Escape

I meant to stay in Richmond this summer, I really did. But I’m finally fed up with this sticky heat, my trashy crackhead neighbors jumping on the roof until 3 a.m., the prospect of walking to work down empty streets that smell like melted trash. Much better to spend a couple of weeks packing and drinking ice-cold Pastis, fantasizing about France. I bought my backpack for the trip, a green Diesel bag, and sent off for my visa to study in France. We’ve ordered our plane tickets and planned to spend our first week in Paris.

So there’s not much else to do, in this city I was so excited to get to know. The emptiness of my life here, of wandering through my quiet apartment, spending days just looking up photos of Europe on the internet…it’s a relief and a blessing after the mad hustle of this past school year, and the struggle it took to get up here. Should I have done more? Perhaps. But it’s over for now. Noting to do but look ahead.

I’ve passed through the “there has to be a catch” phase, and the “oh my god, it’s too much, I’m embarrassed” phase, and am now in the “tentatively blisteringly excited” phase. It’s funny—while I don’t doubt for a second I’ll be going (I have the acceptance letter, the means and the ticket), it’s still impossible to believe.

~~~

I told my friend that lately it doesn’t feel like America wants what I have to give, and that I didn’t feel like a valuable citizen here. He replied, “Well, maybe you’re not really a citizen of America—maybe you’re a citizen of the world.”

Once upon a time you could be both, an American and a world citizen. I remember when it was practically encouraged, when it was seen as important to bridge the distance between America and other countries. Now I feel disloyal for even valuing another country, let alone wanting to go live in one, let alone France! “Unamerican” is like “unfeminine” or “unmasculine”, one of those labels only applied by the backwards. You have to choose your battles, and I’ll only fight those who fight honorably. So now it feels I’m running.

I’ve learned that the people who are judgmental and disapproving of you all the time—no matter what you do—are the ones who actually know the fewest things you need to know. There’s no great secret wisdom that they have that you don’t, either about yourself or about anything. Though they’ll do anything to make you believe they do. They actually know less than you, and they realize it, and cover that up with impenetrable meanness, deflection, and judgment. They call their hostility “the truth”, and accuse you of being too weak to face it. But if they know any great truth, why are they so darned unhappy?

So am I less of a citizen of America for desiring to live in France so fiercely that it makes my teeth ache? The answer isn’t “yes” or “no”—it is, as my friend so succinctly put it, “who cares?” I don’t owe allegiance to anything outside myself. Nobody ever did.

Paris Hilton = Damien Hirst

After reading many, many websites over the course of the last ten years, I’ve come to the conclusion that there are three main types: those that say something, those that ramble on about not much, and those that are carefully crafted to say a whole lot of nothing.

It’s the same way after a year of art school. The vast majority of student art is a whole lot of conflated blather about not much: labrynthine, “mysterious” depictions of repetitious personal issues; sophomoric,  cookie-cutter attempts at current-event “statements”. Late-adolescent self-absorption aside (and I’m not judging; nobody was more self-obsessed than me at 19), there are left two camps of relatively serious artistic types–those who believe in meaning, and those who don’t. Those who believe in meaning view art as a way to say something, to place something of value from the inside of themselves, into another’s insides, through the medium of art. Symbolism, emotion, wordplay, mood, and setting, as well as all the formal elements of art, are simply tools to get the thing of value—concept/feeling/belief—across. Medium might be slightly subjugated to message, but both have a place of respect and a relationship with the artist.

Those artists who don’t believe in meaning would never tell you so. They make the kind of art that everyone pretends to understand and use big words about, and are in various stages of denial or cynicism about its true quality and worth. They are the current darlings. They wear trucker hats. They claim to play with the medium and let it speak for itself, but that’s a lie—the medium, as well as the audience, the concept of art, and reality itself, are victims of an attempted subjugation by the hollow ego of the artist. Every aspect of their art, formal and theoretical, is carefully calculated to add up to a great big nihilistic zero. Their artistry lies in how ambitious or complicated a piece they can make, and still have it arrive at complete meaningless degrading emptiness—either that, or how many people they can fool into thinking they’ve made something “so profound” that few could understand. They may not be completely responsible for the enthronement of empty trash, but they sure don’t mind benefiting from it. They are the ones who, having found their precious niches in postmodernism, absolutely refuse to let that movement organically die and be replaced by the next big thing—leading to a repulsive and ultimately empty cycle of conceptual bulimia. Garbage in, garbage out.

And yes, I think one way is better than the other, at least for now. I know, “values”, how biased and regressive of me. But you’d have to be a complete fool not to realize what a dark patch we’re going through right now, both as a country, and in the world. Nobody’s unaware of the horrifying illogic and madness the world is capable of inflicting on itself. Raping ourselves with nihilistic, meaningless imagery will only further teach us that insanity is normal. We don’t need any more education in that.

Believing that, and believing in soul, is one of the reasons why I feel perfectly alienated in the  heart-of-darkness art world of America today. It’s claimed its position, and so have I.

Belle Isle

The walkway hangs over the river on suspension cables. Walking across, I feel the vibrations of trucks crossing the Lee Bridge above me. It’s not so noticeable near the banks of the river, where the footbridge connects to land; but as I reach the middle, suspended over the James River, the vibration becomes a slight bounce when semis cross.

I lean against the steel railing. Far below me, shadowed by the bridge, the clear brown water of the river speeds towards me along its wide path. It’s headed towards downtown Richmond, whose skyscrapers rise behind me in the morning sunlight. After that, it will narrow again, taking a sharp turn towards the south and away from the old city.

Ahead of me is a class III rapid, fierce and white, the only one of its kind within the boundaries of a major city. Its drop is gradual, but the tortuous path the water takes though the hulking rocks tests the skill of any kayaker that tries it. I see them out already in the cool morning, small dots of red and blue disappearing and reappearing, paddling hard to stay stationary in the roiling water.

I walk to the end of the footbridge, looking up occasionally at the graffiti painted by daredevils on the underside of the Lee Bridge. It makes me dizzy to imagine climbing the service ladders all the way up there, even if I did have something to say in spraypaint. I feel better as soon as my feet touch the dirt of the island. Belle Isle is in the middle of the James, slightly east of downtown Richmond. It’s one of the most peaceful, natural places in an otherwise hot and crowded old city, where people escape the noise of traffic and the smell of summer alleyways and revel in the sound and smell of fresh water. I love Richmond, but a bit of green does everyone good from time to time.

A path runs along the shore of the island. I walk west along the north side of Belle Isle, away from the downtown noise. The island is covered in forest, dotted with cavernous abandoned buildings, and carved with hidden cliffs and an opaque green pond. The rapids are on my right. I walk through the woods, looking occasionally through breaks in the trees, out at the river flowing by. I am searching for the perfect sunbathing rock.

The rapids in this stretch of the river are due mainly to an abundance of large sand-colored rocks and boulders, scattered from one shore clear across to the other. The river flows and squeezes between these rocky interruptions, pitching itself in whitewater fury through whatever openings it can find. Only downstream does the current mellow; here it is quick and confused.

Children leap from boulder to boulder, their mothers talking and sunbathing on the flatter rocks. I’d rather be somewhere quieter, so I walk farther. Soon a likely rock comes into view, far enough out into the water to be isolated, but not too difficult to get to. I take off my shoes and begin to wade out. The current is sluggish and shallow in some places; but in others it sucks at my feet, balanced on the slimy rocks, and rises to my thighs. At last I reach my boulder and climb up.

As I spread out my towel, I feel a low rumble through the rock, under the sound of the river. I look over to the far shore. There is a train, making its slow way into view. It is weighted down with coal; I can see car after car mounted high with black piles of the stuff, coming from West Virginia and bound for Hampton Roads on the coast. The train pulls slowly along its river-level track. Four engines take it into downtown Richmond, glittering slightly in the distance. It stops for fuel while still in sight.

I lie on my towel reading. The hard rock beneath me grows warmer in the sunlight. The noise of the rapids becomes a monotonous hiss. A long time passes, and I can feel my skin darkening in the heat of the day. I decide to lie on my back for awhile. As I lift myself up off the damp towel, I make eye contact with a heron, wading no more than three feet away. The bird and I hold motionless—it on one half-raised leg, me pushed up on my arms with my hair in my face. Its little black bead of an eye stares right into me. The rapids behind it are a white blur, against which the heron’s stillness looks unnatural. The something catches its eye. It debates; then takes a stab at the water to its left. I sit up. The bird, having missed its meal, sees my motion and takes flight. Its wings beat the air violently, and then it is up and speeding away, around the far end of the island.

It is hot. The sun is past its highest point, and the heat beats down onto the rocks. I step carefully off of my boulder and into the clear, cool river water. The bottom is very slippery; I have to place my feet carefully. It is not unusual to slip into a deeper part of the rapids and be carried twenty feet downstream before you can find your footing again. But the water is so refreshing, with that distinctive leafy river smell. The James begins in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and the freshness of that place is carried all the way down here, to the fall line.

I dip my hands into the water, pulling up smooth rocks, throwing them far into the center of the river where the rapids run violent and white. I walk slowly around the rock I’d been laying on, picking carefully through the dips and loose stones under the water. The current of the river divides and flows around the boulders, sometimes rejoining the main flow, sometimes forming little lost pools and swirls. Sticks and leaves, and the occasional branch, shoot over miniature waterfalls and float quickly downstream.

Back up on my rock, I pull out my lunch. I wonder if the heron found something to eat. Minnows congregate in the quieter pools closer to shore, perhaps she found something there. Away in the distance, on the other bank, I watch tourists on the high bluff in Hollywood Cemetery. Their bodies are little dark specks wandering about the larger white shapes of the monuments. They form a small group around the tomb of Jefferson Davis, the Confederate President. Behind me, on Belle Isle, was a prison camp for Union soldiers. They were purposefully kept in conditions so demoralizing that many died, and most were unable to fight again. Their graves are not in Hollywood Cemetery.

I am tired of the sun and the heat. Gathering my things, I pick my way back to shore. The afternoon light slants through the forest, giving a green tinge to the path back to the bridge. Bicyclists whiz by me on the leafy path. As I reach the footbridge, I see them nearing the far end and starting down the ramp to the mainland. I follow them, pausing for a moment in the middle of the shaking, vibrating walkway, to watch the afternoon sun turn the James River gold.

Ahhh…Success!

Sitting in the basement of the VCU Cabell Library, blogging via wireless internet. I wanted to make sure that the AirPort card was working properly before I made it over to France. I’ll be using this laptop to connect to the internet there, and I sure didn’t want to get there and find out there was a problem getting online. But all is well.

Sure is creepy to know that websites are flying through the air, perhaps through my body, to reach this little machine. Sure is strange to think that when I hit “publish”, my own words will swirl though the air, passing through skin and plastic and wire before reaching your screen. It’s one thing to say “all is one”, and quite another to literally sit in a vortex made of your own information.

Over and out.