After the Pennsylvania trip, I took a roll of 35mm film from 1977 to Walgreens to send through Fujifilm to be developed. The mystery of what might be on it enthralled me. No one working had seen an undeveloped roll of film that old. Walgreen never contacted me so today after work I went to inquire.
I paid almost $10 for the packet. As I walked to the car, fingers crossed, I opened the packet. Inside was a cd without prints. It turns out that the roll of film had been exposed to some sort of radiation that rendered the prints to all look exactly the same. That’s the picture attached to this post.
While the outcome was disappointing, it was worth the time and money, given what COULD have been on the film.
We’ll never know.
But for a while, I was hopeful and excited about the idea of the unknown.
I went to the creek to have an adventure. Still barefooted, I walked over to the swings about 60 yd away I’d express that in meters but this is Arkansas and I don’t wish to cause a riot. A couple of younger boys were at the far end of the swings. I began to really exert force to climb higher and higher. I knew the two boys were watching. They had no choice but to join in. It’s hardwired in our DNA. Within a minute, they matched my height and then exceeded it. “Can’t get any higher,” one of them asked me. Before the ever-elusive common sense caught up with me, I said, “Not legally.” They both laughed. I pulled back hard and laid forward on the chains to slow my forward progress. Without hesitation, I jumped from the seat and landed on the ground. I took a bow. The two boys tried to do the same. Except they didn’t slow their forward momentum. Both tumbled as they hit the ground. “That’s experience,” I told them. “What goes up must come down. It’s like a law of motion or something.” Both boys got back on the swings to make another attempt. I cheated by nodding at them both and scampering off. X
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.
I wasn’t going to write this anecdote. It rose from an extemporaneous encounter that both tickled me and irritated me.
I went to our local large warehouse superstore after work. In part due to the desire to buy some chicken and in part to engage in some frivolity. I parked near the end of the lot as I often do. For no reason, I sprinted up the parking lot. Behind me, I heard an engine revving. Assuming it was a testosterone-deficient display of horsepower, I kept running. After all, someone has to keep OPEC funded, so such blasphemous displays of tacky overkill are important to both the economy and to aftermarket parts stores catering to those who think the epilogue is something people say at a funeral. As I slowed to traverse the crosswalk, a horn blared at me. It was as loud as an angry housewife at 7:30 p.m. on bowling night.
Turning to wave, I saw that the horn emanated from a large pickup truck. The man driving had put his window down. He shouted at me. “Hey, watch where you’re going!”
Confused, I looked down at the crosswalk and then pointed at it. “I always do,” and laughed.
I could see that my humor and my short truthful quip was not pleasing to him. I was still confused. He drove up behind me as I ran and there were no other vehicles crossing the perpendicular plane of the lot adjacent to the store. My a$$hole detector sent off a warning bell in my head.
Time to play.
“You heard me. Are you being smart with me?” His voice rose in intensity.
“I wouldn’t dare. Your wife wouldn’t recognize such an attempt.” I laughed even harder and stood looking directly at him.
“You wouldn’t be laughing if I got out of this truck!”
I wanted to say, “I’m not sure you could, absent the use of a crowbar and can of Crisco,” but I didn’t.
Instead, I said, “I am NOT going back to prison for this!”
His face froze as the words I’d said sank in. “Just be careful of where you’re going!”
“We’ve established this already. Any new business you’d like to discuss?” I definitely laughed my ass off with this remark. I knew I could outrun him. It was doubly obvious I could outsmart him by challenging him to a one-syllable spelling bee. A part of me wanted to take off running to the end of the lot just to see if he’d attempt a chase.
I am pretty sure his wife had told him, “Let’s go” at this point. As y’all know, this is an infinitely ineffective strategy with this sort of esteemed citizen. It’s right up there with “Calm down!”
He gave me the middle finger. Not to keep, of course. He limited himself to showing it to me with considerable enthusiasm.
I did what any red-blooded American guy should do in this situation: I bowed formally. When I raised up, I gave him a big thumbs-down with my right hand.
As I walked down the hill to the bottom lot to leave, I watched a woman fill the little pantry by the bus stop and parking lot. I spoke to her in English. She smiled and said I don’t speak much English. Because of her accent, I switched to Spanish and she lit up. It turns out she is Dominican and her name is Ilca. I made her laugh at least fifteen times as we talked about prejudice and language. What tickled her most was that I introduced her to the American Salute, one I made up extemporaneously. She howled when I demonstrated it to her and explained that it’s the best way to get to know people who are aloof or non-responsive to salutations. The American Salute is comprised of the conflicting body language of a wild wide smile in conjunction with the extension of either middle finger. I explained to her that it separates the people with the good sense of humor and curiosity from people you wouldn’t want to know in the first place. She told me her name was unusual. When I told her mine she was skeptical that I was being honest due to my sense of humor. For whatever reason, when I’m speaking Spanish, my sense of humor escalates while my sense of propriety goes out the proverbial window. I showed her my work badge and it still took her a few seconds to discern that the singular X on the badge was indeed a real name. Times like these make me proud and glad that I speak Spanish; moreover, that I love talking to people. She said she loves the area that she got to know because of her son but that she struggles with the friendliness of people she meets. I recommended that she pretend to be more outgoing and as if everybody might have something interesting to say, ignoring those who brush her off. And that the law of averages would reward her. She still seemed a little hesitant, so I pointed out that since I was the only X she had ever met, it was likely that I might know what I’m talking about.
. . . Earlier in the morning, I went to my car to retrieve an umbrella in case a pop up shower happened by my break. The sky was apocalyptic and dark. It was beautiful. When I opened the trunk of my car to get the umbrella that I had placed there after the trip, I heard a roar behind me. I turned and got to see something I don’t witness very often: the roar emanated from a visible literal wall of rain moving incredibly fast toward me. It hit me like a liquid brick. The wind was probably at least 40 mph and blew me sideways. The rain rendered the umbrella as useless as an open mind in Kentucky. Given that I was already soaked, I walked slowly back up the hill toward work as the wind and rain beat me. I could see the trees bending across the street. As odd as it sounds, it was beautiful and felt amazing. Earlier this morning I wrote about witnessing the smaller rain and lightning be born. The later episode allowed me to see the storm’s genesis. I put on a paper scrub top upon my return to work, even though my shoes were filled with water. I left work for a few minutes, not to change my clothes, but rather to pick up some of the plants at home that had been rendered airborne.
I’m standing on the landing, listening to the distant thunder, with the occasional flash of dim lightning. I left Erika’s apartment early so as not to disturb her. My cat Güino was inside, faintly meowing for a serving of cat juice. After going in and giving him what he craved, I made a cup of coffee and returned to the landing. In the short interim, the lightning had increased in intensity and I could hear soft drops of rain start to fall. My trip to Pennsylvania now seems like a month ago. For a moment, I badly wanted to be back on the quiet nocturnal streets, walking mile after mile. During the trip, I took advantage of both time and energy to do so. I’ll finish my cup of coffee in a moment. I try not to begrudge the necessity of work. Some mornings the streets call my name and doubly so after I wander in a new place, one I’ll likely not see again. I don’t know the word for nascent nostalgia. Love, X .
I left the apartment an hour early on the way to play taxi, my to-do list incomplete. The cold water of the creek was calling my name: “Jackass,” it whispered. The water was lower than I expected, but still cool enough and reaching my knees at one point. I walked down the middle of the creek to get a better view of the rock wall about 50 yards from the water bridge. As I traversed, the sun played hide and seek and changed the colors wildly. I found the water snake in its usual spot on the left side of the bank, coiled in a significantly deeper pool of water near a log. When I snapped the picture of my shadow in a shallow point in the water, I noted the prismatic effect the sun had on the water. The picture doesn’t do it justice. It looked like the sun and the shadows made a tacit agreement to render what I was experiencing in my head. I watched the dancing green and blue until it faded. I finished by giving the tiny minnows the opportunity to nip at my feet on the other side of the water bridge. My to-do list will still be in the apartment upon my return. The snake will remain coiled until the shadows grow longer. And the birds will chirp and sing as countless passersby pass on the trail above. X .
She was standing behind the bushes near the bus stop, her heavy bags piled around her. I startled her because I was using talk to text. I thought she was standing in the shade, waiting on the bus. She thought I was talking to her.
She was probably in her early 30s. She had brilliant white teeth that reminded me of Kip Winger. She had very muscular arms. Not just for a woman.
I apologized for startling her and she laughed. Continuing a little further down the trail, I sat on the transformer next to the trail to watch the birds and squirrels. It’s the time of year when the Russian crow makes his appearance. Though I did not think so the first year, by the second year I knew that he recognized me. He’s not made his appearance yet. When he does, I’ll know. His caw is spectacular and evokes the voice of an old Russian man.
After a minute of sitting there, I watched the bus stop woman laboriously walk past with her heavy bags precariously arranged around her torso. I don’t know where she was going or anything about her. Seeing people like that inevitably provokes curiosity. Though I did not mean to startle her again, I asked her if she needed anything. She laughed and said no, unless I had a wheelbarrow tucked into my back pocket.
I don’t know why I said it, but as she moved past, I told her, “One day you’ll find a place you call home to be happy.” She stopped and looked at me and replied, “Thank you. I’m weary to the bone. And I look forward to that.” And she smiled again, showing her brilliant white teeth.
She kept walking. I realized that the multiple bags she carried probably contained the remnants of her life.
In my apartment above the hallway junction, I have a metal piece of artwork spelling out the word onism. I had it made a few years ago. The word definitely came to me, walking the beautiful streets of houses in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania. I walked mile after mile of the surrounding area, seeing the neighborhoods in a way that even the inhabitants have forgotten to experience. It bemuses me that we visit other places to find newness and beauty and others come to our little corners to do the same. The word onism is supposed to describe the unknowable about the world and our own internal realization that we can’t really know the world. I’ll put a link in the comments to demonstrate the mood the word is supposed to evoke. Most people who watch the video find themselves a little untethered by the realization that there are 197 million square miles to explore and almost 8 billion people living around them.
Because I can’t evoke a word like ‘onism’ without mentioning another, I’ll also put in a link for ‘avenoir.’ It’s impossible to absorb the words without understanding that we seem to live with so many of our priorities backward.
I went to Valley Green (Wissahickon Park) during my trip to Pennsylvania, a nature-filled historical spot. It’s one of Ruth’s favorite spots, anchored by both beautiful and bittersweet memory. Another place I’ve never been to and one I’ll likely not see again. A pop-up thunderstorm cut the visit short. But even the rain brought its own message. We were supposed to go with one purpose in mind, but the mercurial way people are morphed the visit into something else. You have to be okay with that. Because so many things in life are exactly like that. You can plan and set out a blueprint only to find that the happy accidents; hell, even the unhappy ones, sometimes filter glimpses into surprising slices of both people and the world. Though we went with a pre-planned objective, it was one which went unrealized. Admiring history, I found introspection.
I have a couple of pictures of us at the beautiful spot in the valley, canopied by immense trees. The sunlight quickly yielded to darkness and impending rain. We walked along the creek, bemused by the ducks and careful of the cyclists enjoying the incredible nature-wrapped trails cutting through the park. I could spend days there, lost in the old trees and history. Within fifteen minutes of taking the picture of the sky, the storm had rolled in, darkening the valley and rendering the canopy of trees as a noir version of a different place. As we drove away, the storm swayed the trees and dropped little limbs onto us.
I didn’t see the Liberty Bell, the Rocky Statue, or Independence Hall. But I did stand in a history-filled valley, looking up at the trees and the sun which overlook it. Though the person whose life was cut short by squandering his last chances wasn’t there, I was. His absence was supposed to be the catalyst for our visit. He lost track of the essential beauty of being alive and instead focused on the tragedy of life and let it swallow him. Anyone who can’t relish the smallest of moments and appreciate being alive is missing the treasure of present-moment life.
Later in the trip, I had the pleasure of having Rita’s water ice for the first time, thanks to my de facto mother-in-law Ruth. Though the name derives from the creator’s wife and is a nickname for Italian ice, it’s something that we don’t have anywhere. That’s a loss for everyone because it both soothes and stimulates the taste buds. Also, if you’re in Philly, you have to pronounce the word ‘water’ like you’ve bit your tongue: w-u-d-d-e-r. I devoured my allegedly large serving like a zoological gorilla. Yes, I literally drooled at one point, much to the delight of both Ruth and Erika.
It was odd to see that the sun rises earlier on the east coast. I was awake for each sunrise, having already wandered the quiet, dark streets. Twice I was in the heated pool as the sun found its way out, even through the wildfire-fueled haze. Though I’m back to normal life again, I feel a slight sense of irreality, an unused synonym for dreaminess or untethered awareness. I’ve tucked the moments away already, hoping they’ll fail to dissipate as life intrudes further.
Last morning in Pennsylvania. I left a solar bottle on the pool deck for future visitors. Yesterday evening, it dawned on me that I hadn’t given Erika’s mom Ruth her blue solar bottle made especially for her. She will leave with the bottle and a healthy supply of hugs. Though I don’t relish the 1300 miles between here and home, I will remember meeting her for the first time and use that to temper my fatigue. This trip already feels akin to a moment frozen in amber. We came here for one main objective; while Erika and I didn’t participate due to caprice beyond our control, the truth is that I found moments exceeding the planned commemoration. As I’m fond of saying, about all you can do is make a plan and then reluctantly or enthusiastically accept the new adjustments as they arise. If people are involved, you can be certain they’ll come. People are both our salvation and our consternation. Love, X
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 