January 16, 1994, 1:65:15 PM
Boredom, writer's block, and self-disgust have been such constants in my life over the past few years that I scarcely notice them any more. Last week, however, it was as if the light implanted in Ultra-Man's chest suddenly began blinking urgently; I knew that if I didn't flee Ithaca at once I would die. It was time for a trip to the home planet to restore myself.
Packed up some books and jumped in the car for the six-hour drive to New Haven (Ithaca is roughly six hours away from the nearest city in any direction. The permanent residents call it "centrally isolated"--hyuk hyuk--in gleeful tones that suggest that this is a Good Thing. These people would think Perth a blast.)
peeve: The proliferation of local hate-mongers with their own radio and TV shows
catering to the lowest common denominator. I spent the last hour of the drive
listening in horrified fascination to some radio schmuck named Bob Grant talk
about "Euthanising the Homeless Because They Smell Bad." The callers were
hypnotically repetitive: "Hi Bob, I love your show, and I wanted to say that I
agree with what the six hundred previous callers just said. I was on the subway
last week and The dreaming spires and rusting hulks of the nation's seventh-poorest city came
into view at last. The place was as I had left it: ankle-deep in brown slush an
teetering on the brink of race war--I loved it. So good to be home, though I
noticed that a year in the fens and three in rural America had robbed me of a
certain edge that I used to possess when I flourished here like a sidewalk weed
-- hardy, green, and brainless.
The week can be collapsed into a montage of !peeves: the days spent working in
the Sterling main reading room, the evenings drinking with old friends I hadn't
seen in years. A frenzy of book shopping (BTW, I recommend The Liar by Stephen
Fry to everyone). And staying in the little mafia enclave of Wooster square,
eating the best Italian food in the world. I came back with a trunk full of
Pepe's pizza and calzone.
peeve: Nigel the tiny Subaru has never escaped unscathed from one of these New
Haven runs. Last time he got a brick through the window when I stopped in New
York for an hour, forcing me to drive across the Bronx at 1:00 a.m. with one hand
holding onto a Micky Mouse shower curtain that was taped over the window. (I
still have the brick, which in a fit of sarcasm I painted with an "I <heart> NY"
logo.) This time his rusty exhaust system (victim of the Ithaca winters) fell
out, and the plastic latch that holds his back window shut broke off (thus
solving the ventilation problems caused by the lack of an exhaust system). As if
chunks of dirty ice thrown at him by disaffected urban youth weren't enough for
poor little Nigel to handle.
!peeve: Peever hospitality. Stopped in Amherst on my way back for crepes and
coffee with the marvellous JennyG, who has a truly enviable collection of kitsch
& comix. Thanks again, Jenny.
peeve: Even after twelve years of driving, I still can't remember to piss BEFORE
getting on the road. Stopped at a McDonalds to answer nature's insistent shriek,
washed my hands, came back to the car, and froze my damp fingers to the
door-handle.
peeve: Nor can I remember to fill the tank before hitting the backwoods
secondary roads. I went about a hundred miles without passing a gas station,
wondering how long it would take me to freeze to death after the car stopped.
Made it on fumes to Whitney Point where I coasted gratefully up to the pump.
Didn't see the "Cash Only" sign (huh?). OK, I'll just go to the ATM machine.
What's that? The nearest ATM is in Binghamton?! Now I have to drive 40 miles
back down there today to pay them. Did I mention that the charm of rural life is
wearing a bit thin?
So I arrived back in Ithaca, a bit disgruntled to find that the deep snow and
deeper depression I left here had both failed to melt away during my absence.
Awoke this morning as usual to the sounds of the bookless neighbors' dog yowling
as though someone were sodomizing him. Ah, the rhythms of daily life that we
farm folk prize so.
But I have Pepe's pizza for breakfast, and "citrus flavored drink" from the kind
Dan Hillman. Plus a cat who, for some reason, missed me.
Jo, who will be gone from from the net until her work is done
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jo Miller djm8@cornell.edu
"Isaac: Hebrew patriarch or bartender. You decide." -Dan Hillman
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