This Town Do Feel Mine

The other day I decided to bike around town. Nothing out of the ordinary there, but the face of the burg struck me as it sometimes does. Holy shit, I live here. I sometimes think that a purer distillation of Americana doesn't exist, that I've hit the main nerve, the wet dream of so many conservative folks who fervently desire to "Make America Great Again" or to descend into a time before, as my Old Man put it, the country "was going to hell in a hand basket". I'm not sure exactly when this was supposed to have begun, as it seemed to be an ongoing process, but I believe it was sometime around when hippies started showing up in large enough numbers to report.

I found a bracelet of Gavin's in one of my cabinets. It was broken and I repaired it with an improvised fastening device fashioned from a repurposed hair tie. I've taken to wearing it around for some reason, at all times, work, home, wherever. He turned 13 over the weekend and I'm not certain he'll want to wear it when I see him again this summer. Something about that seems fitting but also worthy of despair.

I got hella roasted on my bike ride, humorously enough, nearby my work. I then watched people falling out of the sky and wondered at them. One of the parachutists trailed an American flag behind its person while the jumping partner cut furious arcs through the overhead gray. Their bodies descended without incident and I remounted my ride to repair to the bar where I observed the wonders pictured above. The barkeep, Sarah, was grandly engaging and the words issuing from my face sounded foreign. There was little to do save watch the hockey game. It was a strange journey.

I biked around, visiting my local playgrounds. I didn't tarry as I was solo and my appearance was extreme sketch at best. The parks are places where Gavin, Kiernan, and I have spent time and the realization, never far removed, that that window of existence is fast closing encroached. I snapped photos, wishing to record the scenes for reasons tinged with nostalgia and wistfulness, two mind states I regularly admonish myself for harboring - the reality of impermanence demands I do so, but the emotive, ape parts of my brain hold memories of the times in those parks as highly relevant. It's an odd dichotomy.

Later, I sat lotus on a picnic table situated on the concrete park abutting the train depot in town. I faced away from our iconic water tower and studied the storefronts of the main drag, Alaska Street. The wind had arisen while I was in the bar and it tugged my hair, my beard. There was no one on the street and cars, such that they were, passed with abandon. I was there quite some time, watching. A man approached, he and his dog, and inquired should I like to smoke a bowl with him. I declined, with gratitude, and he left me to my thoughts. Later, I saw him underneath some birch trees nearby the depot with all his kit - bike, pack, dog, self - and the nature of this town's characters imposed itself upon me. There are rafts of suchlike people, all living their own crazed realities. It's something to think about.

A arrived with Uly in tow and we all headed out to the recycling collection center who was lately celebrating its 20th anniversary. Some students of mine had been steamrolled into prepping/carrying out the food/security for the gig. I was grandly altered by this point and several of the students admitted to not recognizing me until I had spoken to them. There were hors d'oeuvre of a fashion and pastries and other things on which to nibble and we took these to the collection bay where we watched local artists perform. There was an aged lady barbershop quartet and their voices betrayed none of the creeping ruin of their frames. They sang a few numbers. Tables were roundly thumped in appreciation. The other members of the audience seemed not to care much and so profanity was also employed. The singers concluded and we left to explore the grounds and socialize. The students seemed strangely mystified that I could exist outside the narrow confines of my work and it was good to show them a measure of quirk, to show that staff people aren't all robots, touting the DOL line of "work, work, work...". I like to think it did them some mental favors. 

A shuttled us back to the bar and my bicycle. I told her about the guy at the depot. We talked about the barbershop quartet. I went on about my students telling anecdotes, hopefully of the funny variety. We sat there in our bar, with our boy, in our town and I was swamped by the most attachment I've ever felt for an area, almost like nothing bad could happen here, even though I know this to be untrue as Palmer has all the problems anywhere else has - substance abuse, domestic violence, theft, corruption, teen murder even fails to escape us. Much like the parks' relationship to impermanence, it's an odd interbeing. The place is perfect. The place is simultaneously flawed. It's home.  

Here's the street where I live. I feel fairly certain I've posted a similar type photo before, but this one always jars. There is not one, but two massive intrusions of rock, just sitting there on display. This is Matanuska Peak, the west face, and I see it daily on the short commute to work. I leave home and there it is. I turn 90 degrees right from this view and there lies Pioneer Peak, showing off its north face, massive craggy rock garbed with rags of snow. The tourists have arrived for the season and, weather permitting, they without fail snap selfies or take panoramas for posting on social media no doubt. I hope I never reach the point of acclimating to the views. I somehow doubt I will. 

Home. Evening. A was in the back, getting Uly to sleep. I sat out front and watched the sky and the birch and the pussy willow and the mountain (Pioneer Peak, ill-pictured here if at all discernible). Much like my earlier engagement with the bar, it has been and continues to be a strange journey.