there was cordite on the highway that night.

it was the fourth of july, and the fireworks were breaking across the washington monument. like waves in some hazy, murky ocean. standing on a beltway that isn’t moving. a glorious clog in the arteries of the nation’s capital.

jesus, it was like a sauna.

i know that i’m a bit behind the times, talking about the fourth of july on the tenth — it’s a bit like asking what all the fuss is about on the 15th of november. marveling at the silence, and wondering why the guns have fallen silent. but i’ve finally had enough time to organize my thoughts about the nation’s birthday. she turned 231 while i looked on. flag-soaked fervor and all down the boulevards and avenues of this magnificently frustrating city.

the streets were strange that morning. i had expected tumult and uproar, and i was greeted with a somber, almost sleepy afternoon when i woke up. it was mercilessly hot. and humid enough to make walking to the metro station feel like swimming in soup. maybe the heat subdued the crowds, but i avoided the major buildings and institutions that day — i didn’t feel up to the chaos that i’m certain had descended upon the capitol, the smithsonian, and the like.

it’s strange to feel utterly unpatriotic on independence day, smack in the middle of the nation’s capital.

perhaps that’s why i’ve waited to write this post; to give myself a week to reflect on how it feels to experience the madness of nationalism first-hand. i’m cursed by that strange disease that seems to be disguised in the auspices of my generation. an apathy of political devotion; a derision of the status quo, but a helplessness or unwillingness to fight against the institution. in short, had the 1960s been dominated by quaaludes instead of psychotropes, perhaps i would have some basis for these musings.

what are we celebrating? a cadre of rich, european plantation owners who didn’t want to pay taxes? a piece of cloth that flaps in the breeze, or crackles with flame? american boots that are clogged in the blood and mud of foreign countries? a presidency that has been, by most accounts, an unqualified disaster?

i’m celebrating what i saw on the freeway that night.

my uncle’s family and i, flying down maine avenue, towards the fourteenth street bridge. and then across the radio, the news that the bridge had been closed for the duration of the fireworks. we had been on our way to some sort of vantage point to watch the conflagration — but now we were trapped deep beneath underpasses. the traffic had reached an utter standstill — with no hope of relief until the fireworks had ceased. a row of office buildings obscured our view of the fireworks from beneath the concrete. orange and red bled through the spaces of the buildings, and the windows of the offices, as the fireworks began in earnest behind them.

as if drawn by a shared communion of common sense, we streamed from our cars. all fools caught in a moment of serendipitous annoyance. all attempting to shake the shackles. walking slowly, some of us jogging, made our way up from the low dip in the freeway. past the steel and glass giants that flanked us on either side — stumbling across cracked pavement until the buildings and on-ramps disappeared. there was only the night sky and the fireworks. the sky, murky from the humidity that refused to yield ground, and the fireworks exploding in relative glory.

and then we all simply stood and watched, in quiet appreciation.

men, women; blacks, whites, hispanics; children, grandparents; drunks, cops, students, interns and parasites. everyone stopped and watched. appreciating something that they could neither see or place their finger on. an abstract feeling of belonging and safety pervaded the moment.

it’s rare that you feel utterly alone, and surrounded at the same time.

would that we all had the sense to leave our cars behind, and simply walk the path that has laid before us. to not wait in the darkness, and watch the auras of beauty — instead of pursuing the real thing.

would that i.

– Yann Martel, Life of Pi

how often do you look down at a man’s feet?

the oft-talked about, dreaded and lauded internship began today with all of the fanfare that my unimpressive (but surprisingly shrill) dollar-store alarm clock could muster. from this day forth (until the termination of my lease) Gallery Watch owns my soul until August 11th. i’m arriving to all of this madness about a week late, thanks to the rigid finals’ schedule at Ohio University:

“Enter daily that thou may growst in bureaucracy, intoxication and apathy.

however, despite the relatively rocky start, methinks that i have my daily ritual down to a science after this morning — shower, brush my teeth furiously, don my monkey suit (i’ve never been one for suits, but needs must when the devil drives)….and put on my shoes. now, all of my life, Chuck Taylors and Tevas have been my weapon of choice. maybe the occasional track sneaker to break up the monotony, or go jogging once in a blue moon. but the bottom line is that comfort has consistently been at the top of my priority list. now that i’m wearing the dreaded suit and tie, i must soldier forth in patent-leather torture devices.

the Spanish Inquisition couldn’t have invented things like these if they’d tried.

square-toed implements of strangulation — these damn things have managed in the course of an afternoon to chew apart my heels in ways i didn’t think possible. i’ve hiked hundreds of miles with backpacks which way in excess of fifty pounds strapped to my back, and i’ve never had blisters like this. we’re talking three layers of skin gone in under fifteen minutes. walking past the Supreme Court and the Capitol on my way to work (which is a helluva incentive to rise like a morning glory), i wasn’t contemplating the ridiculous amount of marble that had to be carted into the District, or the imposing beauty of the neo-classical architecture. all of my cognitive processes were focused on two things:

i tell you truthfully my friends, you have never experienced the buildings of our American legislature until you have limped through every god-forsaked hallway, stairwell, elevator, escalator and checkpoint wondering if your shoes are slowly filling up with blood. these are the things that they don’t tell you. when they send soldiers into battle, the COs always warn the men to bring enough pairs of dry socks. a solid case of trench foot will knock a man from combat as readily as a bullet, or so i’ve been told.

everyone whose father is begrudged to wear a suit to work knows about those “old-man sneakers” that hide out in his closet. the imitation-leather, solid black affairs that remind one of either elementary school or geriatrics. at the age of 21, i’m already beginning to see their appeal. these are scary times, my friends.

i never thought that gangrene would be a job hazard for reporters.

that probably sounds horribly elitist, and god forbid we should deal in absolutes, but if you think that the majority of american poets are sitting around in gentile coffee houses — you’ve got another thing coming. in the tradition of wild men like Allen Ginsberg, or eccentrics like William Carlos Williams, the poets in this anthology are the real deal. one of the most severely underappreciated of them is the now-deceased David Lerner (leader of the Cafe Barbar in San Francisco). this excerpt from his poem “Mein Kampf” still gives me chills. READ it if you want your mind blown.

since high school i’ve played guitar in a variety of and bands of miscreants. some were better than others, and all have contributed to the slight buzz in my inner ear. however, i’m finally in a group that looks like they could finally make a splash of some variety (it’ll probably be a tiny one). Kaslo is the name of the outfit — a moniker which was selected at random from a World Atlas. to that end, we’ve been in the studio for the past 6 months. just a few weeks ago, out drummer (Luke Brevoort) made a teaser video incorporating some of the tracks that we’ve finished.

please enjoy this shameless self-promotion

the hope is that i’ll finally be able to get my hands dirty.

i’ve worked for every damn media outlet in athens, and i finally feel like i’m getting a chance to go to what kevin costner in bull durham would have called “the show” — albeit as a lowly intern. the name of this particular game is GalleryWatch, a congressional tracking service. i’m going to see where i work out of my window when i wake up in the morning:

that ain’t half bad.