January 2, 2008
Stephen and DJ and I hit the streets early on New Years Day, veering a little south of our usual haunts. The Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist stands out, for its luscious and colorful interior, and the huge Nativity scene that curves around one side of the altar. Mary and the Holy Family are attended by Shepherds and Kings of all qualities, from quite valuable pieces to dime-store plastic, with a heaven studded with descending angels and the rolling landscape of the piece thronged with St Christophers and Lambs of God and St. Francises and Little Flowers; while among them, adoring the Babe, alligators and elephants, dogs, camels, pieces of barnyard sets and fragments of zoo sets, a throng of playful cats near the Presence Itself. Away in the distance, Bethlehem stands in pale adobe lowliness, hung with stars and angels, seemingly birthing new hordes of wonder-struck creatures to cross the bed-sheet plain to the Manger. The little mocker I carry with me thought it was hilarious, but his big brother, the Santa-expecting open-mouthed believer, was struck with wonder. I think if I were an actual child the sight of this Creche might change my life. How is this different from the Eleusian Mysteries, which have nothing but honor in my mind? We think they were holy and solemn because we never saw them. Perhaps they were but toys and bits of tinsel strewn about in such a way as allowed that Spirit in whom Mirth and Holiness are seamlessly conjoined to manifest itself to the believer. In any case, I thought the Saint John the Baptist Nativity Scene profound and beautiful, while being (or perhaps because of being) childish at the same time.
We called the others and drank the afternoon away at McDonoughs bar, and then sat the afternoon and evening away in front of the giant TV, passively swallowing three movies in a row, all uplifting in some juvenile way. We ate again, at the Pirate’s House. So January 1 began in joy and discovery, ended in gluttony, and I suppose it could be worse if the whole year mirrored its first day.
I also had my largely inexplicable laughing mood on me most of the day. It must be a tribulation to all.
When I went outside in the deep of night to be sick, a dozen, at least, large opossums gathered in the dim street lights, attended by three or four cats. I have no idea what I came upon, but it was a strange and beautiful assemblage in the ghost light.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
2009
January 1, 2009
Amy and Bill arrived yesterday evening, so the complement is complete. Everyone faced wreck-related back-ups on 95, which must be going through a bad spell, or is the most accident-prone, rubber-neck inducing stretch on earth.
We hit the former-spinster-mansion museum with the statues in front, the Telfair. Its collection is small but elegant and well-chosen. It was lovely to hear the docent misinform DJ about the history of the Black Prince, whose dynamic image was featured both on the wall and on mouse pads. The paintings linger individually in mind, perhaps because there wasn’t the usual surfeit of them. Rembrandt out front held a mockingbird in his hand. The mockingbird–I swear it–froze when he thought anybody was looking at him, so to appear part of the statue. We rode on the Georgia Queen, a riverboat, which really didn’t have anywhere to go except past some warehouses and towering cargo cranes, and then back again. We did see a falcon arrowing over River Street. I did buy enough pralines to make myself sick, my companions sick, our neighbors on the riverboat sick, and finally to provide a New Year’s surprise to the derelict who sits at the end of our drive.
Also toured of that mansion which is made of tabby and takes Regency symmetry to Homeric lengths– Owen Thomas, I think. I was exhausted by sideboards and carved plaster and went out with the others to sit in the winter sun. The haint blue the slaves painted their portions was the best.
Ate Chinese food before we hit the town seeking New Year’s festivities. Our waitress was Russian and had a hard time with the English language, but was quite beautiful. Bill and I discussed how, except for matters of history, Asheville has it over Savannah in every way. Lovely mayhem at the Town Market before midnight. I was happy there, but Jack wanted to get close to the river, and Leland asked me to lead the way, and I plunged through what I thought would be the easiest passage, but when I turned around, I was quite alone. It was a disturbing moment, and colored the rest of the evening, and the end of a finally disturbing year, for me. I was not frightened to be alone, of course, but I was angry. I felt I had been set up-- which is unlikely, I see now by the not-quite-light-of-day-- but for the rest of the evening I felt I was definitely not among friends. Thinking back on last year, too, I wonder if perhaps the world has formed a habit of handing me something a little dark as a parting gift on the last day of the year. Anyway, I resigned my commission as finder-of-sights, whereby we spent the stroke of midnight in a rather odd bar (odd in the sense of not for us, particularly) and were blocked by buildings from the fireworks. The streets were happy with well-wishers as we wound our way home. When we arrived, our row of houses was suffering a brown-out, which was both lovely (for the soft coppery quality of the light) and unsettling. Moments later all the power went out, for many blocks westward (eastward is the river) and we sat in the dark, discussing our nostalgia for the little light that was. Dark in a place dependent on electricity can be very dark indeed. Lying down in dark and closing your eyes into dark is not a proper transition.
I have not slept well here, and missed my customary afternoon naps. Strangely, I have felt no ill effects, but rather continued to be energized throughout the day. I was indulging myself, thinking that feeling tired meant I should rest, when in fact it means (mostly) it’s time to set out for my next adventure.
Traveling at New Year’s diminishes the urge for introspection, but I will reflect a little before the others awake. 2008 began in Dublin and ended in Savannah. Dad’s death was a major and Anna in Chicago a medium-sized disaster, but beyond that the keel was pretty even, and sometimes danced over the waves a little. I am out of debt and, on a minuscule level, an investor, and I enjoy it. Is that the major life change? Perhaps it is. Between dad’s death and a few weeks ago, I thought life had changed more radically than it had, that I had lost interest (curiously, inexplicably) in what had been the central passion of every day and hour before. Turns out that was not the case, but while I thought it was, I discovered that it would have been all right. I would have gone on, and in time may have recognized my new self. But I’m writing again, painting again, and the moment of either a temptation dangled or an opportunity offered by the world has passed. Age tried the doors of my body for the first time, and I understood how hard I will have to fight to keep it bayed. My face is different from the face I remember. At some moments that is almost too hard, and I look away from the mirror or the photograph. I’m pretty much in control of what can be controlled, and that is about all that reasonably can be asked. My father’s last, bad hours signaled that what I must watch in my own future are wrath, suspicion, paranoia. The old tragedy of longing for what is clearly going to be denied to me by destiny endures, but one understands at length what makes one who one is, and without that longing I would be unrecognizable to myself. Still, if offered. . . If offered I would give in one second all that I have for what I want. I would refuse God’s gifts for the fruit of my own will. God knows I would do this without even a glance behind; thus I am fairly sure that the offer never will be made. It is almost too late to accept without absurdity.
Bright morning along the brown Savannah. The holly trees at the door are dressed for Christmas.
Poem and a folded sheet of on Broughton Street after midnight on New Years: It had been stuck into the rough surface of a power pole for somebody to find:
Good thing we don’t wake
Puntas: result: crying child, broken bottle, no crying
Piggy bank–result crying child broken hammer
Puzzler– can’t solve the puzzle
chimneys– children don’t get presents from Santa
Good thing we don’t wrap presents
Amy and Bill arrived yesterday evening, so the complement is complete. Everyone faced wreck-related back-ups on 95, which must be going through a bad spell, or is the most accident-prone, rubber-neck inducing stretch on earth.
We hit the former-spinster-mansion museum with the statues in front, the Telfair. Its collection is small but elegant and well-chosen. It was lovely to hear the docent misinform DJ about the history of the Black Prince, whose dynamic image was featured both on the wall and on mouse pads. The paintings linger individually in mind, perhaps because there wasn’t the usual surfeit of them. Rembrandt out front held a mockingbird in his hand. The mockingbird–I swear it–froze when he thought anybody was looking at him, so to appear part of the statue. We rode on the Georgia Queen, a riverboat, which really didn’t have anywhere to go except past some warehouses and towering cargo cranes, and then back again. We did see a falcon arrowing over River Street. I did buy enough pralines to make myself sick, my companions sick, our neighbors on the riverboat sick, and finally to provide a New Year’s surprise to the derelict who sits at the end of our drive.
Also toured of that mansion which is made of tabby and takes Regency symmetry to Homeric lengths– Owen Thomas, I think. I was exhausted by sideboards and carved plaster and went out with the others to sit in the winter sun. The haint blue the slaves painted their portions was the best.
Ate Chinese food before we hit the town seeking New Year’s festivities. Our waitress was Russian and had a hard time with the English language, but was quite beautiful. Bill and I discussed how, except for matters of history, Asheville has it over Savannah in every way. Lovely mayhem at the Town Market before midnight. I was happy there, but Jack wanted to get close to the river, and Leland asked me to lead the way, and I plunged through what I thought would be the easiest passage, but when I turned around, I was quite alone. It was a disturbing moment, and colored the rest of the evening, and the end of a finally disturbing year, for me. I was not frightened to be alone, of course, but I was angry. I felt I had been set up-- which is unlikely, I see now by the not-quite-light-of-day-- but for the rest of the evening I felt I was definitely not among friends. Thinking back on last year, too, I wonder if perhaps the world has formed a habit of handing me something a little dark as a parting gift on the last day of the year. Anyway, I resigned my commission as finder-of-sights, whereby we spent the stroke of midnight in a rather odd bar (odd in the sense of not for us, particularly) and were blocked by buildings from the fireworks. The streets were happy with well-wishers as we wound our way home. When we arrived, our row of houses was suffering a brown-out, which was both lovely (for the soft coppery quality of the light) and unsettling. Moments later all the power went out, for many blocks westward (eastward is the river) and we sat in the dark, discussing our nostalgia for the little light that was. Dark in a place dependent on electricity can be very dark indeed. Lying down in dark and closing your eyes into dark is not a proper transition.
I have not slept well here, and missed my customary afternoon naps. Strangely, I have felt no ill effects, but rather continued to be energized throughout the day. I was indulging myself, thinking that feeling tired meant I should rest, when in fact it means (mostly) it’s time to set out for my next adventure.
Traveling at New Year’s diminishes the urge for introspection, but I will reflect a little before the others awake. 2008 began in Dublin and ended in Savannah. Dad’s death was a major and Anna in Chicago a medium-sized disaster, but beyond that the keel was pretty even, and sometimes danced over the waves a little. I am out of debt and, on a minuscule level, an investor, and I enjoy it. Is that the major life change? Perhaps it is. Between dad’s death and a few weeks ago, I thought life had changed more radically than it had, that I had lost interest (curiously, inexplicably) in what had been the central passion of every day and hour before. Turns out that was not the case, but while I thought it was, I discovered that it would have been all right. I would have gone on, and in time may have recognized my new self. But I’m writing again, painting again, and the moment of either a temptation dangled or an opportunity offered by the world has passed. Age tried the doors of my body for the first time, and I understood how hard I will have to fight to keep it bayed. My face is different from the face I remember. At some moments that is almost too hard, and I look away from the mirror or the photograph. I’m pretty much in control of what can be controlled, and that is about all that reasonably can be asked. My father’s last, bad hours signaled that what I must watch in my own future are wrath, suspicion, paranoia. The old tragedy of longing for what is clearly going to be denied to me by destiny endures, but one understands at length what makes one who one is, and without that longing I would be unrecognizable to myself. Still, if offered. . . If offered I would give in one second all that I have for what I want. I would refuse God’s gifts for the fruit of my own will. God knows I would do this without even a glance behind; thus I am fairly sure that the offer never will be made. It is almost too late to accept without absurdity.
Bright morning along the brown Savannah. The holly trees at the door are dressed for Christmas.
Poem and a folded sheet of on Broughton Street after midnight on New Years: It had been stuck into the rough surface of a power pole for somebody to find:
Good thing we don’t wake
Puntas: result: crying child, broken bottle, no crying
Piggy bank–result crying child broken hammer
Puzzler– can’t solve the puzzle
chimneys– children don’t get presents from Santa
Good thing we don’t wrap presents
Savannah 3
December 31, 2008
Full day yesterday, so much so that when I rose this morning I did not take a constitutional, but barely dragged myself to the computer.
Bus tour with the Oglethorpe people, opinionated, amusing, informative. They reminded us 35 times that we were paying $10 and people on the other busses had paid $23. Miss Joan, our guide, began with, “Since you paid for the cheap tour, I’m going to show you cheap sights. Now, to your left is a dumpster. Right beyond that, a ditch.” Miss Joan vilified Yankees and especially General Sherman with understandable bitterness. I know now almost as much about Savannah as I care to at the moment. It is a compact and enjoyable town. Had forgotten the wonderful truth that at first lawyers were forbidden in the Georgia colony.
Walked much and ate little, which suits me, since I caught sight of myself in the store windows, where I thought that belly attached to me must belong to somebody else.
Jepson Center for the arts, with beautiful glass, striking portraits, a striking atrium, and landscapes by a disciple of Romare Bearden that look like me preparing my canvas.
Deep into my customary mode of thinking I should find clubs to join and favorite places to inhabit, and that everyone we meet–such as the tattooed barista at the Ambrosia Café-- is going to be a lifelong friend. DJ and Steve are excellent traveling companions, though it is possible that, if asked, they would tell a different story about me. I am too energetic too early in the morning. Evidently.
Jack and Leland arrived after horrendous delays on 95. We took them to the Pirate House (which turns out to inhabit the oldest building in Georgia) where I finally acquired my hideous pirate skull.
What shall I say to the universe at the passing of the year?
Please, if you can, release the stranglehold you have on my life.
Take care of my father wherever he has gone. I believe he is a child again, and begins this time with health and love. But, of course, I do not know.
Keep me from being the man I fear to be. Lead me to be the man I have not even imagined. What is here is not enough.
Full day yesterday, so much so that when I rose this morning I did not take a constitutional, but barely dragged myself to the computer.
Bus tour with the Oglethorpe people, opinionated, amusing, informative. They reminded us 35 times that we were paying $10 and people on the other busses had paid $23. Miss Joan, our guide, began with, “Since you paid for the cheap tour, I’m going to show you cheap sights. Now, to your left is a dumpster. Right beyond that, a ditch.” Miss Joan vilified Yankees and especially General Sherman with understandable bitterness. I know now almost as much about Savannah as I care to at the moment. It is a compact and enjoyable town. Had forgotten the wonderful truth that at first lawyers were forbidden in the Georgia colony.
Walked much and ate little, which suits me, since I caught sight of myself in the store windows, where I thought that belly attached to me must belong to somebody else.
Jepson Center for the arts, with beautiful glass, striking portraits, a striking atrium, and landscapes by a disciple of Romare Bearden that look like me preparing my canvas.
Deep into my customary mode of thinking I should find clubs to join and favorite places to inhabit, and that everyone we meet–such as the tattooed barista at the Ambrosia Café-- is going to be a lifelong friend. DJ and Steve are excellent traveling companions, though it is possible that, if asked, they would tell a different story about me. I am too energetic too early in the morning. Evidently.
Jack and Leland arrived after horrendous delays on 95. We took them to the Pirate House (which turns out to inhabit the oldest building in Georgia) where I finally acquired my hideous pirate skull.
What shall I say to the universe at the passing of the year?
Please, if you can, release the stranglehold you have on my life.
Take care of my father wherever he has gone. I believe he is a child again, and begins this time with health and love. But, of course, I do not know.
Keep me from being the man I fear to be. Lead me to be the man I have not even imagined. What is here is not enough.
Savannah 2
December 30, 2008
Rose before the sun and hit the streets in my green sweatshirt. I found the River Road but a block away, and followed that into town. The strangeness which blocked the streets yesterday and forced us to guess our way to the condo was an underground explosion which set fires and blacked out whole city blocks. Savannah exploded at our very approach. Police cars with their flashing lights were still barricading intersections and workers were still digging under blazing arrays of illumination at that hour. Bought coffee at the Express café on Barnard. Walked with my coffee as the town was waking, feeling the old and thrice welcome exultation of the new man on the new street, free, flooded with possibilities. I was happy. Whatever I felt of this venture and this town before, I am now joyful, the tingle of the outdoors still thrilling my bones a little. When I reached home, the sun was rising in orange splendor at the end of Broughton Street.
Steve arrived last night, and salvaged the night with his sweet candor. He drank an elaborate drink at The Pirate’s House, and they gave him a mug shaped like a skull, which I covet.
So far to this day I say “Glory.”
Rose before the sun and hit the streets in my green sweatshirt. I found the River Road but a block away, and followed that into town. The strangeness which blocked the streets yesterday and forced us to guess our way to the condo was an underground explosion which set fires and blacked out whole city blocks. Savannah exploded at our very approach. Police cars with their flashing lights were still barricading intersections and workers were still digging under blazing arrays of illumination at that hour. Bought coffee at the Express café on Barnard. Walked with my coffee as the town was waking, feeling the old and thrice welcome exultation of the new man on the new street, free, flooded with possibilities. I was happy. Whatever I felt of this venture and this town before, I am now joyful, the tingle of the outdoors still thrilling my bones a little. When I reached home, the sun was rising in orange splendor at the end of Broughton Street.
Steve arrived last night, and salvaged the night with his sweet candor. He drank an elaborate drink at The Pirate’s House, and they gave him a mug shaped like a skull, which I covet.
So far to this day I say “Glory.”
Savannah
December 29, 2008
East end of Broughton Street, Savannah, Georgia. Long ride through unaccountably tangled traffic on 95. The Pirate’s House is on one side and a deep inlet on the other, with large ships passing through as though they were on the next street over. The TV doesn’t work. We don’t know where to park. No one is here but DJ and I, nor do we have anything but vague promises earlier on to suggest they might be coming. So far I am not having a good time. But we did walk the streets of Savannah at twilight, and a delicious citrus-y perfume came from the homely flowers of a homely shrub, and the live oaks were a knotty firmament. It is December and we’re walking in our T-shirts. If I had not planned this venture and this feel responsible for everything, I might be having a better time. I’ll go walking again and pretend it’s Dublin.
East end of Broughton Street, Savannah, Georgia. Long ride through unaccountably tangled traffic on 95. The Pirate’s House is on one side and a deep inlet on the other, with large ships passing through as though they were on the next street over. The TV doesn’t work. We don’t know where to park. No one is here but DJ and I, nor do we have anything but vague promises earlier on to suggest they might be coming. So far I am not having a good time. But we did walk the streets of Savannah at twilight, and a delicious citrus-y perfume came from the homely flowers of a homely shrub, and the live oaks were a knotty firmament. It is December and we’re walking in our T-shirts. If I had not planned this venture and this feel responsible for everything, I might be having a better time. I’ll go walking again and pretend it’s Dublin.
December 27, 2008
Napped the nap of the dead early in the afternoon, dreaming vivid dreams that were about and encouraged travel.
Dick Salzer phoned and we talked, for a short time, considering it was one of two conversations we’ve had in thirty years. He seems well and at peace. He is near the head of the list of friends I undervalued.
Napped the nap of the dead early in the afternoon, dreaming vivid dreams that were about and encouraged travel.
Dick Salzer phoned and we talked, for a short time, considering it was one of two conversations we’ve had in thirty years. He seems well and at peace. He is near the head of the list of friends I undervalued.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)