This morning I woke up at five am and didn’t hit the snooze button because I’m trying to quit it - cold turkey. Running through my head were lines from a poem I read a long time ago.
I met this guy James in a poetry workshop during my sophomore year of undergrad. He was one of those incredibly dreamy guys - a couple of years older than me, wore corduroys and carried a worn leather satchel, and when I went over to his apartment to return the copy of Charles Bukowski’s Hostage that he lent me there were a few impossibly cool kids sitting around listening to obscure bands, drinking, and smoking cigarettes. He wrote this poem that I loved. And though I’ve forgotten most of it, and I’m sure at least part of what I remember is wrong, I still love it. It’s been over ten years since I’ve read it, but every time I cross the Walt Whitman Bridge I can’t help but repeat the first two lines in my head. And this morning, while resisting the urge to sleep for ‘just ten more minutes’, not a bridge in sight, there they were.
the cars are riding your spine, Walt Whitman
the cars are riding your spine
isn’t it enough for someone
somewhere to be happy
photo of Walt Whitman Bridge by Dick Swanson
10 January 2004
for M. Stewart’s Jury
I’m not completely clear about the circumstances surrounding this, but I’m fairly certain that my roommate at the time and I were trying to decide who would be Martha Stewart’s peers, and therefore suitable for jury selection. Why was a Polish metrosexual (on) the list? No freakin’ clue. But it was clearly so important that it had to be written down.
Stuff like this reminds me of all the silly things that we used to do to kill time. If I ever find it, I would love to share the “List of Things We Will Never Do” which Aaron and I started sometime in January 2001 when we were stuck for hours at a bus station in Ohio. We took it so seriously. Think about it, if it goes on the list you can never do it. So make sure before writing it down. Right now all I can remember is that one of the first things on the list was “like Creed”. If that one is any indication, we are probably doing pretty well at sticking to our list.
There’s a story about the first time I heard Franklin. It involves a mixed tape, an ex-boyfriend, an arguably crumby studio in an assuredly bad neighborhood, and foul smelling take-out beer from Prince(‘)s Fairmount. One for another time, perhaps, as it’s getting late and my alarm is set for 5:30am (oh dear).