Tread Cautiously

Now that I've lulled you all to sleep...it seems like a fine time to slip back into the room. Like a thief in the night, as they say. (The allusionists here might find the reference a bit blasphemous, no?)

Perhaps I'll share the story of a summer haunting. It is Portland. She's ever lurking, draped in gray and green. It doesn't make sense, really. Here I am, running about the town I love deeper than most things in life. The warmth, that blessed warmth -- the very thing, or absence thereof, that kept PDX from taking more of my heart -- is ever with me these days. It's family, and friends, and all the right stretches of road. And yet here comes some sliver of an adventure past, a soft whisper, always at a moment least expected. There are rational explanations, of course. One summer in an office has begat another, so that when the heels on my shoes clack along the sidewalk, I'm brought back to 600 NE Grand. That makes sense, just like all the similarities do -- exchanging one Thai place, one coffee mug, one skyscraper for another. But all the rationality in the world can't take the mystery out of it, nor can it wake me from the daydreams brought on by these sudden flashes of memory. She's with me, ever with me, and I most often feel powerless to stop her. Not that she need be stopped entirely. There's a whole lot of pleasantness in the haunting. But there is also something alarming in it, something that bids caution. And that's not to mention, either, the constant ache. So, I am left with a mysterious season, and it appears she's just not done with me yet. That last thought feels a little too unempowered, and I don't think it's quite accurate. (Sometimes storytelling gets the best of us.) Relationship roles aside, Portland just hasn't seemed to finish yet, even though she technically did nearly a year ago. Thus, a summer haunting...

Glad to be back.

King

I was reading an interview with Lupe Fiasco (pop culture update: He's a music artist), and he was reflecting on his own hypocrisy in attempting to write socially conscious lyrics, all the while enjoying mainstream rap that is misogynistic and violent. We're all paradoxes. And though I suppose the real step is not only in admitting such but moving toward a resolution of the inner-conflict -- of deciding where you'll lay your eyes and heart. But I am often not brave enough, or rather too complacent, to take that step. Instead, it's thoughtful journal entries with degrading rap on the iPod. It's clinging to the conviction that money and power don't make people valuable, but knowing there's a bit of pride at the thought of securing that name-brand job.

The title is a reference to the album King, by T.I. Sometimes you feel like the king; sometimes self-confidence isn't an issue. Sometimes you smile at her just right, or you catch them watching you walk by. Or, you grab that microeconomics final by the neck and wring it silly, 'till it's blue in the face and begging for mercy. And you relent. Because you've won. The trick is in realizing that the rush doesn't make you better, any more deserving of the next breath -- it should only remind that you've got some Wonderful Creator, smiling in the background. I think He enjoys these things. Maybe there's room for a little swagger in your step, so long as it's accompanied by a wry smile. We're so strong and so fragile, all things contradictory. And for the ironic among us, this is one of life's most pleasant realities.

Here's a picture of my favorite place in recent memory. I go there fairly often, when the weather turns sour, or the morning sun glares too unforgivingly.

Never not done nothing

I hope you haven't not been brushing up on your double negatives. This was apparently the message of the delightful, multi-hour federal exam I took today. Look, I'm all for critical reading skills. But, being well-versed in the mind-bending intricacies of double negatives just seems a bit over the top.

That said, the test wasn't all that bad. Some critical reading/logic, some general English skills (grammar, syntax, organization, etc.), and a bizarre 69-question portion with questions like, "How would a supervisor (or teacher) rate your ability to handle stressful situations? a) Superior b) Above Average c) Average d) Below Average e) Deficient? (I can't remember what letter E said -- clearly I didn't choose it too often). The whole time you're just wondering, "Is there a certain way I should be answering these? Is there a right answer? Am I going to be denied a job because I thought it was more prudent to search for information independently rather than in a group?" And so forth...

Regardless, it gave me the opportunity to escape Athens, head in to Atlanta, and enjoy the wonderfully comfortable beds of the Hilton Atlanta Airport. (They made some lofty claims about these beds, and my experience has shown they weren't lying.) It was really quite nice -- dare I say fun -- to get away, appreciate the perks of a nice hotel, etc. Back to the grind now, but the time away turned out less stressful and more personal wellness. Good times, indeed.

.com

First things first, a pair of video demonstrations for you. Courtesy of CBS and an unidentified YouTuber, here's a little taste of what you missed by not being inside Sanford Stadium this past Saturday evening, witnessing the 'Dogs rough up the Auburn Tigers. I can't really express the body-shaking excitement that comes over me -- and apparently the other 93,000 fans inside Sanford -- when, generally during the 3rd quarter with the game searching to find renewed vigor, Soulja Boy's "Crank That" comes pounding through the PA. Somehow, the song -- and the experience of seeing the team and stadium break into unrestricted dance -- has come to symbolize the glory and wonder of being involved with the 2007 UGA football season.





Unfortunately, this Saturday will mark my final game in dear old Sanford, at least for the foreseeable future. No more "Crank That". Excuse me while I sob.

Continuing the multimedia frenzy of this note, here's some pictures from a semi-recent foray into the Smoky (or Smokie, as some would have it) Mountains. Friends. A cabin. Chili and cornbread. A hot tub. All the makings of bliss. (Forgive the lack of words, but I've been reading/writing too much elsewhere these days to have much for you in that department. Photographs suffice for now.)

Valley outside the Oconaluftee Visitor Center area. Valleys are good.

The tide of fall foliage in the Great Smoky Mountains lapping up against our hillside.

Arch Rock, en route to Alum Cave Bluff

Beaver damage.

Final morning's view from our rocking-chaired porch.

The sky does fall.

In case you haven't the luxury -- some would say nuisance -- of 24-hour cable news stations, North Georgia is in the midst of some kind of drought. Lakes Allatoona and Lanier, the primary water sources of the region -- and Atlanta, in particular -- have receded to quite low levels, making for much public concern over possible water restrictions/rationing (lawn watering was banned some months back). Therefore, whenever rain is in the area, it's a highly exciting time. Today is such a day, as a constant drizzle has swept over Athens since early morning. It's not so exciting as the early morning thunderstorms of this past Friday (though it also hasn't soaked my clothes like that storm did -- at 7:00 in the morning on my way to teach, no less.) But still, the sight of any kind of water falling from the sky is a good thing. To celebrate, I'll take two showers today instead of one.

Trying to stave off working on a public budgeting homework assignment. Nothing like some budget-crunching to keep you awake on a rainy afternoon. Of course, that's not true at all -- I want little more than to go to sleep at this very instant, but I've wisely positioned myself in a public area so that there's little chance I get to feeling comfortable/audacious enough to do it.

(And now Norah Jones begins playing over the speakers in Panera, as though they misunderstood my last paragraph and thought I was asking for assistance in getting to sleep.)

The people across from my table are talking about the need to raise taxes a bit in the U.S. (due to our country's massive debt, among other things). They're right about the massive debt, that's for sure. I'll willingly admit that I am surprised to be sitting in Athens, Georgia listening to people discuss the need for a tax hike. Georgia. The South. Tax. Hike.

On Thursday, I'll leave for southwest North Carolina and the Great Smoky Mountains. Just a few days in a not-so-roughing-it cabin, complete with jacuzzi. But some quality hiking inside the Park should go on, in addition to the previously mentioned jacuzzi. Pictures to be taken, no doubt. Fall foliage should be coming in quite nicely.

Speaking of pictures, here's a few more from the trip to Washington, GA. Country roads, friends -- they're what the good life is all about.

My traveling companions.

The valley road (U.S. Route 78).

The country.

Small towns, big houses.

Out in the Country

Good news. I have pictures. I'm going to share them momentarily, but I thought I should let you know of this fortuitous event, as it's not one that seems to come by so often.

Many of my friends are taking a class that has a midterm on Monday. I am not taking this class. They are studying, even as we speak. I am not. These circumstances led to a Saturday with all kinds of free time for me and very little for my beleaguered friends. Not content to take my recently-returned freedom lying down, I decided to venture out into the Georgia countryside for some culture-absorption. The decision came down to heading north/northwest up to Franklin Springs/Royston for the Ty Cobb museum or east/southeast to Washington to see the Robert Toombs house. Interestingly, Cobb was born in a place the Narrows, Georgia, which apparently doesn't exist. That is, there's no place officially called the Narrows. That's just what people knew it as. So, we don't know exactly where Ty Cobb was born. I don't know this from going to the museum though -- I know it from Wikipedia (which we all know is a trustworthy source of information). I chose to head to Washington.

Robert Toombs was, among other distinguishing facts, the Secretary of State for the Confederate States of America (at least initially -- he gave up the post to become a brigadier general for the CSA, fighting at Antietam, which was awesome if only because he got shot in the hand and I got to see the bullet today), mayor of the town of Washington, Georgia, and a proudly "unreconstructed rebel" (refusing to sign the papers for reinstatement of his citizenship status from President Johnson). He also owned what is now a fully restored house, built in 1790 by Dr. Joel Abbott of Connecticut. It's quite a sight, though many of the houses and other buildings in Washington are equally impressive, aged, etc. Maybe that's what's so compelling -- so strange and beautiful -- about Washington. Everything is old. Not like so many towns who have that one historic building. The whole town is historic. So, Mr. Toombs' house is quite impressive. Certainly large, but actually not that big once you're inside. It felt very comfortable. There was an extremely deep "basement" dug near the warming kitchen where baskets of perishables would be lowered to keep them cool -- they say that is stays between 52 and 56 degrees there all year long. All kinds of porches to be admired, and very nice set of grounds, though those weren't so overwhelmingly large either. That's the thing -- this wasn't like plantation-land or anything. Perhaps I'll make it to a real plantation -- the kind with the big manor house and slave quarters and what not -- at some point before I leave this region. But this house had a very nice yard, with a very nice ivy-covered wall, and I was fond of the the entire property.

Washington, the town, is just as picturesque. The architecture marks all the times past -- from late 1700s/early 1800s columns to late 1800s/early 1900s brick. I cannot imagine what it would be like to grow up in a town such as this. And I don't mean that it would be terrible. Quite on the contrary, I think there are probably some things that would be quite wonderful -- things that I may never get to experience should I remain a city-dweller for all my days. A sense of connection to the land; to each street; to each crumbling brick that you pass by every day. It's so easy for us to come into slow country towns and wonder how everything can be so "behind". But I am more and more able to understand why people might be unconcerned with "catching up". We post-modern consumers can get awfully stuck in the rut of progress, as we define it. I'm just saying that maybe we sell the idea short.

They were strange feelings I encountered in Washington. As though all afternoon I took turns swallowing sips of pain and fear, or bewilderment and awe, or contentment and ease, or the burgeoning sense of a world so much smaller than everything I've ever known. I think I could easily get to believing in ghosts in a place like that. There's too much opportunity -- too many creaky floorboards, too many overgrown oaks, too many cracked sidewalks mirroring storefront windows frosted with age. The question, then, is whether or not you could learn to live with the ghosts? Probably, with enough time. And then maybe the place becomes less strange -- less paradoxical and emotionally demanding. Until then, I walk around confused, without peace.

It was the monument in the town square. First and foremost, you really can't ignore the presence of the War. It's just everywhere, inescapable and palpable, equal parts shame and pride. I don't know how people here don't have more identity crises. Saber-wielding, caped hero Generals and the man with the turned-in mouth, worn hat, and dusty skin sitting all Deliverance-like as I drove into and out of town. They're all statues.

So, it was beautiful. Painfully beautiful. Distressing. Fascinating.

On the way home, I stopped at a roadside stand and tried boiled peanuts for the first time. It seems that you take a over-sized pot of water, dump a few kilos of salt into it, and then boil the living daylights out of peanuts. Despite this rather condescending description, they're kind of good. Much better when they're fresh out of the pot, nearly too hot to eat. At the same stand, I also had my first experience with scuppernongs. The scuppernong is like a large, thick-skinned grape (a muscadine to be exact), with strikingly sweet juice and a few large seeds that you can eat or spit out -- the farmer spit his out, as did I. Between the tough skin and excessively sweet innards, I wasn't much a fan and opted for the homegrown/homemade pear jam. Though were I stuck in the country for some reason, I'd gladly down a few scuppernongs. Besides, try to tell me that's not a cool word.

And thus ends the trip to the country. I would like more time next time around, and perhaps a traveling companion or two. And a hammock and a pair of large, shady trees to it between. And a field to walk through. There's lots of those to go around 'round here. And dirt. The red kind. The clay kind. We'll talk about that at another time, but I think my feet were made for that red clay.

The Great Train Wreck

Train wreck. That's really the only way to describe last night's midterm. The class isn't easy, or at least not to my microeconomically-untrained mind. Thought I'd put in enough studying, but I must have missed a few spots, because it got ugly near the end. And that's the reason it can most aptly be termed a train wreck. It was sudden, unexpected, disastrous. To use a different metaphor (or simile to be precise), I was like a young pitcher cruising through the first six innings, only to have the "wheels come off" during an ugly stretch in the seventh. And suddenly, you have an ERA of 42.00, and you're getting booed by the fat guy swilling an $8.00 Miller Lite in the third row behind the dugout. I'm the Rick Ankiel of microeconomics.

I really can't overstate how jarring this test was. I don't tend to get distraught over school. Tired, stressed every now and again, but not distraught. And this is a good thing -- I'm inclined to believe that there's precious little in this world worth getting distraught over. Which is perhaps the reason, then, that my feeling so now is all the more frustrating. At any rate, this forsaken test has stolen my every waking thought since last night, and nothing -- not even this two-dollar latte -- can seem to weaken its grip.

They say adversity is a good thing, right? Unfortunately, a white, middle-class, generally successful student whiffing on a midterm doesn't really qualify as adversity. Maybe it gets filed under "tough luck", "big deal?", or "melodramatic" but not adversity.

Frustrating to feel like a failure. Frustrating to feel inadequate. Frustrating to admit such things over an in-the-long-run inconsequential event.

[this is the part where I'd mutter some obscenity under my breath].