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A Journey To Far Off Oceans
Nov. 4th, 2013 04:34 pmI came back - and that's almost, almost a kind of defeat, almost a kind of attrition. Something Pyrrhic in coming back to Cleveland, I can tell you it's so and maybe you're here, you've been here and you know. But something there is that gives you a pause, a deep one, when you return from brighter shores. To languish under the slate colored sky, it's that old feeling of unwanted strength, character - you know? Duty, Honor, that kind of nonsense - the fake virtues that we pretend to believe in because, hey, without them, we'd all just be drunk in a college town for the rest of time. So Really, this to me, is my recounting of a journey into the wilderness, a place without civilization, where the personally demanding ties that bind us all together, that make us all citizens were briefly abolished. One supposes that this is the very meaning of vacation, but let's just see.
I ride the Red-Line often but never to its end, which is the Airport, because I hardly ever leave this town. I like the station though, it's neat that it's the cleanest of them all. The day before I left I was wise and bought myself the November pass, so I'd be able to wind my way home on the Red-Dragon-Line untroubled.
Then, early one morning I got on a plane and went to North Carolina, because that is where B moved who is my among my main dudes.
My tie is green, we've discussed this - this is the airport signal because it's not her who'll get me, but Faith, someone unknown - a new face and how can we distinguish except by our color codes and other shibboleths. Of course faith is ready at hand, on the scene and quick as anything, she's a sport, a doll a star, all the right things you look for in your immediately made friends. She takes me into her car and I barely protest about how I do not like to go in cars. But it's shameful to make a noise about it, especially when people are just being kind to you and strangers besides. Faith comes for me and I go with her, it's a new city. My bags are dropped off and I meet Chase and Teresa, other new faces and quickly friendly acquaintances to have. I do my best to be charming, I suggest Sandwiches, sandwiches and Whiskey. We equivocate briefly, I am taken to a place and then... There is whiskey and sandwiches and it is as if a trigger is pulled.
For days on end, in a pleasing - symmetrical sequence there are sandwiches and whiskey, there is a blur, a streak of whiskey and sandwiches smeared on the beach and the houses of Wilmington where I made heroic war - War - I tell you on the Water of Life and the Prince of Foods. Because of my fastidious adherence to proper form I take no photos of food or drink in this time - touch with your hands not your eyes. These are not rumors of food, not legends of strong drink, no. No, this is the descent into the pure-true decadence characteristic of the circumstance of the Worker in Late Capitalism. Or something like that.
B is distracted by men, we stay up late and she worries about the ones she can catch, stares at her phone waiting, I make many happy acquaintances- see the funny people joke, the unfunny people try to joke, dance and win a prize for telling my story about rat-slaying and ride a flotilla of boats with a piano atop and meet a charismatic dog. Which is to say that a lot happened. I think, I'll write it all out, word by word - mention the difficult to describe bits of conversation, the depthy notes of maudlin humanity that bubble up in the latenight conversations sustained by stars and drink and new acquaintances. I think I'll write it out, the heavy, visions of home that are captured from a farther perspective, how I bathed my arms in the sea, no lands left to conquer, but instead... Instead of troubling to write it out, just now, I'll come home, resigned and unready, but able - always able, capable even, and mention it, just to mention, what I've done and what was accomplished without the long linking scenes, without the comings and goings.
It was good to get away, it was good to go somewhere where people are all thinking of what their lives will be and not fretting over what their lives have become.
My Trophy
My Exposed Brain
Unknowable Matters
A Raft Made of Rafts
A Good Dog
The Best Thing To Do
When You Are Here
Conventions Observed
I ride the Red-Line often but never to its end, which is the Airport, because I hardly ever leave this town. I like the station though, it's neat that it's the cleanest of them all. The day before I left I was wise and bought myself the November pass, so I'd be able to wind my way home on the Red-Dragon-Line untroubled.
Then, early one morning I got on a plane and went to North Carolina, because that is where B moved who is my among my main dudes.
My tie is green, we've discussed this - this is the airport signal because it's not her who'll get me, but Faith, someone unknown - a new face and how can we distinguish except by our color codes and other shibboleths. Of course faith is ready at hand, on the scene and quick as anything, she's a sport, a doll a star, all the right things you look for in your immediately made friends. She takes me into her car and I barely protest about how I do not like to go in cars. But it's shameful to make a noise about it, especially when people are just being kind to you and strangers besides. Faith comes for me and I go with her, it's a new city. My bags are dropped off and I meet Chase and Teresa, other new faces and quickly friendly acquaintances to have. I do my best to be charming, I suggest Sandwiches, sandwiches and Whiskey. We equivocate briefly, I am taken to a place and then... There is whiskey and sandwiches and it is as if a trigger is pulled.
For days on end, in a pleasing - symmetrical sequence there are sandwiches and whiskey, there is a blur, a streak of whiskey and sandwiches smeared on the beach and the houses of Wilmington where I made heroic war - War - I tell you on the Water of Life and the Prince of Foods. Because of my fastidious adherence to proper form I take no photos of food or drink in this time - touch with your hands not your eyes. These are not rumors of food, not legends of strong drink, no. No, this is the descent into the pure-true decadence characteristic of the circumstance of the Worker in Late Capitalism. Or something like that.
B is distracted by men, we stay up late and she worries about the ones she can catch, stares at her phone waiting, I make many happy acquaintances- see the funny people joke, the unfunny people try to joke, dance and win a prize for telling my story about rat-slaying and ride a flotilla of boats with a piano atop and meet a charismatic dog. Which is to say that a lot happened. I think, I'll write it all out, word by word - mention the difficult to describe bits of conversation, the depthy notes of maudlin humanity that bubble up in the latenight conversations sustained by stars and drink and new acquaintances. I think I'll write it out, the heavy, visions of home that are captured from a farther perspective, how I bathed my arms in the sea, no lands left to conquer, but instead... Instead of troubling to write it out, just now, I'll come home, resigned and unready, but able - always able, capable even, and mention it, just to mention, what I've done and what was accomplished without the long linking scenes, without the comings and goings.
It was good to get away, it was good to go somewhere where people are all thinking of what their lives will be and not fretting over what their lives have become.
My Trophy
My Exposed Brain
Unknowable Matters
A Raft Made of Rafts
A Good Dog
The Best Thing To Do
When You Are Here
Conventions Observed
