Lemon Moment, Personal

Pareidolia

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Pareidolia is a fancy word to describe seeing faces or patterns in everyday objects. It’s one of those words no one uses. 

This morning, the air was still. Sound carried forever as I walked through secret swatches of darkness. I love knowing all the dark spots where I can see the sky or watch the bats hunt for insects. Where I come through a canopy and a hidden owl shrieks its surprise as I pass under. Sometimes I’m the one surprising the police as they park away from desolate streets or against the dark trees and foliage. I think most of them are accustomed to seeing me now.

I wouldn’t want to describe myself as necessarily normal, but it delights me that I’m the only one out at 2 a.m who’s already slept and taking advantage of the deserted world of the early morning. Everyone else is an outlier and still burning on fumes from the previous day.

The picture is an example of pareidolia. It looks like a face. That picture took 30 seconds of exposure in almost total darkness. I stood and watched the bats flit across the backdrop as I waited for the camera to reveal what was hidden. 

There have been times when I dreaded seeing what might be behind the darkness. When the hair on the back of my neck stands up, or I’m certain I’m being watched. At times, adrenaline hits my system. But I stand there regardless. The biggest danger to me is pepperoni.

Nostalgia, Personal, Springdale

The Lights of Nostalgia

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The Lights Of Nostalgia 

I chose an odd place to walk this morning. What we called highway 68 until 1988, 38 years ago. Sunset Avenue and 412 replaced the antiquated designation because modernity requires that we erase. 

I parked at Denny’s. Years and years ago, it was the home of one of the biggest machine shops in the region. Before the interstate, when the fields and narrow roads defined everything. My family lived on 48th Street, in a small house and then a trailer, both owned by the family member who employed my dad. Across the street, a little house would become Shirley’s bar. The convention center now sits in a spot that holds a lot of locked memories for me. This was before the corridor of 48th Street was cut in half by the curve of the interstate. 

Almost 200 stitches in my head, nearly blinded by acid, a 70+ ft. tree that beckoned me to climb it, an almost forgotten tornado that pulled off the attachment to our trailer, and a lot of violence. But there was a lot of adventure, too. Springdale was an entirely different place then, trapped in amber and more isolated than people would believe.  

I walked the length of old 68 / 412 this morning, stumbling a couple of times because of the atrocious patchwork of sidewalks. Past countless buildings and places such as the Malco theater. My brother and my cousin Jimmy were there with me on the Christmas Eve it opened. It’s hard to believe that almost 50 years have passed. 

Even though there is a lot of city light now to blemish your view of the night sky, across the street from the All American steakhouse is still one of the best places to get a 360° view of the panoramic sky at night if you’re in Springdale. That spot sits in a bowl that almost no one notices is there. You almost have to be a walker to appreciate it. 

I knew walking that stretch would unlock a lot of memories for me this morning. Businesses like Applebee’s come and go, historical flickers of presence that can only be appreciated if you’ve been around long enough to understand that entropy reigns and laughs at the idea of permanence. 

I’ve walked so long that this sky is now transitioning into a luminous pink haze on the horizon.  Much in the same way that my unlocked nighttime memories are fading. 

The picture I took as I looked back toward the interstate would have been almost completely dark 50 years ago. For the briefest moment, I even remembered what the house looked like that once stood where the Phillips 66 station now stands.  It’s proof that our brains have entire vaults of images and information that for some reason have been tucked away. I would take both horror and delight in remembering a lot of mine. 

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Driving aimlessly back toward home, I stopped at one of the ponds that’s always beautiful early in the morning.

Humor

Talking Birds

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While waiting, I wandered the perimeter and found a beautiful dark canopied walkway that’s a little neglected. A light afternoon breeze and an overcast sky made it a lot more somber than the picture reveals. It was the pungent smell of vegetation that made it seem otherworldly. Just a mostly forgotten access path that no one uses. In the thirty yard span of that path, I saw two rabbits, several squirrels and multiple birds hiding in plain sight. 

Landscapers in the distance were buzzing with blowers and weedeaters despite the rainy day. 

As I walked back through, a couple of them walked on the other side of the hidden oasis. 

“No manches!” I yelled loudly and then waited. (I used it in the sense of “No way!”)

Both of the landscapers laughed. One of them said, “Los pájaros estan hablando!” (“The birds are talking.”)

Naturally, I had to answer back. “Y no podemos dormir con tanto ruido.” (“And we can’t sleep with so much noise.”)

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Humor

I Had The Last Word

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Years ago, a yokel police captain almost killed everyone on the road as he swerved, raced through traffic, and pulled me over. I was driving across the state because teleportation hadn’t been invented. I was speeding; there’s no question. Not by much, but I don’t think it really mattered what I was doing. 

I wasn’t being flippant with him. Quite the opposite. Whatever was going on with him that day, he was furious. Maybe the donuts had made his pants too small, or maybe he was mad that a black man was president. It’s my theory now that he thought I was someone else, someone with whom he had a problem that justified his dangerous maneuver to U-turn in two lanes of traffic and speed back in my direction. 

After he threatened to take me to jail out of the blue, he issued me a ticket and ranted. All I could hear was a red-faced anger-management racist on a power trip. He reminded me so much of my brother that I felt a little sorry for him. He didn’t realize how profoundly stupid he sounded. 

That’s when I got devious.

I wrote him a very professional letter, one using his full legal name, mentioning his stellar career (it wasn’t), and talking about how I very much wanted to help him with his medical condition. The entire letter was a work of art, building to an impeccable punchline. I mentioned that I understood how medical bills and unexpected medical conditions could impact a person. 

I went on to say that I had started a GoFundMe to help him with his medical condition.

And that I hoped that the funds would be sufficient to remove the stick from his ass. 

I mailed a version of the same letter to his sheriff. 

In that sense, my ticket was worth the payoff of imagining the policeman opening the letter and becoming absolutely furious, only to find out his boss got the same letter. There are some who should never become police officers and he clicked a lot of warning boxes. 

A couple of years ago, I was delighted to see that he was forced to retire for abuse allegations. 

I sent him a postcard after he was forced to resign: “It’s GoFundMe guy. Hope you didn’t get the stick out of your ass. You’re going to need it in there if charges are filed for what you’ve done. I’ll send you commissary money when you go in.” 

I’d still like to know whether he had the enormous stick removed.

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Fayetteville, Personal

Downtown A.M.

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I prowled downtown Fayetteville and Dickson Street in the dark. There are always remnant people from the night before. Singing in the parking garages for acoustics, sitting bleary-eyed on curbs and benches, slurring their words and futilely trying to get their dead phones to work. Some were trying to break down equipment and food, tired and eager to get home. Even after 3:00, there were people in the back of some bars still not wanting to surrender the night. A woman waved at me from way up on her penthouse balcony, leaving me to wonder whether the drink she held was a continuation from Saturday celebrations or coffee to acknowledge that Sunday was upon us.

Across from the Walton Arts center, I made the mistake of looking at the hands of a homeless person bundled and covered on the bench. That image stuck in my head and made me feel helpless. The wheelchair sitting at the end of the bench didn’t help. I experienced the privileged dissonance of me walking around on a sleepless night in the same universe this person slept wherever they could.

On the corner of Block and West, I laughed at the unlikely coincidence of Calle’s loudspeaker choice of music, blaring alleged entertainment to no one on the abandoned streets: “X Gon’ Give It To You” by DMX. It was so random and bizarre that I would walk by at that precise moment.

I didn’t want to walk to end. The quiet darkness contained too many colors, sounds, and sights. Even the beautiful houses each had their own quiet beauty.

Lemon Moment, Personal

Windy Watcher

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It was 75° with 20 mph winds early this morning. It felt amazing. Large trees creaked in the wind. 

After walking a random labyrinth of city streets, I walked out of fayetteville’s clutter and into open sky. 

Traffic was unusually light. Not that there’s much at 3:00 a.m., but I’ve become accustomed to recognizing the patterns. 

I can’t explain what gave me the heebiejeebies as I passed the last house on 112/Garland. It was as if something or someone unseen had flickered into my peripheral vision. Goosebumps went up and down my body. It was instantaneous. A feeling of almost dread. 

Watching carefully, I used my phone to zoom in, but saw no movement. Walking around to the other side of the empty house, I did the same thing. The tickle along the back of my neck did not lessen. I stood there for a minute and finally walked away without turning my head to take another look. 

I love these moments when something unseen triggers my subconscious. The wind blasting through the trees and across me enhanced the feeling.

Humor, Law

True Story

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“The one thing I can not teach to an officer is how to make the right decision.”

Who do you think wrote this quote? It’s one of my favorites of all-time. 

This is a direct quote from a Chief of Police for a small NWA town. One he sent to me in a crayon-inspired email in response to my unimpeachable assertion that one of his officers was tripping over his own ego. 

It has a Catch-22 “you’ve-got-to-be-effing-kidding me” feeling doesn’t it? 

Whenever I’m surprised by the nonsense of small towns or the misbehavior of police, I pull up the email and read it, still incredulous after all these years. 

After talking to him in person, I felt compassion for anyone subordinate to him.

If I had ever been charged with a serious crime, this is what I would have said to the judge:

“Your honor, an esteemed Chief of Police once told me that the one thing I cannot teach myself is how to make the right decision. And if that logic is good enough for someone trusted with the position of managing a police department, what right do you have to argue with his logic?” 

🙂

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Fayetteville, Humor, Personal

Prank Time

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I was so excited to see my prison jumpsuit and handcuffs arrive when I got off work. Even though it’s hot, I’ve done my inaugural walk up and down busy Gregg Avenue. I couldn’t stop laughing because I could see people slowing down. I got a couple of honks. 

One of my older neighbors shook his head, laughing. “You’re going to get arrested.”

🙂

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Humor

Escape!

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One of my fellow crazy people who works at an inconvenience store asked me again why I haven’t followed through on my prank. I didn’t have a good excuse now that my eyesight is restored.

What could possibly go wrong if I run up and down Poplar Street or along the trail near my apartment?

Most of the FPD I’ve encountered have been great. Executing this prank will determine with great certainty whether they appreciate the joke.

Even though I have much better necessities to spend my money on, I ordered an orange prison jumpsuit this morning.

I’ll keep you posted. 🙂

PS The excursion train runs in front of my apartment. Maybe they’ll see me soon, waving and running.
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Animals, Fayetteville, Personal

Echoes

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Restless interminable night, but a beautifully still morning. Overcoming my unusual reluctance, I hit the streets early, wandering aimlessly. At its darkest, the night held an unusual number people driving, probably due to ill-advised post graduation celebrations.

On Greenvalley Avenue, I accidentally threw my phone as a large deer ran right past me as I stood taking a picture. It ran down to the intersection and stopped there to watch me. I usually spot them at least a street over near the bottom of what I call dead man’s hill.

Birdsong echoed flatly in the absence of any breeze or wind, creating the perfect introspective atmosphere for anyone out enjoying it.