Voyeurism and the Quest for Good Beer...

Tonight I went out searching for a watering hole. I figured since I was starting to get more serious about writing, I ought to have my spot, my Cheers, my Hemingwayan hot seat. It is more difficult than you might think. My neighborhood is largely Mexican and Brazilian. I have no problem with either, but the music and culture are quite loud and the atmosphere on a Saturday night can be frenetic. Si quiero una fiesta, es buena; pero si quiero tranquilidad, es una problema. I need someplace where I can think. It's a helpful precursor to writing. Well, sometimes.
In Sandy Springs, a neighboring city which has neither sand nor naturally occurring springs, I found a bar called the Ship and Anchor. I had heard of it before, but had never actually been there. It seemed promising at first. A large 5 mast 10' reproduction of a ship encased in glass at the front entrance. A long forking bar at the center of the back wall with roughly 6 people at it, plenty of seats available. Of course the flat screens projecting sports chatter and modern pop radio were slightly invasive, but I understand a place has to stay open. Still, the riveted copper bartop and stained oak paneling did help make it feel a little less contemporary Americana. At least the menu started by extolling the virtue of the British pub and its many beguiling facets, which included fresh pints and stimulating conversation. Technically, I found both, although I didn't actually partake of the latter.
Near my stool, I overheard a couple talking. There was a cadence to their conversation, and a softness to their voices, primarily the gentleman's, which intrigued me. The first thing I heard was them asking the youngish barmaid if Captain Ahab ever came in. Her response was 'I don't know who that is'. Poor thing; I'm sure she doesn't. They went on to criticize the younger generation for it's lack of attention to the finer things, apparently such as incredibly long and meandering novels by the authors of old. They did seem to understand, however, that with things like music videos, cliff notes and (guilty) blogs, we just don't have attention spans like we used to. Heck, I went to the bar intending to work on a story for a musical, and I never got past writing down abject comments which I'm currently translating into this excerpt. I blame MTV. I blame Martha Quinn and Kurt Loder. I blame...no, it's gone.
Regarding the quest for good beer, Ship and Anchor did have a couple favorites of mine, and they were priced at about the average, so I really can't complain there. What I did remember while enjoying the moderately priced ale was that once back in college I was called 'voyeur' by a fellow theatre student at a party. I'm quite certain she didn't mean it in the modern context, where one would likely be referring to some type of sexual deviant or pervert. I think she noticed something about me that I perhaps hadn't quite realized about myself--I am content to watch. Anything, almost. Granted, I do take part in my life now and again, but when you strip away all the relations and responsibilities and, say, dump me in a stool at some random pseudo-authentic bar, I will probably do nothing more than sit quietly and look around at people. Perhaps I'll listen to what they are talking about if I can do it discretely. For example, I was recently at a hockey game hanging out in the 'club' section (the expensive area--I know a guy who works for the team) and saw Owen Wilson standing nearby, chatting with a friend. Now, it would be the impulse of just about anyone to want to stop by and shake his hand; I saw some people doing just that. Maybe just say 'you're great' and run away. At least create a mildly interesting story to tell at the next whatever-it-is-they-do. But I decided not to. Because...I guess because it's just not like me to bother. I even know why he's in town, what film he's shooting. I used to live in Harlem a block from another of his film locations. I have a friend who spoke to him while he was writing 'The Life Aquatic'. I have plenty of things to talk about with him. I just don't.
The word 'voyeur' comes from the French word meaning 'one who sees or inspects'. As a lonely college student desperate for both attention and anonymity, I once thanked a girl for calling me one, giving me a label as if I had thus become a member of the landed gentry. Now, almost 15 years later, I thank her again for her perceptiveness, for helping toss me an insight into myself. If there is one thing I have learned about myself, and also conversely, one gigantic mystery that I simply cannot unravel, it is that I long to be in the darkest, quietest corner of the busiest, most bustling room of wherever I am. But I don't think it ends with mere inspection. It is not enough to just soak up this secondhand kinetic roll off. I have to write about it. Or, it at least needs to inform the material that I am writing about, whether directly or not.
I find myself wanting to answer the pair of intellectuals who sat near me: yes, Ahab is here! I have sailed the weekend waters of small middle-class America searching for a fertile seabed where my target may be dwelling, only to find that it has always been there just beneath my keel, perhaps waiting for me to peer down into the depths before ramming at the hull. For it is the need to write which is my white whale--my ancient and overgrown sense of dread and adventure, future and fate. And, as long as I remain aware of its intimate presence, I shall stab repeatedly at it with my inkheavy harpoon until one or both of us are pulled into shiny uncertainty forever, leaving nothing but a trail of mixed lifebloods and empty tankards to tell the story.

Taking Stock of Myself...

I received a most interesting phone message the other day. An old friend is apparently starting up a company which does team building through improvisation as well as corporate murder mystery events. I would be a backup in case he or his partner were unavailable to attend a particular job. The pay is very good for just a few short hours of work, they anticipate. This is actually something I have experience with. I did improv in NYC for several years, and periodically was a part of the murder mystery set while in college. Honestly, for years this is exactly the kind of phone call I always hoped to get. Easy money, time in the spotlight, start-up company, room to grow. My response? Not interested.
I'm learning an awful lot about myself these days. I don't know if age is setting in, or if I simply have the acting bug out of my system, but I just don't want any more work. I don't want stage work. I don't want regular job work. I just want to sit and drink coffee (before noon) or beer (after noon) and write. Now, admittedly, I rather like my 'day job', serving fresh food to the locals in one of the more posh (or so in considers itself) neighborhoods of North metro Atlanta. I have 4 shifts, 5 if I'm covering for my wife as I am now. This might seem like a standard work load, but it's honestly the least amount of hours I've worked since I was first hired by McDonald's my senior year of high school. And I am fine with it. Part of me feels selfish, like I'm walling myself in on purpose, not extending myself to help out where I normally would. Part of me, the poor whelp from the great white North, is sickly fascinated and even remotely horrified at the amount of lucrative offers I have turned down lately. For so many years, I became conditioned to take any job that came along, even if I had to shoehorn it in among 2 or 3 others. Bills don't pay themselves, I might have said through my actions. It is not an unfounded concern, given my life. Shortly after I left Michigan, so did the last of the GM plants. Shortly after arriving in NYC, the towers fell. Shortly after relocating to Atlanta, the economy bottomed out. I'm not glib and neurotic enough to blame myself for these disasters, but I have developed a severe 'get it while it's dangling there' mentality. At least, I though I had. Perhaps I just feel confident for once that the work I have is steady and secure and sufficient to cover my needs. Even writing these words feels odd to me. Could this be the surmising be something like akin to those of the fabled 'other half'? Only time will tell, I suppose. For now, this workhorse is finding new found contentment in simply hitting the hay.

Chasing Away the Serpent of Youth...

I was at World Market today to purchase a basket. I have things that I want to keep all in one place, and a basket seemed like as good a way as any to do it. In the checkout line, the girl noticed me signing my name for the credit transaction. She mentioned how she, too, was a lefty, and went on to talk about how difficult writing on the blackboard was during grade school. I appreciated this, as my own 45 degree ascending script had earned me a lot of juvenile chiding, plus a fair share of disapproval from my teachers. I thought, I'm grateful this little credit machine is not bolted to the counter top, as I would have had to climb up onto the checkout structure in order to position myself to competently sign my name. This could have been perceived as threatening for the attendant, even with the established common ground between us.
I suppose I bring that up because it made me start thinking about how happy I am to be an adult. First off, I can go to overpriced franchised bazaars and make silly purchases like I did tonight. Furthermore, I can use the basket in any manner I choose, recklessly if I desire, because my money (or credit, if we're being fair) paid for it. I drove home in an automobile that I have paid for as well (credit no more), but I didn't have to. I could have kept driving, perhaps to a late night diner. I could order coffee and bacon at midnight if I like. Today was St. Patrick's Day, and I went to a pub and drank. I wore my grandfathers green cardigan and partied like I was 19 and worked in the mines. I just finished reading a zombie short story and eating an ice cream treat. These might seem like insignificant things, but bear with.
For my part, leaving childhood meant leaving behind all the things I loathe about the human condition--ignorance, vulnerability, being at the mercy of powers you can neither grasp nor control, the fear of error, the dread of punishment, the steady and rhythmic drumbeat of disappointment. Now, in all fairness, no one counted among the 'adults' of the world is immune to all of these. However, there are certain magical elixirs that help to manage even the worst of the former hobgoblins--wisdom, understanding, responsibility, perspective. These are certainly not stocked in every bar, and I can't claim to tip them all at just the right times, but somewhere between the sinister closet of youth and the wide and colorful plain of adulthood, I was allowed to taste of these libations, and as the poet says, it has made all the difference. Some lament the passing of childhood, comparing it to the death of hope and dreams and all things innocent. For me, the freedom of seeing the world for what it really is and being secure of myself in its midst is far greater than any cauldron of coin at the end of a rainbow or wish granted from the plucked hair of a littlemans beard. Speaking of, I'm off to bed, and I will not be shaving first...

Lingering in the mist...

There is a wonderful reference in the Bible to our lives being a mist, a breath, here today and gone tomorrow. Why make plans? Why say 'we'll do this or that'? It's offered in such a way as to make us realize that someone, something greater, holds all the cards, and this is not a player that has a tell. It means to tell us not to be arrogant, as if our lives were ours to control, manipulate, and fashion to our liking. It means to tell us that today is a gift, and that our hearts should be grateful to have lived it to its close.
This has been a terribly emotional couple of weeks. 12 days ago I found out my wife was offered a job doing a musical in Florida, over 10 hours away by car, one that would keep her away just over 6 weeks. No huge deal. We've done this before. It's a lot of pressure to put things in order, then a lot of absence making the heart grow fonder to follow. 6 days ago, I found out my wife was pregnant, something we have been trying to make happen for going on a year now, but only now had found any success in. 4 days ago, my wife went to the doctor, fearing she was losing the child. It could of course be the over reactive concerns of a first time mommy-to-be, but a lot of bleeding while pregnant is generally not a good sign. 12 hours from now, she is scheduled to receive the results of a blood test that will (hopefully) indicate conclusively that she is either still pregnant, or not at all.
I have to admit, I'm not accustomed to experiencing a great deal of emotion. It's not common, nor is it particularly comfortable for me. What I realized this past week was that my reaction to extremes such as these is a total shutdown. Perhaps a shutdown followed by a reboot, but if we follow the example of my home PC, it's not as quick a process as one might think. Best to go about ones business and not watch the clock. So, I've been trying to go about my business, waiting for some answers, but also dreading that the answers might not be the ones I want. It may seem small in the grand scheme of time and such, but for 2 days, I finally got to be a father. Then doubt and fear flooded back in again and I felt loss. Even if there really is no loss, and 8 or so months from now, new life awakens in the real world, the fragility of life, the thinness of it, fell across me like a web in a forest. In the morning, I will get an answer to a fairly big question. It will either deeply disappoint me, or fill me with another small breath of excitement, the inevitable exhalation of which will surely bring about another drawn chasm of doubt and fear. I get it. I can follow the patterns. A mist is by definition something that 'dims, obscures, or blurs'. Life, at some point or another, does all three. Still, I'm lingering, hoping to find that another will be lingering here with me soon...

His story repeats itself...

In 5 days, my wife leaves for Florida. She has taken a job in a production near Ft. Myers which will keep her abroad for just over 6 weeks. This is the same theater she worked at about one year and a half ago, so it is familiar ground, both to her and to me. One of her biggest concerns with leaving is that I tend to become 'distant' after being by myself for long periods of time. [Anyone who knew me as a child can probably attest to the fact that, when in my head, I'm not really anywhere else, regardless of who else is around]. One of my biggest concerns with her leaving is that I don't really have any big concerns. On the surface, this is not such a bad thing. I'm playing the role of supportive husband, sending her off to be famous in another small pocket of the world. Truth is, I really do want to be supportive. Aside from writing, I experience little deep pleasure in this world. For her, the only true pleasure is performing. How could I knowingly stifle that? I think the issue is that I take her leaving as an opportunity to be selfish, to not connect, to micromanage my home and my life in a way that simply cannot be done while another warm body is present. That's probably not so ideal. But, we've discussed it. She knows me. Better, as they say, than I know myself. Or at least than I am willing to concede I do. So, we shall work it out. I'll call her, call friends, be the initiator of contact. The alternative is not so pretty. One week to myself and I become HAL 9000. 6+ weeks and...they haven't really made a movie about that yet.
As a final thought, I will mention that I was finally able to get into the Olympics a bit. Like any contest you follow, you tend to find people or at least qualities in people that you root for. This I was able to do. I still don't get curling, though. I'm told it's a game of strategy, where you must think ahead about 5 moves. I understand such things--I was a chess club kid in high school. Surprise. So, maybe in four years, as athletes compete in the former Soviet Union (where I hope the masturbatory anthem will be shortened, for the love of St. Petersburg), I may just find myself addicted to a new sport, instead of perpetually taking it for granite...