Night Rides

 

Riding home from the studio was always best after 3:00am. A few things determined whether it was a typical ride, a challenging ride, or an exceptional one, including weather, wind, activity in the university district, my mood and hunger level. Sometimes I didn’t feel like riding home, but short of calling a cab, it was the only way back. Summer night rides were the best part of my day. It was often warm and humid at that hour which made it smell like Florida. After shouldering my bike from the second floor to the loading dock outside, I situated my gear and chose music for the ride. I usually selected something upbeat, like Jeff Beck, Tom Scott, or Tom Petty. That night I chose the Nebraska album by Springsteen. I tolerated the first three songs but eventually lost momentum, like my tires were cement. I hit both brakes and skidded to an abrupt stop and chose something else.

Five Rabbits :: The middle third of the route is through the university district, which includes a huge green space with shade trees and a sidewalk that splits it diagonally. I had a lot of negative chatter in my head all day including the ride home — enough negativity that I spoke out loud. “Yeh? Well, if you’re real, prove it, make a rabbit appear.” Poof. A rabbit appeared almost immediately on the grass to my right. I was surprised, but I frequently see rabbits on my rides at night, so I wasn’t impressed. “Show me another.” Poof. Another rabbit appeared ahead to my left. “OK. That’s a coincidence. Show me another.” Poof. Another rabbit appeared. Now I was startled. “This is a coincidence. If you’re really listening, do it again.” I rode a bit further and Poof, Poof, there were two more rabbits sitting next to each other. Five rabbits appeared in that space, on command. I told my wife about my encounter the following day and she didn’t think it was a coincidence.

Ronald McDonald House :: I usually rode past the Ronald McDonald House on campus. There aren’t any signs of activity at that hour, but I’d been fooled many times when riding by because there’s a life-size fiberglass statue of Ronald McDonald sitting on a bench by the front entrance. During the daylight hours you can see its bright colors, but in the dark while its back lit from the lobby windows, it looks like an actual person. The children and young adults who stay there have serious medical situations, so they need to be close to the university hospital for long periods of time and this place allows families to be together. Two nights within the same week, I saw two figures sitting on the bench, not just the statue silhouette. As I rode closer, I saw an older man cradling a young child. I waved to them, and the man waved back. From that night forward I waved every time I rode by even if just the statue was present.

Raccoon :: I entered the Seward neighborhood after crossing the bridge that spans the Mississippi River. Five or six blocks ahead I noticed a dark shape in the middle of the road. It could be anything and it was something to pay attention to as I sped towards it. A block away I figured it was a cat and needed to prepare in case it bolted in front of me at the last minute. I’d seen a lot of cats over the years lying in the middle of the road absorbing the last of the heat. As I got closer, I began to yell out and clap my hands. It finally heard me because it started to shift but didn’t move out of the road. Twenty feet away I realized it was a raccoon and as I got close, it turned, faced me, stood up on its hind legs and swatted at me as I passed.

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“Like a whisper In the dark.” David Byrne

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Songs :: Night Ride Home by Joni Mitchell, Bad by U2, Strangered In The Night by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Pump It Up and Moods For Moderns by Elvis Costello and the Attractions

© C. Davidson

Conversion

 

Twenty-five years after moving in, I’m moving out — in the center of a summer blast furnace, the virus, endless police brutality and lynching’s right before our very eyes in broad daylight. It feels like the right time, a long overdue time. Shedding old things and old stories, trying to pay attention to new things and new stories out of necessity, and out of my own embedded complicity. It’s unsettling and unnerving. It’s shocking.

I’ve been pondering this move for years, but always found reasons not to, like I don’t have the time, or I have too many unfinished projects, or where am I going to find something else this affordable? Sometimes when I postpone taking action and avoid making overdue decisions, they’re made for me, whether I’m ready or not. Change and transitions are always a challenge. I know lots of people who embrace both of those things and flourish — who don’t hesitate to move from one home to another home, or even from one state to another state every few years — significant ‘into the unknown’ moves — and even career changes every couple of years, for years on end. It’s almost unfathomable. My daughter is the opposite of me in this regard too — even though she appreciates the nest, she’s mostly a mover and an adapter, she’s a nomad. I feel like a different species sometimes. In my work, I’m willing to be uncomfortable and in uncharted territory, but with my home, my family and my lifestyle, I’m not as willing. I want a solid anchor to a place and my patterns, like this space has been for decades.

Unfortunately, my crap is an avalanche — mountains of paper, job files, specs, paper, estimates, correspondence, typical design debris, drawers full of press sheets from 1995 through last year, paper samples two decades old, cables and hard drives, art supplies like paint, brushes, and fluids, raw canvas, paper, stretchers, computers, scanners, books, paper, project samples, office supplies, postcards I never sent, memos I never sent, copies of letters I wish I hadn’t sent, old resentments triggered by long lost meeting notes from deranged editors, copies of first emails that turned into lifelong friendships, paper, an old bag of holiday nuts, mops, cleaning supplies, in-process paintings and drawings, book research, bundles of wheat, hardware, software, manuals, tools, paper, furniture and dust. I’ve rented this space longer than I lived in my parents’ home growing-up — longer than my daughter is old. It holds lots of good memories, hard memories, some dark hazy years, and tenuous transitions — sifting through physical and emotional debris to determine what’s saved, what’s shredded, what’s recycled, and what I want to cradle in my hands again like some timeless relic and then reminisce about it quietly and endlessly in the weeks and months ahead — like a collection of handmade cards and affirming notes my wife made for me. Sometimes I find another drawing by my daughter or an illustrated letter from when she was four years old, asking me to come home so we can be together as a family, including our cat, as soon as possible. Sometimes I couldn’t come home because of a challenging deadline, and sometimes I didn’t because I was lost and grieving, and didn’t want her to feel the full force of it.

Almost everything needs to be touched and reviewed. Occasionally I can grab an entire box of old, client book manuscripts from decades ago, or ancient financial records and toss them without review, but that’s the exception. If shoveling it all out was an option, or setting it all on fire without thinking was possible, I’d have done it years ago. If I go that route though, I’ll miss all of the sweet nuggets that make it rewarding, that provide inspiration and hope like a treasure hunt. So I wade through it for weeks and when I eventually look-up from what I’m sorting through in my lap like I have blinders on, through my scowl and see what’s left, I want to give-up and call building management and tell them I need another month, I’ll pay, but tell the new tenant I just can’t finish on time. Then call our family doctor for a psychotherapist referral, someone who can provide a deal on a bundle of appointments because I have a lot to unpack. Those things won’t make any of it go away though, so I forged ahead. There’s no shortcut.

“The best way out is always through.” Robert Frost

“If you get rid of the demons and the other disturbing things, if you get rid of them, then the angels fly off too.” Joni Mitchell

© C. Davidson

Songs :: The Perfect Boy by The Cure, Side Tracked by Dave Mason, and Proudest Monkey by Dave Matthews Band