Prologue
This is a story about a place. It is a place of limbic space. It traces a wandering path. It includes video footage I have collected, film that I developed, and stories and poems I've written. It was inspired by a selection of tweets. Below are just some of the tweets that have inspired me.
"Nothing rusts in the desert, right"
There are times I've felt deserted, neglected, and abandoned. Neglect leads to rust. And yet in the isolation of the desert, where there is little moisture, there is also little rust.
There are times I've felt deserted, neglected, and abandoned. Neglect leads to rust. And yet in the isolation of the desert, where there is little moisture, there is also little rust.
"Or, unable to separate joy and fear"
So much of the joy of creation is wrapped up in the anxiety it creates. I fear falling short of my ideal. I fear honesty. But the end product can create ecstasy that negates that fear.
So much of the joy of creation is wrapped up in the anxiety it creates. I fear falling short of my ideal. I fear honesty. But the end product can create ecstasy that negates that fear.
"Significance accrues with duration"
This tweet, while originally referring to how Ken Burns described his work, also applies to my project. The memories I've preserved are more significant because they span time.
This tweet, while originally referring to how Ken Burns described his work, also applies to my project. The memories I've preserved are more significant because they span time.
"A sad main street, a highway bypass"
This tweet has two layers of significance. First, is the landscape itself. Highways and main streets provide the backdrop for my in-between periods of wandering. Second, is the concept. As highways were built around centers of towns, downtown main streets became neglected. As I've felt neglected, main street is a visual representation of my feelings.
This tweet has two layers of significance. First, is the landscape itself. Highways and main streets provide the backdrop for my in-between periods of wandering. Second, is the concept. As highways were built around centers of towns, downtown main streets became neglected. As I've felt neglected, main street is a visual representation of my feelings.
"Nothing will ever be complete"
I'm a perfectionist, but memories aren't perfect. Nor are they complete. What we are left with is an evolving interpretation of the past.
I'm a perfectionist, but memories aren't perfect. Nor are they complete. What we are left with is an evolving interpretation of the past.
"Pitch pines, alive, but scarred from controlled burn"
On my walk to Apple Pie Hill, there are many trees that are charred but living. The forrest service conducts controlled burns to provide a more hospitable environment for the pines, which rely on a natural fire cycle. Their thick bark protects them from the heart. Like the pines, I am also scarred but living.
On my walk to Apple Pie Hill, there are many trees that are charred but living. The forrest service conducts controlled burns to provide a more hospitable environment for the pines, which rely on a natural fire cycle. Their thick bark protects them from the heart. Like the pines, I am also scarred but living.
"You cannot fill the holes in the past"
I am excited about my future, but that excitement does not erase the pain I feel over the empty spaces I've left behind.
I am excited about my future, but that excitement does not erase the pain I feel over the empty spaces I've left behind.
Definitions
limbic system noun : a group of subcortical structures of the brain that are concerned especially with emotion and motivation
trace noun : a course or path that one follows; a mark or line left by something that has passed; a sign or evidence of past things
This is a trace of evidence of past emotion and motivation. It is a story of treachery and blindness.
Roy was lying on the backseat but hadn't stirred for hours. We were driving north on some highway on the way to Ithaca. I don't remember the number, and I don't think we knew it at the time, either. All the road signs were frozen over, coated with ice. We were pretty much driving blind, but Walter had found a big truck to square up behind. Just stay in his tracks I thought. When we came to a railroad crossing, the truck (a dump truck as it was, probably filled with salt) made a right and left us idling at the crossroads, wondering what to do. Walter eased on the gas, we spun for half a second, and then grabbed a patch of unfrozen snow, hurling us over the tracks. I noticed a gas station. It was like noticing the light through a keyhole in a dark room. At first, the room is invisible. Then, the limitations of architecture become apparent and light leaks in where it cannot be denied entrance. "Let's go in and ask them," I said.
I knew then we weren't going to get Roy to his show in time to play. We pulled out behind a minivan just as a sheet of ice slid off its roof and smashed into a million pieces right in front of our bumper. "Jesus!" Walt said. "Is it so hard to clean off your car? Gonna get us killed!" By that time, I knew Roy was probably already dead.
I knew then we weren't going to get Roy to his show in time to play. We pulled out behind a minivan just as a sheet of ice slid off its roof and smashed into a million pieces right in front of our bumper. "Jesus!" Walt said. "Is it so hard to clean off your car? Gonna get us killed!" By that time, I knew Roy was probably already dead.
The Dotted Line
They started us on the dotted line
Said "dont forget to cross your t's
And dot your i's"
But the stroke slows twelve years after five,
Lingering on this last page
Of all we know (so far).
My problem is that I scribble on everything--
Margins of notebooks, weekly planers,
Paper bag book covers--
But still I don't know how to write the last line.
Maybe it's because I remember
Which fountain is the coldest,
Which teachers are the oldest,
(and which teachers to avoid),
Or because I've stood
In the same spot for four years,
Watching lovers declare unity
In the middle of E-Hall.
Because J is for Jennifer
And R's for rejection,
And E is for my car,
Perpetually empty,
And how it just won't look the same
Parked on pavement.
And on Church Road at three,
Windows down, music up
Bags off, shades on,
How the kids spin their wheels
To leap into traffic
And disappear forever
Down life's dotted line.
Said "dont forget to cross your t's
And dot your i's"
But the stroke slows twelve years after five,
Lingering on this last page
Of all we know (so far).
My problem is that I scribble on everything--
Margins of notebooks, weekly planers,
Paper bag book covers--
But still I don't know how to write the last line.
Maybe it's because I remember
Which fountain is the coldest,
Which teachers are the oldest,
(and which teachers to avoid),
Or because I've stood
In the same spot for four years,
Watching lovers declare unity
In the middle of E-Hall.
Because J is for Jennifer
And R's for rejection,
And E is for my car,
Perpetually empty,
And how it just won't look the same
Parked on pavement.
And on Church Road at three,
Windows down, music up
Bags off, shades on,
How the kids spin their wheels
To leap into traffic
And disappear forever
Down life's dotted line.
Short Fiction
God, I hate going into places alone. There’s nothing worse than a whole counter full of waitresses staring at you, wondering if all you’re going to order is a cup of coffee. I would order more than a cup of coffee, except I’m trying to wait for Megan who said she’d meet me here.
“Can I get you a menu?” The waitress was bored without being eager.
“Sure,” I said. “I’m waiting for someone.”
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please. Could I have water, too?"
The afternoon light was diminishing gold, in the few weeks of March. Outside, the parking lot was a sea of barren asphalt, having emptied onto the highway. The light poles buoyed the space with rust-stained “Diner Customers Only” signs. It was approaching 4 o'clock, the loneliest time of day, when everyone's on their way to somewhere and no one belongs.
“Can I get you a menu?” The waitress was bored without being eager.
“Sure,” I said. “I’m waiting for someone.”
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please. Could I have water, too?"
The afternoon light was diminishing gold, in the few weeks of March. Outside, the parking lot was a sea of barren asphalt, having emptied onto the highway. The light poles buoyed the space with rust-stained “Diner Customers Only” signs. It was approaching 4 o'clock, the loneliest time of day, when everyone's on their way to somewhere and no one belongs.
Medport Diner
“Meet you there”
“Meet you there”
She slid into the booth. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing, why? I have poems!” She pulled out a manilla folder and handed me a page.
“Nothing, why? I have poems!” She pulled out a manilla folder and handed me a page.
Apple Pie Hill
From the tops of the trees
Through the branches, wind
By the light of the sunset
The flecked paint sparkles
Orange and white, rusted patterns
In the joints of vision
Each step its own retreat
Each distance a reminder
Horizons malleable in the coming storm
Dreams mutated
And words forgotten
From the tops of the trees
Through the branches, wind
By the light of the sunset
The flecked paint sparkles
Orange and white, rusted patterns
In the joints of vision
Each step its own retreat
Each distance a reminder
Horizons malleable in the coming storm
Dreams mutated
And words forgotten
“I was thinking we could go take some pictures. For the next issue,” she said.
There are no signs leading the way to Apple Pie Hill. It doesn’t exist on road maps, and if you asked a local, he’d probably give you directions that involved “the big oak tree” and “the place where the road dips.”
There are no signs leading the way to Apple Pie Hill. It doesn’t exist on road maps, and if you asked a local, he’d probably give you directions that involved “the big oak tree” and “the place where the road dips.”