oops, but not really

I just discovered today that the wedding elk that I so thoroughly lambasted in an earlier post was created by someone I know. Yes, someone from the presbyterian church that I attended in Newark for twenty-some years (fifteen of those years as a member) created this beast, and this artist is a friend of my parents'. I even sang with her and her husband in the choir for a number of years.

Even so, I meant what I said, and I neither can nor will recant.

This creature continues to makes me cringe.

I photographed three more beasties as I walked to work on Tuesday this week, and there remain two that I have neither seen nor photographed yet. I will eventually post photos.

Director's cuts

Listening to the commentary for the Director's Cut of Donnie Darko today, I came to the conclusion that the director's cuts of movies are roughly analogous to the pheonomenon of band members switching instruments just for fun. You know: the bassist plays guitar, the guitarist plays drums, etc. It's cute if you're a fan, but that's about it. Directors should direct (with some exceptions). Let the editors do their fricking job. Extended editions that more involve the whole team are a different story.

People

Today on the way to church at 11:00 (yes, I was late) I saw a man on a riding lawnmower. He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. With one hand he was driving and with the other he was holding his toddling son on his lap. I wished that I had my camera. That is all.

Laying on my back on the hood of my car in a park that is closed because of the moon. Half-full, surrounded by an egg-shaped ring, it bends the clouds around itself. The stars also seem to bow to the moon, even though it is tiny and it has no light of its own.

Elkton revisited

Today I got home from church, heated up my lunch and endured the band outside my window covering Simon and Garfunkel and James Taylor. I then headed for the laundromat to do three weeks' worth of laundry. Now it is done, and I am so glad because I was down to my least favorite underewear, and everyone knows that you can't have a fantastic day if you're not wearing good underwear. Upon returning, I discovered that two new statues had been installed on Main St., one just outside my apartment, in front of the Elkton Association building, and another in front of the court just 100 yards down the street. Nothing says, "Elkton" better than these photos.

In the second photograph, you can see the bottom edge of my apartment windows.





I do not mean to be cruel. I understand that the good folks of Elkton are trying, but I find the wedding elk to be remarkably white trash, particularly with the beer cans tied to its ass. I found the cloying odor of the Washington hawthorn that you see in the background to be quite appropriate.

The elk with the yearbook photos all over its back looks much like it has been partially skinned to reveal the faces of a thousand high school students.

I find these expressions to be entirely arbitrary, much like a high school art project. Is there no better way to express the identity of our town? Must we be entirely literal? I suppose that if I really cared, I would join the Cecil County Arts Council. Perhaps I shall. But more likely, I will not, and I will always feel like a visitor here.

Last Sunday, the 10th, I took a walk through Elkton and got some photos. I'll post those in my next entry.

spring?

Yes, today seemed to be the first real day of spring. A bit late, but all the more beautiful for its tardiness. Mid-sixties. Breezy. The sky was the kind of blue that makes you ask yourself, "Did I ever realize before today that the sky is blue?" This afternoon I ran a series of errands with the windows down and the sunroof open. I reluctantly returned to the office with my hair a mess.

Elkton in brief

I could try to characterize the town of Elkton, Maryland historically (It was originally called Head of Elk, through which Washington and Rochambeau passed in 1781 on their way from New England to Baltimore. The currently indigenous people are for the greater part descended from Scotch-Irish criminal indentured servants who first arrived in Virginia and were then blah blah blah...), but I think that the following examples of signage in Elkton do the job much more adeptly.

Sign at Burger King for the past month:
"ENJOY A ENORMOUS OMLET SANDWICH."

Sign across the street at Wendy's for six months:
"EXPANDING MANAGERS NEEDED."

Town slogan: "Elkton: Where Memories Are Made... Forever."

The last bit refers to the historical fact that Cecil County, Maryland used to boast a relatively low legal age of marital consent -- 16 years of age. For this reason, little chapels sprung up along Rt. 40 along with a healthy spattering of little motels. Most of the chapels are gone today, though there is one across Main Street from me that sees regular use. Many of the old motels are still around. I bet memories are made at Boyds, what with its Low Weekly Rates and Color TV.

Oh, and did I mention the Cecil County Detention Center is just a mile down the road? They're hiring, by the way. Oh, oh, and in looking for information about the prison, I found this recent article.

At least we have a nice, big Walmart's and they're building an even bigger one.

The Station Agent

I must admit, I don't have as much to say about this film as I would have if I had written last week directly after watching it. I can still say that it is quite a good film, and the odd subject matter does not draw attention to itself, but is well-blended into the flavor of the story. In brief, the story is about a misanthropic train fanatic with dwarfism whose only friend dies, leaving him a small plot of land with an old train depot on it in a rural area, where he goes to live and hopefully be alone. Wow, I fit it all into one sentence! But the story is much bigger than one sentence.

Finbar, the main character, is perfectly content to be alone all of the time. He's tired of ridicule, being hurt, and people in general. His hobby is easy to enjoy alone, and it would seem that a tiny, secluded, abandoned train depot would be ideal for his solitary tendencies. He is surprised, however, by friends who care about him and people whom he can help. It's really a story about healing wrapped in an unusual situation and seasoned with characters that are both quirky and easy to relate to. I plan to buy the disc. Oh, and Peter Dinklage has a fantastic voice. I wish he did audiobooks. Patricia Clarkson is also fantastic. She was great in Pieces of April, and All the Real Girls is next in my Netflix queue.

wind

Tonight, feeling restless, I hit the streets of Elkton, hoping my rhythmic footsteps would shake the rubble in my head into some sort of order. It is a windy evening, 42 degrees, clouds orange and blue, streets empty. I love the wind. It is fingers in my hair, hands upon my face and clothing; it is intimate and unaffected, passionate and unreasoned, giving and self-sufficient. The wind in my hair takes me back to high school when my hair was long and girls would french braid it. It is truly wonderful to be touched. My gritty anxiety is blown away. My fear of ruining everything good in my life is lulled to sleep.