I should be in bed (I'm trying a new routine of early morning running), but I just felt compelled to get up and jot down a few lines. I guess after such a long time I just feel like writing again and I don't want to lose anymore fresh ideas to a night of sleep. That and the fact that I think I have bedbugs. In fact I've nearly convinced myself of the idea. It may just be winter weather and dry skin, but I am itching all over right now. No rash, just itching.
I actually read a few months ago that bedbugs (an oldie but a goodie!) were making a big comeback in the U.S. -- especially in the Northeast -- thanks to new waves of immigrants from countries without the luxuries of things like DDT and showers. And now they share a rented room of a boarding house with me in Massachusetts! I guess it could turn out to be fun -- like that bad MTV movie with the talking cockroaches and Jerry "yeah, I was the fat kid from 'Stand By Me'" O'Connell.
All part of the adventure that is this place, I suppose. Today I woke up to find that the hot water was out; a cold shower was not a very appealing option for late November in New England so I opted for the grunge "I've got world problems way more important than personal hygeine on my mind" look at work. I also have a rather loud neighbor who is a nurse and therefore tends to keep odd hours. She blasts heavy metal music on her stereo most of the day. This wouldn't typically be a problem since I like heavy metal, but she plays weird, moody Evanescence-like crap. And I don't know what she watches that is so funny, but she has a shrieking laugh that sounds like the offspring of a hyena and a howler monkey on crack.
But I get what I paid for. And what I paid for is a minimalist monk's cell that I hoped would help me live a Spartan lifestyle as I try to plug into a vein of inspiration and get some writing work done. Until next time, I'm off to sleep and trying not to let the bedbugs bite.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Cashed out but buying back in with champagne bottle in hand
OUT OF ATHENS AND INTO THE MAELSTROM
Hello Cleveland! No seriously, it's good to be back. Where have I been? Sit back and allow me to regale you with the tale. A tale of not two, but three cities.
Rewind some three months ago and we find our strangely charming but flawed protagonist on the eve of leaving Athens, Georgia (the scene of his most uncomfortable comfort zone) in a state of melancholy and poverty feeling worthless, penniless, hopeless, and some other words ending in a similar suffix. For some odd reason he had it in his head that this departure would be nothing but a brief sabbatical before he returned to this quaint Southern college town. However, like any other great Greek drama it seems the Divine Fates had other plans in mind.
And so now I am on the road pushing ever westward and ever northward towards a destination and a destiny I have yet to comprehend. For the moment I sit shotgun, sharing the bench with my mother who sits to my left, piloting this beast of a UHaul across the asphalt spiderweb that covers my American landscape. I now remember what I had forgotten in my teenage rebellion and youthful isolationism: my mother is a great woman, perhaps the greatest woman, a woman built of kindness and quiet dignity, but maintaining a ferocious strength about her.
In my hand rests a book, a novel of fitting and ironic significance. In the darkening light my eyes scan line after line of the wandering adventures of Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty as they criss-cross the very same earth that I am writing my own tale into. My brain begins to think in the prose of Kerouac and I cannot help but think that the old man would approve of my own journey, my own tale of the road. But this is not a rehashing of old events; the yellow headlights illustrate something new, a fresh and inviting story that has yet to be told. And with that in mind we race towards the purple bruise of the sunset, eager to beat it, and wondering what secrets it holds in store for us. A succession of states fall in eventual turn to us; a pair of unstoppable conquerors who arm themselves not with torch and sword, but with gasoline and the American highway.
We pass through cities, great American cities, and into the bosom of the American plain. She opens her welcoming arms to us and even grants us passage over her magnificent waterways, including Old Man Mississippi, the river of my birth. For me this is the heartwater of my nation and it is no surprise to me that a man who plied these noble, muddy waters would be his country's greatest spokesman. And that a man so tied to them would be our greatest leader. But my travels continue away from this mighty artery and into the Midwestern prairie.
Wisconsin. This state shares great concerns as I pass through her hills. A land of sunshine and simple, green rolling land. My Teutonic ancestors would have loved this place; a land of green pasture and simple desires. What a strange thing to hold her in such high regard as I try to outdo her. Minnesota fails in that regard; a grey, slow land that wishes to be more but restricts itself in several sad tales. This is not home. And so I come to Boston. A friend has a job opening and I am suddenly where I have wanted to be for ages. I was in Minnesota for a paltry time period and now I must remove myself to a more cosmopolitan arena. Boston and New England call to me. This is a place I have longed for since an early age. For now I am content...
Hello Cleveland! No seriously, it's good to be back. Where have I been? Sit back and allow me to regale you with the tale. A tale of not two, but three cities.
Rewind some three months ago and we find our strangely charming but flawed protagonist on the eve of leaving Athens, Georgia (the scene of his most uncomfortable comfort zone) in a state of melancholy and poverty feeling worthless, penniless, hopeless, and some other words ending in a similar suffix. For some odd reason he had it in his head that this departure would be nothing but a brief sabbatical before he returned to this quaint Southern college town. However, like any other great Greek drama it seems the Divine Fates had other plans in mind.
And so now I am on the road pushing ever westward and ever northward towards a destination and a destiny I have yet to comprehend. For the moment I sit shotgun, sharing the bench with my mother who sits to my left, piloting this beast of a UHaul across the asphalt spiderweb that covers my American landscape. I now remember what I had forgotten in my teenage rebellion and youthful isolationism: my mother is a great woman, perhaps the greatest woman, a woman built of kindness and quiet dignity, but maintaining a ferocious strength about her.
In my hand rests a book, a novel of fitting and ironic significance. In the darkening light my eyes scan line after line of the wandering adventures of Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty as they criss-cross the very same earth that I am writing my own tale into. My brain begins to think in the prose of Kerouac and I cannot help but think that the old man would approve of my own journey, my own tale of the road. But this is not a rehashing of old events; the yellow headlights illustrate something new, a fresh and inviting story that has yet to be told. And with that in mind we race towards the purple bruise of the sunset, eager to beat it, and wondering what secrets it holds in store for us. A succession of states fall in eventual turn to us; a pair of unstoppable conquerors who arm themselves not with torch and sword, but with gasoline and the American highway.
We pass through cities, great American cities, and into the bosom of the American plain. She opens her welcoming arms to us and even grants us passage over her magnificent waterways, including Old Man Mississippi, the river of my birth. For me this is the heartwater of my nation and it is no surprise to me that a man who plied these noble, muddy waters would be his country's greatest spokesman. And that a man so tied to them would be our greatest leader. But my travels continue away from this mighty artery and into the Midwestern prairie.
Wisconsin. This state shares great concerns as I pass through her hills. A land of sunshine and simple, green rolling land. My Teutonic ancestors would have loved this place; a land of green pasture and simple desires. What a strange thing to hold her in such high regard as I try to outdo her. Minnesota fails in that regard; a grey, slow land that wishes to be more but restricts itself in several sad tales. This is not home. And so I come to Boston. A friend has a job opening and I am suddenly where I have wanted to be for ages. I was in Minnesota for a paltry time period and now I must remove myself to a more cosmopolitan arena. Boston and New England call to me. This is a place I have longed for since an early age. For now I am content...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)