason, I love Louisville because it’s the city that hatched Hunter S. Thompson. I feel that Gonzo spirit in the air when I’m down there. And The Greatest? Of course, Muhammad Ali too. At the very least, this love for old weird Louisville is justified by two men with the city’s own fighting, refuse-normal spirit.
A text message arrives to my phone, waking me from a hot sunny day post-workweek stupor. My friend Mark has sent a picture of the “airplane bedroom at the auberge, dogs welcome,” inviting me and my date to visit this summer. He hit the Virginia road last night, and is already back home. With a wedding two hours from there next month, I am sure we will.
This contact warms as I sit hotel poolside, in post-reading cool loneliness. I’m not by nature a lonely person. Good in my own company (or better yet, with dogs). But when I sit here the morning after, every year, I feel a deep ache for friends already back home, on the road, and in the skies. Virginia California Texas Colorado Missouri Indiana Illinois North Carolina Washington. Seattle Chapel Hill St. Louis Denver Dallas San Antonio Palm Springs Long Beach Fresno Eureka Hobart Blacksburg Harrisonburg and on and on. I sit alone though surrounded by the hotel’s new temporary inhabitants, names and places rolling through my head like poetry. Scattered to the winds like the best shimmering multi-colored glitter. We were here, then we were not. But when we return, it feels like we never really left.
Mark is an old-school English professor who’s not old-school himself. He has a shiny tenured academic job he knows he’s lucky to have had, yet talks about the pitfalls with a good salty bad attitude and a rebel yell. I love him. Loves to drink beer and swear and talk about sports and shitty politics. An older American lit prof version of Anthony Bourdain.
We first met five years ago now. We were assigned to stare at each other and giggle at bad or accidentally dirty writing across a table. Nothing like being forced to sit within a few feet from a stranger for 8 hours/7 days straight. At its best, the arrangement can birth an odd but lasting relationship. It’s a friend you’ve known for years, may feel you’ve known longer, so well, but really don’t. Kind of like some people and their relatives.
He lives and works in Virginia now, but Mark’s grandmother actually lived in Detroit in his childhood 1950s. He did some growing up there as well. When I went home just after we met, he asked if I could find the house for him, take some pictures. Just happened to be on my pre-dawn newspaper delivery route, on a scrubby street squeezed between Mexicantown and the abandoned Michigan Central train station. The house is long gone and the grass lot faces the back of the station. Mark remembers grand windows but by the 21st century only rectangular holes remain, and sunlight streams through each morning and evening. It’s a gorgeous and eerie reminder of Detroit’s mighty industrially driven past, and the puzzling realities of its physical present.
Mark thanks me for the photos and news, and we’re bonded as Michiganders, Louisville readers and cranky academics forever. We text “Go Blue” and commiserate during Michigan Football games, and give the occasional holiday shout-out. And, we just keep returning to Louisville to read. And drink and chat. He symbolizes what could have been for me and a career in earlier times, but what most likely now never will be. I call his position old-school because of today’s American higher-ed reality, it is just that. But can’t compare that security to and the different kinds of adventures and possibilities that a drifting life brings. He seems to have it all, but in a way, so do I. At least in these moments, so do I.
“Hey, you got ma tattoo!”
This is how I meet a guy with matching ink.
A blue Old-English D that Michiganders know as The D, Detroit, Detroit Tigers baseball. Mine on the left forearm, and his on the right bicep. He’s a building staff guy who walks past as I sit writing in what we call the “Fish Bar” of the GH Hotel. A beautiful and strange glass tunnel between the Suite and cheap sides of the two-towered complex. “Fish Bar” for the aquarium fish forever trapped in the glass encasing of the space’s main bar.
The tattoo comment is friendly and delivered with a faint Kentucky accent. We compare ink (his is larger and higher on the arm), and notes about being Michiganders.
“I’m moving back there for a bricklaying job,” he says with some excitement.
“Well, I’m trying to move here!”, I reply. He laughs and smiles. I wonder if he left our home state a few years back when the construction economy completely fell apart, much like it did in so much of the country, but somehow feeling worse and more long-lasting in Michigan.
We talk a bit more about the L versus the D, and soon his boss glances over and he needs to keep walking.
After a few steps, he turns back and calls from the atrium doorway: “You’re Michigan too, right? No Michigan State Spartans?”
“No, I’m Michigan. I went there.” He looks satisfied with that answer, smiles again and nods, then walks on.
CREATIVE READING NIGHT: STUFF I READ
I get the feeling
That in every high school musical
There’s a freshman girl
Who: thinks she’s a senior
Who: wipes off her red lipstick
Who: trashes her wig every night
Retying the blue scarf around her head
Until she looks like a girl-gang member
Or a pirate
Instead of a doo-wop girl.
I get the feeling that
There’s another girl
Who fights off a bouffant wig
With all the teenage vanity
A young girl can muster
Whose long, smooth locks onstage
Are more Lady Godiva
Than Little Shop of Horrors.
I get the feeling that
In every high school musical
There isn’t a girl
Who: voices a traditionally male part
“Audrey II,” they call her
She growls and makes the audience swoon
“Feed me, Seymour! Feed me all night long.”
Her carnivorous plant makes us all believe.
I get the feeling that
Springtime teen musicals
Are always that much
Oh teenage moods.
Can’t wait to be over,
And so sad, so soon it will end.
That moment when
Your shoulders shudder
In the infinite silence
And you take a deep breath
And you close your throat
Because some darling teenager
From Des Moines
Wrote a single word
On the page
In their delicate, black-inked script:
I camped out in the country
For two straight days
Wandered back to civilization
For a spell today.
Within Belleville proper
Within 10 minutes, I saw:
A rooster crossing the dirt road
(He got to the other side)
A cross-dresser driving a Lincoln
A small man hiding behind a dumpster,
Behind a nail salon.
I think the adventures should continue, tonight.
And I’ll take the notebook, the camera.
“Do you live at the condos now?” he asked.
“No, I’m the gardener.”
“Just the gardener,” he reassured the cashier, who then quickly rang up the sale.
At my dad’s house, I recently pulled up around 20 huge stinging nettle plants from under the bay window. For those not acquainted with these nasty bastards, stinging nettles suck. Even wearing gloves, you can collect many tiny welts that look and feel much like bee stings, with a spreading burning sensation and numbness. The initial effect’s short-lived, but memorable. If you try washing your hands to ease the discomfort, it only reactivates the poisons on your skin.
Nature says, “Prickers? Don’t touch.”
This means you. Yeah you, with the misguided urge to beat back nature in yet another small, insignificant way.
Unlike roses that give you a gorgeous eyeful for your thorny pain, nettles have very little to offer by way of pleasure. They take and take, but don’t give – and that’s just fine. Who’s going to tell them otherwise? They may be lying in a prickly pile now, soon to be dried up into compost, but their nasty little friends they seeded before you got to them aren’t very far behind. They’ll keep coming and coming, until the local climate shifts and the next wave of botanical pestilence takes their place.
So, the cycle’s ever-changing. And it never stops. A daily opportunity to gird your loins for the ever-lasting dance between success and failure, pleasure and pain.
Amd I being overly serious and philosophical about a big pile of ugly weeds? Blame it on the existential moment of multiple simultaneous bee stings. And yet. There’s the love. The communing with nature, and the concurrent delight in pulling her right up by her scraggly little roots.
Why wax philosophical over some nasty weeds? Well, apparently this is what happens when you apply an English professor to the task of working as a summer gardener. Or, “Landscaper,” as my main employer so very politely calls me. That title puffs up for me more glamorous images of berms built and walkways bricked, majestic hedgerows placed. The reality instead is an on-my-knees, climbing into scratchy bushes, dirty-sweaty daily summer work life. And this half-country girl loves it. The opportunity to make a little change for my pocket, working outside playing in the dirt, getting paid to do something I’d probably do for free anyway.
Adventures to be continued. Time to go back to playing in the dirt.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Shifting gears today. Yesterday got weird – hot and sunny and discontented, feeling like I had to be chasing after things. Maybe I do. But it just didn’t look or feel good yesterday. I spent a few hours looking for local jobs online, at the Ypsilanti Public Library. Disheartening. It seems I’m a square peg for which there are few round holes out there. Too square for some, too round for others. And all I want to do is just find a little work, make a little money. So, I’ll keep writing. Just want to live my normal life.
One bright job note yesterday is that I got an email from the department chair at Oakland Community College. She’s already offered me a fall writing class, and might offer me a second one. Also really has my back on that pesky winter semester plagiarism case. A student who was a very bad plagiarizer indeed. At any rate, OCC is earlier and more dependable than my other so-called job. This counts if the pay’s a bit less – not by much – and the BS is way less, so it evens out.
Somehow I feel encouraged about my future prospects there. Didn’t expect that. But it was a decent first semester and I had some cool students, so there’s that. Just when I think I want to be jumping this sinking ship forever. Just when I thought I got out, they pulled me back in …
Do I really want to work in an office again anyway, at this stage in my career? For the money, yes, sometimes I think I do.To have more structure. To be daily back in the “real world” again. But why? My thoughts and feelings on this subject seem to change daily. But no one’s letting loose an opportunity my way, anyway. Still at times, I think I’d grab a chance and run with it if it presented itself. And then again, I ask myself – at what cost?
<Pause for radio listening> – hey, great timing. I’m listening to CBC Radio, and the host is talking about how Beethhoven was staying at a prince’s house, taking his money and eating his food, on the promise that he’d find steady work soon. He never did. Things coasted along until he refused one night to play for some of the prince’s friends, and he was immediately cut off. Beethoven was so angry he smashed a plaster bust of the prince in his rage.
The moral of the story? You gotta sing for your supper, baby.
So, I’ll sing. In whatever ways I can, whether someone’s letting me do it for money or not. I may sing and not get any supper. But isn’t the song the most important thing down the line, anyway?
I logged on to Amazon, and ordered a nylon rainbow kite. Something fun to do. That’s it. No sitting and brooding about what happened yesterday, or what I’m going to do tomorrow. Just go fly a kite. Well, not today. Free shipping takes 3-5 days. I’ll go fly a kite then. But for right now, dropping some happy cash on Amazon feels good.