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All posts tagged 792

good evening, richmond

Posted by EXIT265C on April 12, 2010
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For some odd reason, I’ve only sat outside once since I’ve moved to this house, I haven’t lived anywhere with a front porch since 2001 and I’ve forgotten how awesome Virginia evenings are. And I hadn’t realized how different evenings in Richmond are compared to Hampton. …

As I strained my eyes to read Umberto Eco’s “Foucault’s Pendulum” while sitting on the stairs out front, two old men held a conversation at the corner in front of the storefront Pentecostal church where the choir practiced one song:
the bass line looped and occasional snippets of a refrain about the blood of the Lamb broke free from the walls as city bus brakes screeched and the sound of the brass band of another church several blocks away wafted down the street, the tuba further proving properties of low frequencies of sound while a distant but not as distant dog barked and crickets chirped and bicycles clanked and shadows deepened atop Chimborazo.
Good Evening, Richmond.

1195

Posted by EXIT265C on October 19, 2009
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At one point, I broke away from the group on the boardwalk and headed over the dunes. After a few steps, I could hear the crash of the Atlantic Ocean to my left. To my right, Atlantic City was out of an earshot but it gleamed in its artificial day. Below me, the rain from earlier bound the sand, making it soft but firm underfoot. The wind whipped furiously, making me wish I not only had my hat but also my scarf.

I looked out at the glittering city. Inside those buildings, countless people were trying their luck and who knows what else. I tried mine the night before because I couldn’t spend a weekend near the city and not go and not play despite my thoughts about the concept of Atlantic City. I won seven dollars after putting down five. I don’t see what people see in the whole gambling thing.

I headed down the blustery beach a bit, keeping the night to my left and the opposite of night to my right. I took pictures with my cell phone. I forgot to bring my real camera.

We came originally to do official fraternity business. I picked this chapter because I’ve never been there. It’s a brother’s birthday so we invited him along to show him a good time in Atlantic City. I quickly discovered I’m incompatible with this city but I refused to be the downer on this trip, especially when we invited someone along for his birthday.

As I walked, I thought about why I was there on the beach of Atlantic City, N.J. I didn’t want to be there but I can at least say I was there. You can’t knock it till you try it. As I breathed in the salt air, I concluded I could return but I would as a nontraditional tourist. I would do what I was doing. Walk the boardwalk. Take pictures. Not go into the casinos. It would drive anyone I was with batty. I would have to do that trip alone. I’d go to Asbury Park as well. I’ve been interested in finding my great aunts’ families. I don’t want anything from them; I want to know they exist. Somewhere.

I headed back over the dunes and returned to the Boardwalk. My grandmother used to travel to Atlantic City often, I guess to visit my great aunts. From her stories, she fit into being in her under 40 post prohibition perfectly: she smoked cigars, she drank, she gambled. She traveled a lot for the era. She obviously had a ball. My grandfather was very contemplative, wrote often and owned many books. I know whose grandchild I am.

I stopped at a great stone edifice on the boardwalk. Inscribed on it was &#8220A permanent monument conceived as a tribute to the ideals of Atlantic City built by its citizens and dedicated to recreation, social progress and industrial achievements.&#8221 A Trump resort loomed next door.

I got a call. It was time to rejoin the group and head off into the night. There were drinks and stories to be had. And boy were there.

falling man

Posted by EXIT265C on July 5, 2009
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I awoke to silence. My playlist had stopped well before my waking because I started its 10 hours of music well before my sleeping. I sat there without music for a bit because I realized last week that half, whole and quarter notes; naturals, sharps and flats; tuplets, chords and rest unceasingly invade my brain and I need to listen to the world again.

I awoke to greyness: through my open bedside window I could perceive the hint of light raindrops, the tweets of drenched birds and the distant but present roar of the James River reaching for sea level by any means necessary.

I awoke to the last day of a three-day weekend, a weekend I somewhat wasted because there was so much I could have done but did not. It’s been that way since my fall that disrupted things, disrupted my adjustment and discovery of this city.

I awoke to no pain except for the reminder when I touch where my nose transitions into forehead. I can now eat a sandwich and, at times, I forget that my incisors aren’t there. Soon, I will have incisors that I paid for. And will have to keep in a cup of cleaning solution at night like someone three times my age.

I’ll see that cup often because of my post-fall retreat into my bedroom. I spent two weeks here, swollen and oozing, staring at the ceiling, wondering how in the hell deciding to ride a bike instead of getting drunk led to a gash in my forehead, no skin on my cheek and five less teeth.

Although I went back to work quickly, I didn’t want to be out in public, I didn’t want to explain what happened over and over. So I stayed in my room. One Saturday morning, I played nothing but organ music from the Gothic age in hopes of prodding myself to the ground floor and out the front door.

Recently, I’ve gone outside, hung out with friends and gone to bars but I’m still here in this room. I hate it. At this point, I look fine as long as I don’t smile (a simple expression I am finally regaining the ability to do) but I just don’t want to go out there for some reason although I do.

At least I went for a walk yesterday. At least, Friday, I held a conversation with someone who didn’t even notice anything until I brought up telling my mom about hurting myself the weekend after my birthday.

I guess I’ve been afraid of the people who wouldn’t ask what happened, who would draw their own conclusions as to why I looked the way I did &#8212 a fight, poor dental hygiene and an unfortunate birthmark, the result of illegal dealings, someone not caring how but just commenting on my lack of two front teeth. I guess that was it. I don’t know.

The urge to return outside has returned, though. I am nearly picking up where I left off May 30. The only problem is that it is a grey, rainy day and I put off doing work since Thursday afternoon. So here I sit: procrastinating, preparing to write and still learning how to fall.

I awoke with the resolve to leave the confines of this portion of the former home of Harold Z. Bush more than just to venture into the bathroom or the kitchen because I need to. I didn’t move to Richmond to only see what can be seen out of the windows of my room and my car. I came here for the culture, the experience, the sights and &#8212 once I turn off these speakers &#8212 the sounds.

When you fall off your bike, you have to get back on again. Unless someone steals it when you’re in the emergency room so you have to buy another one and get back on again.

But I digress.

because I should be asleep

Posted by EXIT265C on May 27, 2009
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Today, the skies were heavily laden like a man who had lived a hard life. The moisture was frozen in place; whatever triggered rain did not come. This veil shrouded the skyline, transforming the city into an illusion in a verdant frame from my angle of approach.

I returned home through downtown and Riverside Drive, that woods-shaded promenade along but hidden from the James River that strips Richmond of its urban aspects in the dead center of town.

It was after 8 p.m. in a rapidly-approaching Virginia summer. The streetlights were on but it was still bright enough to see without headlights, bright enough for countless children to protest the call to come inside as I once did.

The perfume of forest wafted through my open windows and sent me home.

Most people who know me would not think of me as an outdoorsy person until I answer my phone or respond to a text with a fleeting statement of being in the woods. My childhood involved woods not unlike those paralleling the banks James. Only flatter.

My neighborhood was never completed. A paper street runs behind my mother’s home. What was once a schoolyard gives way to trees, vines, snakes, footpaths and adventure. Without fail, the summer Siren would beckon from the leaf-shaded recesses and conjure thoughts of what could possibly be there. To this day, I’m surprised we never got lost although we would sometimes be surprised by where we would end up once we exited.

As kids, trees that would tower over a grown man looked even more intimidating in those groves and thickets. I can clearly remember a tree so massive that it seemed eerily unnatural in the silence only pieced by us little boys as we slowly marched toward middle school, shakily trying out curse words as we walked along.

It is growing close to 20 years since those days were yesterday. Already it seems like another time, another place, another world, another human being. It is to the point that I sometimes forget, sometimes wonder what possessed me to wander through that park’s trail, to see what was down the lightly-trampled path over there.

Then I smell the honeysuckle and the southern earth and notice the drop in the humidity in the thick shade and the deafening silence and feel the summer breeze and the annoying insects and see the leaves and vines and bark and taste the sweat dripping down my face and wonder if my red Huffy is where I left it in the bushes at the end of West Avenue and where everyone else is before I realize I am there because that was me and the present landscape I’m drinking in indeed is my
past.

a shameless plug

Posted by EXIT265C on February 1, 2009
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I think the only band I’ve seen play more than once is the NO BS! Brass Band; I’ve seen them five times since its inception. The reason I’ve seen them so much is partially because one of my friends from back in middle school, Reggie Pace, is one of the founders. As we went through middle and high school together, we discovered we like a lot of the same music so of course his band does nothing but make music I like.

Last night was the continuation of their &#8220Alive in Richmond&#8221 CD release party and, since I inexplicably still live in Hampton although I work in the metro Richmond area and have for the past three years, I headed to the Taphouse in Norfolk to hear them play. They announced that they were going to play the album all the way through; it made my week.

I got the album roughly a month before the official release, a week after I officially put in my two weeks’ notice at my old job in Petersburg. It’s been a constant fixture in my car and my computer since then. I’ve played the last movement of &#8220The Ballad of the Eagle Claw&#8221 75 times so far on my computer so I average playing it twice a day on my computer alone. I can get obsessive about songs. I’ve played one Astor Piazzolla song nearly 5,000 times since December 2006, when I got my current laptop.

I stood at the corner of the smoky bar drinking an Aventinus then a Killians and then a Framboise Lambic with two of my fraternity brothers. I had a great view of the 11-piece behemoth whose mass of trombones, trumpets, a saxophone, a tuba, drums and a gong barely fit on the stage. By the time the opening notes of &#8220Landmines&#8221 rolled in didgeridoo-like as a trombone bell engulfed a microphone, I had stopped talking to them. I sung along to &#8220Ain’t Even Gonna Call Ya,&#8221 &#8220Jackpot!&#8221 and &#8220Bitch iz Beast.&#8221 I hummed along to &#8220Lando,&#8221 &#8220Juniper&#8221 and everything else.

They broke the performance into two sets. After their rendition of &#8220Tom Sawyer&#8221 by Rush, they took a break. One of my brothers had to get up in the morning and another wanted to see how good/bad a party was. I had said in the e-mail I sent out inviting people that I was going to the concert and not the party. Since they were playing the album in order, I wasn’t leaving until I heard the gong marking the beginning and then all of Eagle Claw.

Eagle Claw is a homage to the 1978 martial arts film &#8220Five Deadly Venoms.&#8221 The nearly 20-minute opus, written by Reggie, is divided into three movements by three duels between him on the trombone and the drummer, Lance Koehler. Any poorly-dubbed and -edited martial arts film fan would wonder from which movie he has managed not to see those notes came.

Last night, the continuity between the entire piece was further cemented and the first duel gradually became the first movement, Iron Palm. Iron Palm starts off slowly and with enough flourish to suggest a production company’s logo in the opening credits or a mythical sea creature rising from the waves and beginning to smash an Asian coastal city. It then quickly picks up speed and is lacking only the wacka-dum-wacka-dum-wacka-dum-wacka-dum of a guitar not sound like a song certainly made in 1978 before the high-powered saxophone solo and the abrupt gong-sounding close.

I had said that the album was almost over and we’d leave after the last two songs. My brothers were starting to check the time on their phones by then because &#8220Cinnamon Girl&#8221 is almost a prelude and they never stopped playing since the second set began. I then mentioned that Eagle Claw was 20 minutes long and the end is my favorite part. Anyway, I got one of them back at a decent hour to get a good night’s sleep and the party was lame so the other didn’t miss anything.

Next up was The Lizard, which is a little more low key as far as intensity, which is good planning when it comes to music, especially such a large piece and leads up to what I feel is the main event.

The unwieldy-named The Centipede/Toad=Mantis Style/The Student begins as a straightforward orient-themed funky ’70s throwback before the low end signals the second movement of this movement that becomes a display of trombone showmanship that, last night, included a trombone slide meeting a ceiling fan the hard way. Despite that hiccup, the song seemed to promise a kick-ass ending and delivers with a transition into the final trumpet solo: my favorite part.

For about two minutes the band slowly gains power behind the soloist until it is such a crescendo that it gives me chills whenever I’m listening to it in the proper setting. I’ll never forget the first time I heard it. It was during the Virginia Commonwealth University Brassfest. I was floored. The Taphouse was no concert hall but having the band right there in my face still made it electric as the song wound down, the band put down their instruments and sung the final notes.

You have not lived until you have a friend write one of your favorite songs and you hear it live several times.

On the way back, one of my brothers said that NO BS! was pretty awesome.

Yeah. They are.

1088: My first real editorial (running Friday)

Posted by EXIT265C on January 20, 2009
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This week marked a historic event and not just because our nation entered a league of nations that has elected heads of state not from its majority. This week marked the outcome of an campaign that galvanized countless young people and got many of them behind a candidate not just because of the color of his skin.

Although this seems like the culmination of issues left not fully addressed or resolved since a series of sweltering days in Philadelphia in 1787, there is still work to be done. That work begins with a new generation of people taking the torch in the community and in government.

This election showed some first-time and young voters that their vote can and does matter. Most importantly, this election seems to have sparked an era of activism; of a greater interest in issues both domestic and abroad; of civic engagement.

Right now, for example, there are vacancies on boards and commissions in Hopewell. In the last few elections across the area, state and nation, far too many candidates ran unopposed and it’s sometimes apparent that those with challengers still won because of fear of the driving word in this presidential election: change. That in itself needs to change.

Our world is shrinking and rapidly evolving. In the Tri-Cities alone, the opening of the Rolls-Royce plant and the expansion of Fort Lee will change the face and demographics of the region. We need people ready, willing and able to step up and serve as we face new issues in a new era.

As a whole, we need to become mature adults and accept that everything must change; that, no matter how many bad apples there are, stereotypes aren’t true; that we must, as President Barack Obama said in his inauguration speech, “proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas that for far too long have strangled our politics.” We can’t sit back and say “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” or try the same methods and expect different results.

That begins at home. That begins in our neighborhoods, our schools, our places of worship. That begins in our municipal centers. And all the flowery language in the world won’t mean anything if it doesn’t begin.

Can we have people just champing at the bit to serve on a board or commission? Can we have our leaders get through a meeting, get the job done and not backbite each other? Can we as members of the community lay aside our differences and our prejudices to work for the common good although some may see it impossible? We must.

And yes, we can.

title track

Posted by EXIT265C on June 21, 2008
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By mid afternoon, the light smell of burning peat moss and wood gave way to the near-tangible smoke of the fires themselves. It rolled into the city like fog. At some point during the day, my nostrils became accustomed to the lingering wood stove smell until I willed myself to think about it.

I sat in Aroma’s drinking a green chai and reading a collection of short stories. The barista made the milk too foamy. I thought it was whipped cream for a few seconds.

I was alone, as usual. I often end up in cities alone. I would rather have someone accompany me but I’ve spent so many years wandering alone, I don’t mind the solitude, like most urban dwellers. It’s sometimes hard to realize you’re alone when you’re surrounded by so many people drinking in the rich and varied culture and atmosphere.

Outside, two guitarist sat at a table playing chords and melodies and writing. People walked around the storm water retention pond that is disguised as a fancy fountain. People murmured arduous, pseudo-intellectual conversations in the background. I often paused from reading to think about what I was going to do on the physical day of my birth and was again tempted to waste gas to retrieve my cell phone from my desk at work. I thought against it.

I finished my chai at the same time a short story ended and headed back out into the haze. I meandered around the new urbanism spectacle on my way back to my car. City Center at Oyster Point has the look and feel of what someone who had never been to a city and didn’t picture them as dirty, smelly, dangerous places would imagine a city. It has tall buildings, apartments, lofts, townhouses, bars, restaurants, municipal offices, sidewalks, areas for public performances, a hotel, the whole nine yards without public transit, schools and, after the shops closed, the proletariat. A new downtown for people who dislike the old downtown.

Regardless, like downtown and the Fan in Richmond, it was nice to be in a place where I could have a healthy false sense of security and walk around at almost all hours, to be able to sit outside some bright and sunny day with a book and a coffee and most likely be unmolested the entire time. But I wondered if I could come back to this. Home. Hampton Roads as a whole. Places like City Center, Peninsula Town Center (New Coliseum Mall), the Town Center of Virginia Beach that bloomed in the two years I have technically been away. They were fa&#231ades, collections of buildings masquerading as cities. As much so as Hopewell, Colonial Heights and Petersburg.

I thought of Richmond, Wilmington, N.C., New York and other places I’ve visited and said to myself that, if I needed to, I could live there. I wanted to live there.

On my way back to my fraternity house to write this entry before yet another night of celebrating my 25th year, I sat at the stop bar at a traffic light. I thought about what I could do when the light turned green that I could not do in the Tri-Cities. I could accelerate with reckless abandon to 50 mph on a wide, divided urban street lined with stores and offices and do it for miles. I took it back. I wasn’t able to do this on an urban street; it’s truly suburban. Hampton Roads is a sprawling collection of subdivisions encircling four downtowns and several conceptual urban cores, like City Center. It was large and wasteful. It was no Richmond. It was no Savannah. It was no Harrisburg.

When the light turned green, I quickly left everyone behind me and slipped into five miles above the speed limit. I thought of East Washington Street in Petersburg. I thought of walking to Java Mio from the office Thursday afternoon. I thought back to my stroll in City Center. I thought ahead to Monday and Tuesday: requesting contact lenses again, getting two official transcripts, dropping off recommendation forms. Returning as a completely different person than the one who left.

Yes, for the time being, it is a good idea. I’m OK with potentially making a commitment that will last until my 10-year high school reunion. I knew it was coming. Perhaps it is why, legally speaking, I never moved.

The sun was sinking as I headed back to spend an extended period of time writing this in the same living room where I first forged this journal four years ago. The smoke made the sunset brilliant: it seemed as if the orange flames that caused the smoke were in the sky.

beach bum at heart

Posted by EXIT265C on June 8, 2008
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I miss feeling warm sand between my toes.

When I left my mom’s house last weekend, I took a deep breath as I traveled down North Armistead Avenue at Newmarket Creek, which is a tidal estuary.

It smelled like nights in a tent at Grandview, cruises down Chesapeake Avenue, the parking garage next to the downtown hotel, learning how to ride a &#8220big kid’s bike&#8221 along the river walk of the Hampton VA Medical Center.

It smelled like heaven.

stability

Posted by EXIT265C on May 1, 2008
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A Morning Musing
May 1, 2008, 9:01 a.m.

I woke up a little early today for two reasons. The first one was because I’m really cold. The temperature dropped last night and we turned the heat off a while ago because of how high the electric bill is when it’s on. The second is because, in a way, the final dream I had before I woke up was a bad one. I openly wept in the dream.

Actually, it was a bit of a long, drawn-out dream. What happened at the before the bit here is unimportant. I had just left Richard Bland College and was heading to Richmond. Since I wasn’t totally asleep, I was listening to Death Cab for Cutie in my car and I was cold. So I decided to stop by the Petersburg Library to pop online and check the weather.

{Earlier in the dream, I did have a phone conversation with someone where I did mention the city and how I know it will eventually turn out better but I don’t want to be here during the transformation. In reality and in my dream, her husband is among people trying to revitalize the downtown area. Much like Detroit, Baltimore and Philly, the thinking of developers is to start with the downtown. True, the end result is a virtually crime free, beautiful downtown full of business and tourists but it’s dead at night and the problems in the rest of the city still remain. It makes me think of the high-class tourist hotels virtually sharing a wall with the favelas of Rio de Janeiro and the metaphor of that in &#8220Black Wave/Bad Vibrations&#8221 by Arcade Fire: &#8220Eating in the ghetto on a hundred-dollar plate.&#8221}

I drove through the city, looking at the complete poverty in some places, the abandoned buildings, the ones with half-assed renovations, burned-out buildings, effectively a real scene of the city. I kept wondering to myself why this happened; how a city could get to this point; how a city at such an important crossroads on the east coast could come to this point, especially in light of the the commercial mecca just on the other side of the Appomattox.

I reached the library. Inside, books sat on the shelves, collecting dust. The floor seemed grimy. It was loud because people were talking and playing music. There was a line for the computer room but no one was really following it. The people who were reading were looking at pop culture magazines. I was in an institute of voluntary learning and people were doing anything but.

I couldn’t wait in line anymore. I couldn’t stand to be there anymore. I had to get out.

&#8220I don’t know what to do,&#8221 I said. &#8220I can’t help them. I work at a newspaper but they can’t or won’t read. I want to help them but I don’t know how. Why are they like this? Why are they OK with being like this?&#8221

I wept. I wept for the poverty. I wept for the poor education. I wept for the virtually non-existent commercial tax base. I wept for the people who think that pushing out babies, drinking 40s, smoking crack and shooting people who &#8220disrespect&#8221 you is all life is about. I wept for the people surrounded by knowledge, knowledge that could take them anywhere, mentally or physically, and all they cared about was the next horrible rap song that topped the charts. I wept for trying to make a difference and knowing that, as soon as I can, I’m just going to give up and walk away for greener pastures. But they’ll still be there like this. For how long, I don’t know.

I hoped someone could do something for them.

I left the library and the city defeated. I head the end of &#8220Stable Song.&#8221

I woke up as it was ending on my computer:
Time for the final bout
Rows of deserted houses
All our stablemates highway bound

Give us our measly sum
Getting the air inside my lungs is heavenly
Starting out with nothing but crippling doubt

We’ll rest easy, justified

Suffered a swift defeat
I’ll endure countless repeats
The gift of memory’s an awful curse
With age it just gets much worse
But I won’t mind
I won’t mind
I won’t mind
I won’t mind …

I’m visiting Charlottesville Monday. It’s not for the Daily Progress, if you’re wondering. This has nothing directly to do with a newspaper.

Hopefully, it is finally time for a new change.

postitves outweighing negatives

Posted by EXIT265C on January 10, 2008
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Petersburg, Hopewell, Prince George, Dinwiddie, Fort Lee, southern Chesterfield. Our coverage area. Our little world.

Almost too small. Indoor plumbing an afterthought despite an alleged construction date of early 1900s. Ceilings of unknown heights hidden under tiles. Our building. The home of our cubicles.

Reporters there are four, covering roughly 970 square miles, 780 of which by yours truly. We’re friends. I live with a coworker. I’m currently in a facebook-only relationship with another. I went to college with a third.

Three-quarters of us go to Richmond regularly, the capital city, to spend time together outside of the office. One would be hard pressed to find a social situation as tight as ours in a professional setting:
Jokes about mothers. Cursing like sailors. Road trips. Parties. Drinking. Bitching. Friendship.

Until June, we’re all under 25. Perhaps that’s the reason why it sometimes seems like we’re in a class together that never ends.

Through twisted chains of events, I may see them or talk to them on the phone at least once a year for the rest of my life.

We are the news team. We are &#8220Anchorman&#8221 incarnate. We write for an audience that averages about twice our age.

I’ll cherish Patrick’s guided tours of Richmond; half-assed adventures across state lines with Fred that turn out to be awesome; Lindsay helping to cement my past to my present.

I work with an amazing group of people. They keep me from going crazy but not from throwing things. Patrick was lucky that was just a section of a rival newspaper today.

Except for Kohl’s, I’ve always managed to have these moments. Angela will always be the best boss I’ll ever have in my life. Except for my Nana’s tea party (hey, ho), there’s ain’t no party like a Captain’s Log party. I had an actual office with a door and a desk and a window to the outside and an awesome coworker at my first job. If only I had my own office again.

In a few days, this will be all over. Next year this time, this lamp lighting up my living room will still be this lamp lighting up my living room but my living room won’t be this living room. I hope I don’t keep my Christmas tree up as long next year but that damn sombrero with be my frickin’ star again, I can tell you.

In my very first entry, I sat on my couch, wondering where in the world I’d end up. Today, I’m doing the same. Regardless, whatever happens next will be a blast. Regardless, Lindsay, Fred and I will always have New York. Lindsay, Patrick and I will always have Richmond. Fred and I will always have Pennsylvania. Lindsay and I will always have years of memories. Patrick will always be my Snuggle Bear.

I believe in symmetry. We’re moving the deadline up to March 13, two years to the day. I hope things fall into place by then. They will.

63 Days Till March 13.