I’m not supposed to express confusing emotions on social media. I mixed an errand with an early morning walk. That was my intention. But I ended up sprinting. I waited until each breath was more difficult and then my Fitbit began to alarm, flash, and vibrate. Of course I kept going. Even harder. As often happens when you’re pushing past your natural limit, I hit the void point. For those of you who’ve never experienced it, it’s very similar to being on a jet with a steep incline that suddenly pops through the clouds. When I stopped running and resumed walking, it was impossible to look at the sunrise in the same way. Stunning. There was also a tinge of melancholy. Because I wanted so badly to turn to someone with a pointed finger, “OMG. Look!” It’s possible that they might just acknowledge such an obvious observation with a nod. Mundane sights transformed are one of my secret joys. Perhaps it might not have been so beautiful had my brain not been soaked in adrenaline.
PS I included a couple from last night because the light and color was a cliché of color.
If you’re going to prank people with hidden index cards…write “3 of 7” on one of them. Even if you only leave three hidden. I give you my personal guarantee that it will never occur to them that you did not leave 7 of them. Somewhere!
I went down the deep part of the creek because of the recent rains. The passersby and the background traffic receded and conceded to the bubble and roar of the creek. I spent more than an hour down in the valley where the creek dipped and pooled. I moved almost a ton of rocks for my own amusement. I walked across the fallen tree that spanned the creek. And I tried to climb a couple of the vines hanging to the bed. Worn out, I took my shirt off and lay in the cold water – and looked up into the sky above the canopy. The sun came and went, creating shadows and rainbows atop the rock crests jutting from the water.
I needed it, a connection, even if it were the cousin of such connection, which is silence in one’s mind.
On an early Wednesday afternoon not long ago, a couple of miscreants disguised as wannabe drug dealers arrived at the apartment complex. They were vainly searching for one of the hooligans who previously lived below me. They banged on doors and even turned a couple of doorknobs. Their intentions were murderous. I miss the neighbors who once lived below me. Definitely Crystal Methodists and possessing an abnormal interest in homemade chemistry. Not to mention the drug dealer who lived next to me. It’s easier to write crime stories when you can make popcorn and watch it unfold in real-time. Whatever happened to the good old days when drug dealers demanded some sort of decorum? 🙂 One of the duo shouted and threatened me from the parking lot after banging a second time on my door. He promised he would return to give me an ass-kicking. I’m feeling lonely without him darkening my doorway as promised. I had a very creative surprise waiting for him. It might have even made the nightly news. The mugshot would have been glorious! Since the landlords asked me to do so, I uploaded security video of the gentlemen to the police. It was VERY tempting to add clown shoes and hats to the footage. Yes, I am sure that they are actually dangerous. (Not to books, critical thinking, polysyllabic words, or civilized behavior.) I try to remember that even people so devoid of decency have mothers. Mustachioed moms, I’m certain, the kind whose upper lips look like boiled caterpillars. If I sound carefree in my attitude, it’s due to my broken sense of danger. You can thank my Dad for a big part of that. But the reality is that danger blossoms anywhere – and at any time. The allegedly normal-looking folks tend to be as volatile as those whose appearance can best be described as “the before picture.” The ass-kicker didn’t return to my apartment complex. I’m working through the angst of missing his delightful presence. One of the surprises I had waiting was to add the music to “I Believe I Can Fly” to the footage that would have resulted. There are advantages to living on the second floor. His flight off my landing would be short, and without an in-flight meal.
PS I threw the paint can away, the best part of my pre-arranged surprise had either of the hooligans returned.
I stood on the landing, capturing the background insect sounds and the lightning above. A solitary skateboarder passed about 50 yards away, the friction of his wheels echoing through the empty streets. Much of the anticipated rain is north. I’m hoping that the creeks will fill. I’ve missed the peacefulness of the cool water. I heard the first scattered and intermittent drops of rain at 3:10 a.m. I hope the clouds open before I head to work. I could really use a September early morning baptism today. X
I saw him coming up the trail access. The shadows and lighting at 2 a.m. were murky at best. His approach seemed suspicious. I’m not generally concerned about the what-ifs of such people. Someone can just as easily jump onto me from the tree canopy if they’d like. (At times, I almost wish someone would. What a story that would be.) I can run fast, and my appearance tricks people into thinking I’m Gomer. While I am no Bruce Lee, I can snatch someone bald-headed faster than they can say “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” I say “hello” or wave to everyone. I’d probably wave “howdy” to the Queen if she came sightseeing.
It had to be a man approaching me or perhaps the Beauty Queen of Madison County. I realize that I am repeating myself with that comparison. My apologies to the residents of Madison County, all of whom stopped reading after the first paragraph due to lip fatigue.
As he grew closer, the light from the streetlight illuminated him more. He had one hand in his pocket, and his pace seemed off.
As he came closer, my comedic instincts took over. “Have you seen my pet llama? He got out of the backyard a few minutes ago.”
“What’s that you said? A llama?” He pronounced it oddly, like he’d grown up learning phonetics from an inebriated bingo caller.
“A llama, yes. He got out.”
He stopped in his tracks, confused. “No. Not even a dog.”
“Dang. Thanks. I can’t own dogs, though. Not after Ohio.”
I could see that the gears weren’t clicking. It was too much odd conversation. He looked back and then at me two or three times.
“Well, have a good morning. I hope my llama is okay.”
“Yeah, me too,” he said, and kept walking, this time with a stable pace. I briefly wondered what he might do if I started running toward HIM. Imagine that police report.
“Gomez, where are you?” I half-shouted, even if the residents are the nearby apartment complex heard me.
My llama Gomez didn’t materialize.
You’re welcome to use the Gomez the Llama self-defense response if you’d like.
I love Fayetteville, so please take this unusual post as-is: both humor and opinion woven together like a weird rug you might find at the red flea market.
Most of you don’t experience Fayetteville like I do. It’s a markedly different place in the early morning hours before thousands of people wake up and flood the streets. The beautiful houses along Garland, the surprising pop-up new architecture that violates the normalcy of the surrounding houses. This beauty also serves to drive the cost of living higher, pushing out the people who’ve called it home. The university, downtown, and many other places resonate with simplicity and beauty. If Fayetteville had its own statue of Jesus, he’d likely be slapping himself on the forehead and peeking through fingers at the town below him, wincing at the traffic near Wedington and begging us to use our blinkers.
We will always grip the steering wheel here. The traffic is a consequence of geography and people’s desire to live here. We are not in traffic. We are traffic. We’ll always shake our heads at the scooters somehow finding a home in the branches of trees. There’ll be beer cans scattered along the sculpted buildings. But there will be food, drinks, and great times at games, the theater, and a hundred other places that make Fayetteville worthwhile. I don’t understand the mentality of people dreading the influx of students. The university is the literal backbone of everything we are. Even if it irritates the heck out of us at times.
Another university year begins. And another pointless tug of war about people being allegedly underage and wanting to drink or smoke. I can hit a baseball and within the range of that ball, there are a dozen people who will sell me anything I want. When I say anything, I mean literally anything. Drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, fake IDs, a flamethrower – and if you’re really desperate, some Texas Longhorn fan memorabilia. We’ll complain while attempting to find a parking spot anywhere on gameday or the ability to safely pull into the Chik-fil-A lot without a demolition derby incident.
There are three or four popular drinking places near where I live. I observe drinking under the influence and the other behavior that accompanies this with such frequency that it fades into the background. Many of them give me subtle hints regarding their worthiness to drive by doing unintentional donuts, driving on the sidewalk, or being on the wrong side of the road. And I’m only talking about the traffic police. My apologies to the Fayetteville Police. I’ve yet to have a questionable interaction with any of y’all. I’ll never forget the early morning when one of you pulled over while I was walking to ask me if I needed anything. We laughed and talked about the nonsense that the night inevitably brought along with it.
Nestled serenely in the epicenter of these drinking establishments is the cultural landmark Bottoms Up. Its military-grade bunker appearance is so astoundingly beautiful that its website contains no picture of the building. Each time I pass it, I pause long enough to put Visine in both eyes. Just in case.
You shouldn’t get a speeding ticket on some sections of Leverett no matter how fast you’re driving; excessive speed at some points on that street is an act of self-preservation. I didn’t mention MLK or any nearby streets because it’s an open secret that speeding is not only desirable but necessary. If you want to drive slowly, please head over to Wedington, where the traffic snarls resemble a hoarder’s attic. I also don’t want to exclude College Avenue, which seems to have more traffic lights than Grandma’s Christmas decorations.
Prohibiting sales of alcohol here on Sunday is an effective means to force people to visit Springdale on purpose when they otherwise wouldn’t. Once they visit and purchase their spirits, they can at least absolve their horrors by imbibing the very thing that caused the visit in the first place. (PS I love Springdale.)
Living in Fayetteville brings front and center the issue of age restrictions constantly and more so once the students are back. Before the inevitable comments ensue: yes, I realize that restrictions do not originate in Fayetteville. If you can vote, I still think it’s intrusive to tell these people they can’t do what they choose. If they want to drink four Bear Claws and accidentally drive a scooter into the ravine, just keep the gurneys on standby. I don’t know many older people who didn’t start as young people. Those same people creasing their brows at the indiscretions of the younger generation mostly pulled the same shenanigans themselves before civility and sanity taught them to pretend to be well-adjusted, law-abiding folk. You can’t have a university town without the secret war of youthful indiscretion. Looking at the Washington County detention roster convinces me that it’s not the students doing most of the crazy stuff.
My opinion may not be popular with the older crowd. It’s extremely easy to tell other people what to do when the restrictions don’t affect you. Hell, it’s half the reason we have so many social arguments. If you’re going to restrict it, apply the restrictions to everyone. And good luck trying to effectively spend tax dollars thwarting people’s tendencies toward vice. You’ll never see a Mafia family attempting to horn in on the lucrative knitting trade.
Our focus should not be on the consumption of such things. It should be on enrichment, education, and treatment. Anyone who thinks this is an intelligence issue hasn’t had to stick their hands in the thorns of alcoholism. Or convince someone with the munchies that they don’t NEED Taco Bell.
The underground network that informs and connects underage users comes alive again each fall. Where to go to get whatever you need. Which establishments wink and nod while they give it to you and accept your money. Which food trucks will leave you dashing madly for a secluded spot.
Of course, I’m oversimplifying. I have nuanced arguments about specific substances and laws. Doesn’t everybody? No one likes nuanced arguments. It’s why we don’t like bowties or words with needless syllables.
Let the yearly games begin.
PS I still find more beauty in the lesser-known spaces and places around town. These are difficult for visitors to find because our focus tends toward Kodak events and places. Fayetteville is a great place due to its disparate (or desperate?) mix of people and places. When the students arrive, the town is a markedly different place.
And a much more vivid place to call home because of it, in my opinion.
X
I posted this on the FB “What’s Wrong, Fayetteville” page. 99% overwhelming appreciation and the inevitable fringe of bitter people.
I went to the creek earlier than normal. It’s trickier to walk the hidden trail in the back now, especially barefoot. The foliage is taking over. The smells are incredible. There were no falls as I walked down the middle of the creek.
As I finished my creek walk, a grandfather came down the incline, followed by two frolicking little girls. The grandfather asked me how slippery it was inside the creek today, so I told him to step into the water on the dam side. Because I sat on the embankment wall with my feet dangling in the air, I could hear him interact with his granddaughters. All I heard was kindness in his voice. Because of the splashing, I surmised that all three of them had taken off their shoes and socks, rolled up their pants as I had done, and stepped into the cool water. Such a simple pleasure, even to hear it as it unfolded.
When I walked back across the parking lot to my car, I got out several sticks of thick sidewalk chalk of various colors. I walked down to the creek bed and handed them to the grandfather. He was delighted as he handed them to his granddaughters. “What do you say,” he asked both of them. Both girls turned, smiled, and said thank you. “Draw something crazy,” I said, and wished them all a good evening.
As I walked away, one of the granddaughters asked, “What’s that sound” as the backdrop of insects roared once again. “Let’s draw whatever it is,” the other girl said.
It’s nice to hear good people doing basic things to enjoy the day. It makes me feel less eccentric.
“If you go into the building with that much enthusiasm and energy, you’re going to end up with a nail driven into each palm.” That’s the quip I hollered at someone as they came in this morning and the one which inspired the following words:
When you run into somebody who is so full of enthusiasm and energy, it is either one of the best things in life or a trigger. It’s a trigger if you’re missing those things. But when the mutual laughter and enthusiasm collide, it’s a joyous ball of energy. Probably one that annoys onlookers. For that reason, I carry both Lone Ranger masks and COVID masks for the potential naysayers. Due to legal issues, they confiscated my taser. My plea that I only used it on myself went unheeded.
Because I didn’t want to miss the opportunity, I took my shoes off in the work parking lot and walked down to the creek nearby instead of one of my usual spots. The water is much cooler than my last visit. Unlike me. I’m as hip as a polyester suit at this point. But my desire to come down here and stand in the water stands among my best decisions. It tickles me as people race by and see me in their peripheral vision. I probably look like a rutabaga with a dumb smile on my face. I look goofy enough to get a nomination to the Supreme Court. Love, X
It was about 4:00 a.m. I had a delicious bitter cup of coffee on the banister railing. The booms of thunder and lightning bedazzled my eyes and ears. It’s fascinating watching the traffic at that hour on Sunday morning. An unhealthy percentage drivers at that hour are on their way too or returning from unhealthy shenanigans. I heard the vehicle brake a little bit in anticipation of making a right turn across the railroad tracks. The big white suburban attempted to execute the turn while traveling at about 40 mph. As it turned, both passenger side wheels came up as the vehicle wildly turned and then spun all the way around, hitting the sidewalk curb. The wheels slammed back down. I expected the protuberance of the railroad rails to flip the vehicle. The suburban was motionless for a few seconds. The driver was probably checking his or her pants. Assuming they weren’t drunk and oblivious. I could not help but laugh. My laugh echoed much too loudly across the parking lot and against the building. Later, shortly after 5:00, huge gusts of wind buffeted anything not nailed down. I was already back outside with my broom to pick up the plants that I knew would not withstand the wind. None of them were mine. My corn stalks are on the inside railing and oblivious to the weather. My cat Güino darted outside long enough to get splattered by the rain. He was adorable, his face turned up against the wind and rain, his little nose and eyes squinting. He ran back inside when a singular wind gust slammed the door completely open.
The word is deliberately misspelled. Much like the actual word “misspelled.” An excess of letters to convey meaning. I’ve been rightly accused of the same, using purple prose and needless words to convey stories. To which I often reply that only criticism from avid readers and writers speaks to me. The TL;DR crowd is not my tribe. If you’re unfamiliar with that acronym, you’ll be disappointed. The explanation is ironically long. Yes, I realized I committed the same sin Alanis Morissette did in her trademark song by phrasing it that way. I’m being self-indulgent with my jokes. That some people don’t understand that they’re jokes is an inside joke in itself.
As for the title of this post, Sinset, It’s a word I coined to convey the likelihood of misbehavior once the sun sinks below the horizon.
A lot of people wait for the dark to commence their personal bacchanalias. Most of these people control their hidden impulses during the day. They meet their obligations, go to work, and avoid gluttony of all kinds. But when dusk is upon them, they fling open the fridge and eat all of the things. They pour a shot of whiskey and then foolishly open up their web browsers or apps and become internet warriors or guilt-ridden OnlyFans patrons. Night tends to peel away the mask for some.
Thankfully, the next morning arrives. An almost clean slate except for the shadows of the consequences of the previous day’s choices.
Last night, Erika and I heard the onset of what seemed to be a large private fireworks display. We went outside and sat on the deck, the porch light for once temporarily extinguished. Though the trees blocked some of the beautiful array of colors, it was beautiful. The booms echoed relentlessly against the barrier of our l-shaped apartment. We were surprised when we noted that none of the resident’s dogs sang the song of their people against the cacophonous and relentless explosions. It was a large fireworks display that emanated somewhere near the beautiful new houses nestled against the protection of the railroad tracks running parallel to Gregg Street. This morning, because curiosity overwhelmed me, I drove through to see if the remains of the display were still there. They were. A series of carefully placed fireworks boxes still remained on the dead-end street. Someone spent a fortune to provide onlookers with a temporary spectacle. Though people with animals cringe with such displays, for me, it was a beautiful surprise, one up close and personal without the need for travel or discomfort.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 