Let everything happen to you.
Beauty and terror.
Just keep going.
No feeling is final.
-- Rilke
[This post is dedicated to Mark Flanigan]
I finally made it downtown yesterday, for the first time since I've been back in Cincinnati. Although I've been back through town a few times since moving out to Arizona in 2005, I haven't had the opportunity to ride a Cincinnati Metro Bus. When Melissa and I lived here, we only had one car -- at first, a gray, pungent smelling Ford Tempo that we paid entirely too much for -- which put me on foot or on public transit most of the time.
I didn't mind. It takes more time to get around, and sometimes waiting at bus stop without a shelter can be uncomfortable when the weather's not great. And, depending on what part of town I was in, there was a slim chance that I might end up witnessing either a gang related shooting or any number illicit activities. Some parts of Cincinnati, like every other American city, are open air markets for just about anything... except Crystal Meth, which I understand is very difficult to come by... or so says my friend, my comrade, and fellow writer, the Cincinnati wunderkind Mark Flanigan.
(If you haven't read Flanigan, then you need to get off your ass. Seriously. he's the one bright spot in what was once a nearly respectable alternative weekly, City Beat. And since they don't pay him what he's worth, the least you can do is go and read him.)
There have been some changes to the public transit system here. Even though the the dumb asses in charge killed one of the best ideas the city had when it halted the light rail project that would have actually made Cincinnati into something more like a modern city. Bit given that Ohio Governor John Kasich (R) managed to halt the Federally funded rail project that would have connected Cincinnati to Columbus and Cleveland, there's no reason why Cincinnati shouldn't follow suit.
Trying to put a positive spin public transit, though, the city has spend money on more Park and Ride Facilities in the outlying areas. One such place was built near where my mom lives in Anderson Township. And since I feel like I have enough experience to comment on all aspects of public transportation, let me say this:
Damn.
The Anderson Park and Ride is a palace among bus depots. I only hope that I get to sleep in a place as nice as this in my travels.
Because Anderson is out the Burbs, the cost of a ride is more than being downtown. A single zone fair is now $1.75. From Anderson, it's $2.65. The 24 route itself hasn't changed much. It runs from Anderson to Government Square, squirreling through Mount Washington and Mount Lookout. Because I've spent so much time here, the landmarks and the city are wrapped in memory and heaviness. The London Bridge bar in Mount Washington. I went there once with my brother and they accused us of being cops. Lookout Joe's Coffee in Mount Lookout, where Melissa and I would buy coffee beans. (It's the best coffee in the city, no joke.) The VA Hospital, where I taught poetry to out patient recovering addicts. The University of Cincinnati, where I used to work as both a teacher and a tutor. Christ Hospital on Auburn Hill, where my father died.
We were poor here. Very poor. We lived in an apartment in Roselawn, above two storefronts: a hair salon and a Russian Deli that was probably more of a front for low grade porn than a purveyor of fine imported foods. It was next door to a gas station that became a car wash -- owned by those same Russians -- that was likely a laundering operation for the cash earned on the backs the young looking "car wash girls" in bikini tops who would ride off customers for 10-20 minutes and then return. Melissa worked at the Cincinnati Shakespeare Festival. I was teaching part time, which meant I had all kinds of work in the Fall and hardly any in the Fall or Spring.
We were poor, but we were happy too. At least, I remember us being happy. There's something about struggling early on in a marriage that helps bring two people together. In our case, we were poor and we were artists. That meant that not only were we struggling financially, but we were fighting the world, too. The world doesn't understand artists, only the commodified work artists create. And when you live in such a way -- when there's something different at the center of your life other than becoming a better consumer of useless crap and a more conscientious tax payer -- everyone always thinks you're a little crazy.
I've been thinking about that time in my life over the past few days, and I'm wondering if I haven't stayed here too long.
But the leg of my trip, until I get out to Virginia to see Stella, will be a mixture of old friends and a mausoleum of memories. So I don't expect my ruminating to improve any time soon.
I've not been exactly honest -- not that I've been lying, exactly, merely omitting in order to avoid talking about something I'm not sure exactly how to talk about. It's true that the idea for this trip has been brewing in my mind for a long time. I've always been restless by nature -- which has less to do with being a writer and more to do with something in me that's never content to be where I am. Something in me that's not made to fit into a life with an 8-5 job, two weeks vacation, a boss, a hierarchy, and a dream of retirement.
And I think it's probably that -- maybe that more than anything -- that's led me to this place. Not only in a place where I'm traveling, trying to scratch an itch that never seems to be scratched; but in a place where I am walking through the world alone. Again.
If you're reading this and I haven't told you about Melissa and I splitting up, please understand. I made a deliberate choice to limit the amount of information I was putting out in the world... at least until I was out in the world. I'm not sure how two people who have as much in common as Melissa and I do can grow apart the way we have -- especially since we both tried. And tried. And tried. And tried.
There's a point, though, where you run out of energy. You get tired of feeling that odd absence of something that should not be absent.
Cincinnati is one of those places that I can't help but think about every other day I've ever been here. Home is like that, though.
Beauty and terror.
Just keep going.
No feeling is final.
-- Rilke
[This post is dedicated to Mark Flanigan]
I finally made it downtown yesterday, for the first time since I've been back in Cincinnati. Although I've been back through town a few times since moving out to Arizona in 2005, I haven't had the opportunity to ride a Cincinnati Metro Bus. When Melissa and I lived here, we only had one car -- at first, a gray, pungent smelling Ford Tempo that we paid entirely too much for -- which put me on foot or on public transit most of the time.
I didn't mind. It takes more time to get around, and sometimes waiting at bus stop without a shelter can be uncomfortable when the weather's not great. And, depending on what part of town I was in, there was a slim chance that I might end up witnessing either a gang related shooting or any number illicit activities. Some parts of Cincinnati, like every other American city, are open air markets for just about anything... except Crystal Meth, which I understand is very difficult to come by... or so says my friend, my comrade, and fellow writer, the Cincinnati wunderkind Mark Flanigan.
(If you haven't read Flanigan, then you need to get off your ass. Seriously. he's the one bright spot in what was once a nearly respectable alternative weekly, City Beat. And since they don't pay him what he's worth, the least you can do is go and read him.)
There have been some changes to the public transit system here. Even though the the dumb asses in charge killed one of the best ideas the city had when it halted the light rail project that would have actually made Cincinnati into something more like a modern city. Bit given that Ohio Governor John Kasich (R) managed to halt the Federally funded rail project that would have connected Cincinnati to Columbus and Cleveland, there's no reason why Cincinnati shouldn't follow suit.
 |
| (Because public transit, that's just SOCIALISM, plain and simple!) |
Trying to put a positive spin public transit, though, the city has spend money on more Park and Ride Facilities in the outlying areas. One such place was built near where my mom lives in Anderson Township. And since I feel like I have enough experience to comment on all aspects of public transportation, let me say this:
Damn.
The Anderson Park and Ride is a palace among bus depots. I only hope that I get to sleep in a place as nice as this in my travels.
Because Anderson is out the Burbs, the cost of a ride is more than being downtown. A single zone fair is now $1.75. From Anderson, it's $2.65. The 24 route itself hasn't changed much. It runs from Anderson to Government Square, squirreling through Mount Washington and Mount Lookout. Because I've spent so much time here, the landmarks and the city are wrapped in memory and heaviness. The London Bridge bar in Mount Washington. I went there once with my brother and they accused us of being cops. Lookout Joe's Coffee in Mount Lookout, where Melissa and I would buy coffee beans. (It's the best coffee in the city, no joke.) The VA Hospital, where I taught poetry to out patient recovering addicts. The University of Cincinnati, where I used to work as both a teacher and a tutor. Christ Hospital on Auburn Hill, where my father died.
We were poor here. Very poor. We lived in an apartment in Roselawn, above two storefronts: a hair salon and a Russian Deli that was probably more of a front for low grade porn than a purveyor of fine imported foods. It was next door to a gas station that became a car wash -- owned by those same Russians -- that was likely a laundering operation for the cash earned on the backs the young looking "car wash girls" in bikini tops who would ride off customers for 10-20 minutes and then return. Melissa worked at the Cincinnati Shakespeare Festival. I was teaching part time, which meant I had all kinds of work in the Fall and hardly any in the Fall or Spring.
We were poor, but we were happy too. At least, I remember us being happy. There's something about struggling early on in a marriage that helps bring two people together. In our case, we were poor and we were artists. That meant that not only were we struggling financially, but we were fighting the world, too. The world doesn't understand artists, only the commodified work artists create. And when you live in such a way -- when there's something different at the center of your life other than becoming a better consumer of useless crap and a more conscientious tax payer -- everyone always thinks you're a little crazy.
I've been thinking about that time in my life over the past few days, and I'm wondering if I haven't stayed here too long.
But the leg of my trip, until I get out to Virginia to see Stella, will be a mixture of old friends and a mausoleum of memories. So I don't expect my ruminating to improve any time soon.
I've not been exactly honest -- not that I've been lying, exactly, merely omitting in order to avoid talking about something I'm not sure exactly how to talk about. It's true that the idea for this trip has been brewing in my mind for a long time. I've always been restless by nature -- which has less to do with being a writer and more to do with something in me that's never content to be where I am. Something in me that's not made to fit into a life with an 8-5 job, two weeks vacation, a boss, a hierarchy, and a dream of retirement.
And I think it's probably that -- maybe that more than anything -- that's led me to this place. Not only in a place where I'm traveling, trying to scratch an itch that never seems to be scratched; but in a place where I am walking through the world alone. Again.
If you're reading this and I haven't told you about Melissa and I splitting up, please understand. I made a deliberate choice to limit the amount of information I was putting out in the world... at least until I was out in the world. I'm not sure how two people who have as much in common as Melissa and I do can grow apart the way we have -- especially since we both tried. And tried. And tried. And tried.
There's a point, though, where you run out of energy. You get tired of feeling that odd absence of something that should not be absent.
Cincinnati is one of those places that I can't help but think about every other day I've ever been here. Home is like that, though.