Seven or eight birds circle high riding the updrafts in front of the white-gray backdrop of clouds. The cloud cover gives the planes an extra umph, echo, and roar as the they take off. One every two minutes – most certainly FedEx – headquartered here in Memphis. The trees outside, young oaks not more than two stories high, are in early bloom. Their neon lime green leaves shine phosphorescent against the red brick building facade.
This is how early evening descends. Slouched in my camp chair, the one with the canopy that I bought to protect the fair skin of my Irish friend as we attended our fist all-day concert two summers ago. With a beer on the welcome mat beside me (because I never got around to buying a table proper), one of those gray indoor/outdoor mats from IKEA, I sit listening to Michael Kiwanuka and the planes overhead; looking at how the sun casts shadows on the brown stucco of my apartment building. The woman across the courtyard sits and smokes. Earlier in the day she said Nick was cute. He is a lady killer, for sure. If I had to guess, she’s Eastern European, maybe Russian. She has too much patio furniture for a single person, a carryover from a previous life? None of this feels like home. I don’t know any of my neighbors, but by nature, apartments feel temporary, a holding pattern until life reshuffles the deck of cards.
I spent some time in the park with my friend and her three-year-old son. She tells me about the new guy she likes, her son runs around like three-year-olds tend to do. Today he was getting tired and pretty cranky. It’s kinda cute to hear him call my name when he sees me walking down the street to meet them. As we were about to head our separate ways, it started to lightening and rain. When I’m caught in situations like that, a sudden downpour, I adopt a defiantly slow swagger – give in to the moment. So began my slow walk home. That’s when I noticed the trees on my street; and while my street looks nothing like Philadelphia, I thought of the red brick row homes and narrow streets of the Fairmount section that was briefly a home away from home. I haven’t watched it yet, but apparently a creative director filmed the Fairmount neighborhood to show the positivity that exists there – it looks like a touching, feel good tribute… the type of thing that will make me miss that place. (**UPDATE: Just watched and yeah, it’s sweet. look for the dogies peeking out from the windows). Part of the reason I chose to live in downtown Memphis was because I had slowly fallen in love with the vibe and feel of city life (the company in Philly wasn’t bad either).
As I walked with my friend through the park, she asked what was new – we hadn’t hung out for a week or so. I told her I got my first rejection from a journal and how much fun that was. But other than that, I spend my days reading, writing, observing, exercising, applying for jobs. She thinks I’d do well as a kept man. I initially bristled at the thought, but the truth is, without the preoccupations of work and whether or not a relationship is working, my mind has been more free and creative than it has been in a very long time. Even as I went for a four mile run, I was mentally composing something about a field of incredible beauty and historical sadness.
Re-reading Dunn, practicing mindfulness, slowing down… these are things that I was trying to touch on the other day when I was writing about this notion of change vs. stasis vs. rediscovery and the long circuitous route to who I’ve always been. I’ll be working on, but not posting, a number of poems this week. The “book” that was a dedication to my ex-fiancee, B, and was going to be called A Place to Dream seems to be moving towards something else called Learning to Walk Slowly. I’ve reconnected with two poets, both of whom were glad to see that I’ve gotten back in to it and have agreed to give me some feedback.
Briefly, I logged in to LinkedIn. I skimmed an article by the former Marketing Director of United Way Worldwide. I didn’t know she was no longer there. She talks about establishing her routine during the lock down. How she used to work 60 hours a week and now is giving back through marketing volunteer efforts (something I’ve been trying to find). Her article was at times tone-deaf. It would talk about how so many people have become unemployed and yet also mentions that now as she does deep cleaning, she’s hitting the spots the housekeeper missed. I can admire the people who have chosen to learn a new skill, but at the same time, I recognize how foreign that is to me (or at least the motivation behind it). I’ve decided to dive inwards because I really don’t care about making myself more marketable. I can see it now… getting asked the question how did I spend my time during lock down. I read and wrote poetry and practiced becoming observant… also, I gave napping a try, it’s better than I thought it would be. She wrote about how she is her own best brand – the comments echoed that sentiment. I nearly gagged. I get it… in the world of employment, we are marketable commodities, but damn, how dehumanizing is that. And I know it’s supposed to be about self-empowerment – I’ve written once or twice about owning my own story. I just can’t bring myself to do it for the sake of the next gig or self-promotion.
And on that chipper and non-sanctimonious note, I’m gonna head in where I’ll make a sandwich, surf the news and try to figure out what comes next as Sunday evening falls across the city.