Piper Writers’ House, originally uploaded by johntynan.

Ducking in to the Piper Writers’ House I feel privileged to sink into an overstuffed love seat and, with silence at the center, read an essay by Tony Hoagland.

I trip-out on the details, like the serifs in the 11 point Warnock type, then pleasantly, linger over how Hoagland blithely downplays 90 percent of the definition of Rhetoric to emphasize his particular point, or how he dismisses the middle section of Wallace Stevens’ “The Well Dressed Man with a Beard” as “frothy and immaterial,” leaving my attention focused on a darn good, and lasting, last line.

It can never be satisfied, the mind, never.

Once I reach the end of this chapter, I’m in a good place, both literally and figuratively, to let my interests lead me.

Midway through uprooting Bermuda grass in the yard, I’m inspired to write a poem.
Each clutch of roots from the earth a new metaphor:
This gnarled bunch, a tuft of mischievous boy’s hair;
That mother of all taproots, a handful of mangled molars,
A reverse reminder of a scene from a Saturday television matinee
of Jason and the Argonauts where a squad of skeletons
are born from a sack of teeth sown across the sand…
A digression, for sure, for any proper poem
but what can I say, my mind’s meandering as I work.
Thinking now of the gloves my father bought me as a bribe
to get me to work in the yard, and how that wasn’t enough
to compensate against my aversion to dirt.
How is it that, at age 45, the simple reward of silence
and incremental progress with plants stirs up so much satisfaction?
I think of Theodore Roethke and how he, up to his elbows in mulch,
could revel in sound and psyche and soil.
I think of the tired conceit of Frost’s mending fences and think,
how true, the saga of our yard has come full circle,
how tending to earth’s silent overgrowth makes me attentive to the echoes within.

Let me explain. Earlier tonight, before heading home from work, I posted this update in my Facebook status:

John is trying to not be sad on this first day of quasi-bachelorhood. Got to fill my time, and my mind, with grand thoughts and acts!

I soon received an encouraging note to “keep it together man” from my sagely friend John in St. Louis, Missouri. And this from Margaret:

Oh no! I have visions of you and Rigatoni wandering the house despondent…. slowly falling into disarray….. dishes piling up, takeout boxes accumulating. Joni Mitchell on the radio. Don’t do it John! Don’t do it!

Well, I’m glad to say, it didn’t get that pathetic. I wasn’t listening to Joni Mitchell’s River while sitting on the couch with Kleenexes all bunched up around me, but I did get a bit overwhelmed. Here is my list.

First you start with one thing:
Simply play the piano.
Oh, but then there’s draw.
Then there’s make an animation.
Then there’s build a 3d model — and animate it.
Then there’s geocode photos.
Then there’s ride your bicycle.
Then there’s… I mean, it’s like Simon says… play guitar!
Simon says there’s a glut of freakin’ things to do.
It’s amazing. You could go schizophrenic.
It’s insane. And then you have to maintain this stuff.
And then it’s like, play catch with the dog.
And then it’s like, take the dog to the dog park.
And then it’s like, learn the drums. Play the drums!
Clean out the garage.
Digitize your cds into mp3s.
AAAAA! It’s insane!!
And then it’s like, develop your church’s web site.
And then it’s like, refine your cartoon character using inkscape.
And then it’s like, refine your cartoon character and animate it.
And then it’s like, “screw that!” Just take a spiral notebook and make a flipbook.
And then it’s like, create a cartoon blog that actually has good writing and good artwork.
And then it’s like, write a story board.
I mean, you can post a video to you tube.
I mean, it’s insane the number of things you can do.
And then you can add: friggin’ read. Actually sit down and read a book.
Or, you can write an enclosure downloader to manage your podcasts.
Or, dual boot your system using linux. I mean, it’s insane.
You can manage all your online accounts.
Think about it… there’s a plethora of passwords waiting for you. User names and passwords!
Things you can do. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah.
Go to this url. Go here. Give us your brain’s thinking!

Waffle House Is Not a Home, originally uploaded by traingel.

It’s a poet’s Friday night out.
I’m cruising the three city blocks around my house.
Driving five miles under the posted speed, just to take it all in
and get under the hateful, drag racers’ skin.

I make a pilgrimage to the vacant, burrito palace. Not a customer in the place. I set up shop in a favorite, honey-oak framed window seat that would have looked real classy in the seventies, when it was a new national burger chain, but nowadays it just looks lame.

I pull out my moleskin with its sketches and lists. Call and leave messages for few old friends. It’s Friday night and the three employees are shuffling around in the back making my lone, 24 hour, chorizo burrito and I do my filial duty and call Mom, buoyant as only a son’s could be, my voice booming to the empty seats.

Later on, I’m on the prowl again. I’m determined to track down this vision, I can see it so clear in my mind… the Waffle House, like some urban, full moon hovering over a Friday night. I u-turn down University, past the neon script of a florist’s storefront sign and a few no-tell motels. I can see it — a brighter, democratic, Edward Hopper’s Nighthawk — where two waitresses, on break, are standing in the parking lot smoking cigarettes.

I take out my camera to snap a photo, and the batteries have run down. I know this photo exists on the Flickr file sharing service somewhere, so I stuff the camera in my coat pocket and walk in, full knowing what I want to do — drink a decaffeinated coffee with a few packets of Splenda and write.

I slide into the booth behind a handful of gabbing fraternity pledgers. They appear amused about the seemingly fey poet, and about everything else, for that matter. One gal with a buttoned visor is entertaining six old crows sitting at the counter. She says, “you would have thought this place was a one-star last night. There was a fight right outside the door. They didn’t care that there were two cops and an ambulance parked out there. Crazy.” The waitress takes my order, then returns with a bun-o-matic carafe in the right hand, and a branded ceramic cup, three thimbles of cream and three pink sweetener packets in the left. I know that I’ve found what I was after she fills my cup and asks, before heading back to the kitchen, “you all right hun?”