Dickson Street is a ghost town early in the morning, after all the night zombies make their exodus. I love the experience of seeing and hearing things when the world is silent. It’s a little warmer this morning but the wind puffs and reminds me that it’s still cold. The crescent moon hangs in the southern sky.
At one point in my walk, the thunder of distant sirens wailed for a bit. It was a strained metaphor for the wild and uncertain world spanning out around me. Beauty and horror are constant companions.
We’re all visitors here, no matter where we call home. Just because we have decades to call a place our home, it doesn’t conceal or deny the fact that impermanency is our master. Yet we keep arguing and fighting, as if our efforts are more than personally significant milestones.
I can’t walk around deserted towns without being introspective. It feels like there’s an elusive revelation just around the corner each time I do it.
‘Cheer up, Ed. This is not goodbye. It’s just I won’t ever see you again.’ – Frank Drebin…
Yesterday was a day of rain and piling clouds. I took a long walk before it started. Later, we walked along the beach looking for shells a couple of times until the rain started. Erika has covid; early Monday I tested negative but my congestion said otherwise.
We watched the first 15 episodes of the nostalgic TV show The Waltons. We also watched the storms through the huge wall length windows next to us.
This morning I got up too early and decided to get dressed and take a long walk immediately, even before I had a cup of coffee. One of the visiting neighbors nearby set off his car alarm at least ten times. I doubt the late night vacationers appreciated the 2:00 a.m. wake up calls. (Except for the sadomasochists, of course.)
Tomorrow morning it will be 20° cooler. A reminder that the warmer weather has been a privilege.
I woke up the roosters and was out of the hotel room within 10 minutes, after dressing in the mostly dark room. For reasons I can’t remember, it seemed important to get dressed before going out.
Magee, Mississippi gave me the opportunity to be a stranger in a strange land. It’s one of my favorite things. To wander the dark roads and streets of places I’ve never been and will likely never be again.
With luck, the ocean will be in sight later today. I don’t think I’ve returned since my last visit somewhere around 25 years ago. I’ve lived a couple of lifetimes since. I love the big moments and the epic sights. Who wouldn’t? I still feel like the stolen moments and carved out spontaneous experiences make up the bulk of our lives.
With the exception of the main highway, I owned all the streets this morning. Not a single car passed me. The main highway of course is dotted with people in a hurry to get somewhere else, even at 4:00 in the morning.
I’ll be one of them later.
I grabbed a cup of coffee on the way out of the hotel lobby prior to my long walk. I’ll bet a million dollars that the cup I get when I go back in will taste immeasurably better.
It will be the same coffee. But I’ll be a little different.
I went out into the woods early here in the hollers of Bella Vista. Though I was watchful, I didn’t see the deer until they ran and crashed away. The thick mass of leaves made surreptitious approach impossible. I saw one large buck. I was 15 feet from them. As I stood hanging another cup in the trees, I could hear a buck snorting. Above, hawks were already swooping and prowling the early overcast morning. Carolina chickadees, a solitary woodpecker, robins, fish crows, and other birds around me sang and pecked, ignoring the cold. It was both a lemon moments and stolen one.
Just me in the trees, surrounded.
It was a beautiful moment. I thought of one of my favorite quotes, “You can’t take a picture of this, it’s already gone.” I felt a pang of aloneness, just as I had yesterday when I went down and snapped a picture of last visit’s cup.
I whispered, “Tomorrow.” There isn’t one. Only now.
Social media can be deceptive. Even convicted rapists can you use it as if everyone in the world doesn’t know their past. When you’re aware that people can remain at large in society after being found guilty of heinous behavior, it makes you cynical and paranoid. Most of us would be more comfortable being surrounded by people who’ve robbed banks. It’s not targeted and does not engage the primal fear of helplessness that personal crime does.
Eric Osborne’s blitheness on social media can’t be chalked up to obliviousness. By the point multiple people have accused you of criminal behavior, most people’s veneer of innocence dissipates. This is doubly true if you are convicted of such behavior, as is the case of our Canadian friend Eric Osborne. What creates frustration for his victims is that he’s engaging with the world, one which is largely unaware of his path of endangering women.
What’s different in the Canadian criminal system is that even victims can be subject to an injurious and nonsensical publication ban. This hinders a victim’s right to expression – a hindrance not placed upon the accused. People who have been subject to stalking, harassment, or physical harm can’t talk about the person who committed the acts. This endangers those who are exposed to the person accused of such crimes.
Eric Osborne uses his social media and internet presence to obfuscate how he has terrorized women. It’s no longer a question of opinion or he-said-she-said. Either he’s delusional and detached from the reality that he’s experienced in the criminal justice system, or he Is something else entirely. The woman who experienced him at his worst has several names for this kind of man. “Convicted” carries more weight than “accused.” That he pled guilty to charges relating to violence against women should be more than ample grounds for the Canadian justice system to act accordingly.
Southern Justice, unfortunately, isn’t an approved export.
The ongoing frustration is that he’s out of incarceration temporarily. His presence among us in free society presents of clear and present danger to those he has victimized. He’s out on a technical appeal, even though he pled guilty to similar charges against several other women. This type of insanity is part of the reason why victims become doubly victimized; first by their perpetrator and secondly by the system that allegedly protects them.
One of his very recent posts refers to people gossiping about him. I’m curious as to whether he counts the crown or the prosecution as guilty of gossip. Technically they did gossip when they arrested and then incarcerated him for crimes against women.
I will leave it to all of those curious to Google Eric Osborne and research it for themselves. He resides in Canada. It shouldn’t be difficult for anyone to find a trail of how he’s behaved and whose lives he ruined. Don’t forget to include marital and divorce records if you take a dive. Search for blogs and archives that might make mention of him.
People like him thrive in secrecy. Canada should bow its head in shame at forcing women to remain silent at any point in their experiences. And another prolonged bow for exposing its citizenry to someone who has clearly demonstrated that he’s not yet fit to be roaming the streets among civilized people. Eric is highly intelligent and adept at hiding in plain sight; this chameleon identity is what made him so successful when he chose to victimize women.
Waking up in a strange place, drinking a cup of bitter coffee, walking the unknown pre-sunrise streets, feeling the warm breeze blow across the small man-made lake, standing in a pool watching the sun feebly start its ascent, taking sips of a second cup waiting for me on the pool edge… sublime delights owed to my predilection for less sleep. Lemon moments stolen from the day. Sunday morning, I walked all the streets around the Bentonville airport. Several things reminded me of what James Cameron might include in the moments immediately before an approaching apocalypse. The effect was amplified because of diffused lights, some of which were unusual hues, especially so with violet and soft reds. There were no moving cars during the entirety of my circuits through those streets. The effect was amplified because I had watched an anomalous object in the sky for a few minutes. The flat topography provided an immense view of the sky. I looped around back to highway 71 and walked the middle of the lane. It’s fascinating walking it absent traffic. Monday morning, I walked a longer different route that ended immediately before the sunrise. I stood and watched the open sky, expansive above me, with the reflection of the lake glittering darkly. When the true sunrise started, I continued my custom of hanging a cup in a tree.
This place wasn’t as complicated or eccentric as most. But the simplicity was relaxing and beautiful. It’s hard to complain about life when there is a pool to submerge one’s toes and worries. It was amazing to get up early and instead of focusing all of my energy on work, I was able to just walk with no intentions.
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.
This is another word that fell out of usage. It literally means yesterday evening. It uses the same bastardization that Halloween derives from. It doesn’t have the same poetic fluidity that overmorrow does, which is one of my favorite words. The word evokes the name of a strange pharmaceutical, probably one invented to combat the effects of constipation. Judging by many of the faces I see, it’s likely that a lot of y’all need it.
Yestereve, of course, means last night. Yesternight is another synonym.
I was in the pool by 4 a.m. When I climbed out of the pool into the chilly air, I briefly turned on the strings of Edison lights to watch them sparkle. It wasn’t quite as beautiful as the lightning storm I witnessed yesterday. But with the moon peeking through the branches of the huge tree overhanging the fence, the odd mixture of clouds passing overhead, and the subtle birdsong melodiously echoing, it was beautiful in its own way.
It reminded me of the joke about the chicken crossing the road. To which the answer is: why does everyone question the chicken’s motives.
I’m in Springdale at a beautiful Airbnb. Erika found it, of course. It’s a large beautiful house on Tara Street. My favorite part are the hidden Narnia rooms upstairs. I’ve been walking the streets since 3:30. The sky is flashing and rolling with lightning. Though no rain had reached me yet, the crackling of thunder occasionally surprises me. It’s gorgeous out on the wide expanse of Don Tyson parkway with almost no traffic. It’s as if all of it coalesced just for my private enjoyment. It’s definitely a stolen moment, one impossible to plan. The rain started at 4: 43. I made it back to the house a few minutes later. One of the best people at work, Carlos, brought delicious dark coffee back from his trip to El Salvador. It’s brewing now. If you’re a coffee lover, I probably don’t need to describe how delicious it smells as it’s burning. As is the case with these moments, I wish time would stand still for a few hours. Love, X
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 