We’re having performance reviews at work. I can’t decide between baton twirling or interpretive dance.
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“Y’allternative” is one of those awesome words like hick-hop because it conveys exactly what you expect.
“Tie-Boned” is a word I came up with to replace “T-boned.” Instead of an accident, it’s a calamity caused by someone wearing a tie and concealing a hidden agenda. A person with dirty hands and ripped work pants can mess you up once. Someone with a tie can rig the entire system with a smile on their face.
I had a beautiful walk this morning in the stillness of the dark. Sounds carried strangely. It was easy to follow the barrel owl as it moved from block to block. I don’t know if it witnessed the strange flyover around 3:45 a.m.
The moon and the colors were beautiful this morning. Instead of trying for the perfect picture with this little rectangle of magic, I opted for the lowest resolution and the result is damn near a painting.
If fit the mood as I stood outside, temporarily away from duty and obligation.
I couldn’t help but wonder about all the people who will wake up this morning to a new reality, trying to find faces that will become familiar in time.
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.
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.
X
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Driving aimlessly back toward home, I stopped at one of the ponds that’s always beautiful early in the morning.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
I walked barefoot for an hour, meandering. Two little chipmunks came out from some fallen trees to say hello. They were camera shy because they hadn’t had time to go to the beauty salon this week. Deep back into the brush and trees, there were some Northern Parulas. (Sounds like a salad topping.) The males were brilliant green and yellow.
It could not have possibly been more beautiful back there. 65°, sunlight breaking through the trees intermittently, and all manner of birds almost entirely hidden -but singing and chirping like 8-year-old girls at their first church recital.
And I can’t write about it without mentioning how brilliant the colors are again for me. Even the 12 different nuances of green.
The creeks are of course colder than an accountant’s heart but the numbness afterward was refreshing.
Lost in color is the best way to describe my early morning. 1000 birds, all of them singing, and two I had never seen before. Waiting for the sunrise and watching the clouds race over me, revealing blues, purples, and infinite variations between. Even my little car, a half-mile away, looked like it had been forged from the blue of a Caribbean Sea.
I wandered down through a culvert that I probably should have left unattended. Once I reached the creek bottom, at least a dozen gray catbirds chirped a symphony for me. Going through the brush that didn’t want to be penetrated, I ran into Pine and Palm warblers. Yellow looked freakishly novel to me.
Suddenly having crystal clear vision has been a knock in the head. I catch myself staring not only at my prisms with new eyes, but shadows and variations that have been lost to me. And yes, I can see the dirt and dust that inevitably accumulates. But who has time for that? You can dust and de-dust without pause, never reaching the end of it. But you can also go out and wander.
Occasionally, there have been sirens wailing in the background, because where there are people, there is turmoil. Even if you do everything right, that same turmoil will frequent your life at random intervals. It shouldn’t push your eyes and ears away from enjoying the stupidly simple things all around you.
But what do I know? I’m just a guy wandering around with soaked feet and a smile on my face.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 