Everybody's had to fight to be free

Holy crap, everything turned busy. The Whiting trip was frenzied, as was the lead-up to it. And now, getting back, trying to find a rhythm again -- my stupid Jazzy chair breaks down. Fitfully at first the power would die, then yesterday it gave up the ghost entirely. Poor Jonette was saddled with lugging me about, still Jazzy-fied, from office to classroom. Today I went in in my push chair, which was a bit challenging, navigating teaching while immobile. Luckily, I'm in one of the computer classrooms so I could monitor them from my desk. I'm able to spy on them, which they are not crazy about, but there is great pleasure in locking a student from Facebook, from use of the computer. Attention = grabbed. I cackle while they alternate between grumbling and laughing at me. Which essentially describes my entire pedagogy.

Today the very sweet repair girl dropped in to look at my chair, rapidly confirming what I'd expected: one of the battery terminals was damaged. By who? Airport workers, shoving the batteries around as they disassemble the chair for flight. It seems inevitable that some minor damage is done: an armrest bent, a latch broke. Once AirCanada lost my chair. Lost it. As in misplaced it. As in we just had it but can't remember where we left it. That was interesting.

So she replaced the post and I'm going again. Which is good, as the next few days ramp up again: tomorrow morning Chad and Greg are interviewing me for a tv show the university does. Which makes me laugh, the thought of it. They've been peppering me with test queries: "One of your poems seems kind of sad. Is that true?" I'm planning on drunken belligerence. Then teaching. Then a few of us are doing a benefit reading to benefit the local soup kitchen. Please, do drop by.

Then, then, then. It's Eliot and Stephanie flying in for the weekend, which will be great.

Debauchery. Etc.

Low

Rebecca is, in the parlance of our times, hot.

Gank

My giant cranium and Robert Belknap, president of the Whiting Foundation.

Thanks to Rebecca and Taylor for allowing me to steal these.

Inside

People I didn't expect to meet in NYC

• Billy Joe Armstrong, lead singer of Green Day
• Ricky Gervais
• The Naked Cowboy
  

There

Shall

So I won a Whiting. In typical fashion, my cell phone battery was dead the Friday they tried to call me. Saturday morning, I listened to voice mail. Someone from the Whiting Foundation had called but their message was indistinct: it had to be good news, but experience has taught me to expect nothing, so I allowed for the chance they were calling to let me know why I'd never win one. Still, that weekend was an agony, kicking myself. Monday morning I had a meeting with Human Resources, signing paperwork; after that, I scooted across campus, called the Whiting office. No one answered. About ten minutes before my first class, Kellye from the Foundation answered, delivered the news. That class passed by in a numb haze. I told some friends in the English department, posted cryptically about the news here, expecting I could talk about it. Nope. They're very intent on keeping it under wraps, hence my silence.

But now that cat is out of its amazing bag. I'm not certain how I managed to sneak in the group but I suppose I won't have any complaints about it.

My entourage flew up to New York early Tuesday: my parents, two brothers, an aunt, her son, a family friend, and me. Basically, the opening scene of The Beverly Hillbillies. We checked in here, which is next door to the Morgan Library & Museum, where the ceremony was held Wednesday night. The Morgan is an amazing place, utterly astounding. Whiting Award aside, it was the highlight of the trip for me.

We were picked up at LaGuardia, a surprisingly cruddy airport which has one elevator. One. 1. Which was in pieces. The elevator guy helpfully suggested I take the escalator. Thanks, pal. A LaGuardia employee quickly rushed in, directing us, and our ride to another spot on that level.

We spent most of Tuesday being tourists. I've been there before but nobody else had, so we were atop the Empire State Building (which I woke up to every morning in my suite window) and then Gray Line'ing about. Later, Times Square. Everyone was amazed and thrilled. The weather had been fantastic, sunny, 72.

Wednesday, however, was cold, wet, windy, the exact sort of day I studiously avoid. The cold gets in me, hurts me. We trudged about in it. I had thought about staying in. I should have. The push to see and do as much as possible had eclipsed the reason we were there. I wanted to be with my family, though, so I pushed miserably through. We were relying on Gray Line to get about, which seemed problematic to me: they do their loop and the hours weren't adding up. Getting out at spots x, y, and z, waiting for the next bus, then riding it here and there to be dropped off 12 blocks from the hotel, was begging for catastrophe. Soon, others figured it out and we only stopped at Central Park for a hot dog. A man in boxer shorts stole a hot dog and was pursued into the park.

We got back about 3:15. I had a reception to be at in 45 minutes. Plenty of time if you feel good but a nap would have done me wonders. I was dressed up but wrapped in thick comforters, attempting to get the chill out of me.

At the reception for winners we met, mingled, were pinned with white roses. We were given a rundown on the ceremony. We walked over to the museum for a group picture.

At the ceremony we were introduced one by one and given our awards, part of which was a Library of America volume, chosen individually by the selection committee. We were told this was done "impressionistically" but otherwise given without explanation. Mine? Collected Poetry & Prose by Wallace Stevens. Something about this was thrilling. Inside was a front plate inscribed to me by the Whiting Foundation. And a check for 25,000 dollars. The other half will be delivered in January.

Marilynne Robinson then spoke for a short, wry bit. Afterwards, a reception in the glass, glowing light atrium of the Morgan. Waiters twirled about with drinks and hors d'oeuvre. Various parties floated past. Wendy Wisner appeared bearing roses for me. When it was over, I left with Taylor and Rebecca for the Cuban restaurant next door where they managed to squeeze us in. We gabbed until late then parted.

Thursday, lesson learned, I sent the rest of my family on and went to the Morgan, which blew me away. It's hard to comprehend a place like that. It just escapes the mind. Imagine having an office in which you have a portrait of John Milton.

At age 10. There's the boy John Milton. It boggles the mind.

And so in bogglement I go.

And

I'm back....

Soon: full disclosure!

Heute

Saturday morning rejection: Virginia Quarterly Review. Drat.

***

I'm beginning to intently miss the lack of a readily available (to me) movie theater. Starting to jones. There's a new theater here but it's out by the freeway. Or somewhere. That vague, ill-defined area outside the few blocks of Carrollton I ever see.

***

When I bashed my face in last week, I sent the picture over to the department chair and to the dean. They had been pushing the university to address the matter of the buses that run off campus having no lifts. Meetings and meetings. I thought the gore might light a fire. Sure, enough, by Wednesday a new van had been purchased, drivers trained, picking me up in the morning and when I'm done teaching. Which has been great.

***

Yesterday: the ladies at Alterations Unlimited wouldn't let me pay for my new dress shirt they had taken in. You sure are sweet and bless your heart and you're a blessing.

***

Monday, I'm being interviewed by the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Yikes.

I just

Some good news I'm free to announce on my own: New Michigan Press, the fine folk behind Exit Interview, will be publishing a new chapbook collection from me called My Index of Slightly Horrifying Knowledge.

Look for it sometime next year.

***

Sent in from Boulder, Colorado:

Hide sometime

The NYC transportation was solved for me. Excellent. Thanks for your suggestions.

One of us must know

So I'm going to be in New York City next week for as yet undisclosed reasons. To you, I mean. I know why I'll be there.

I don't know how I'm going to get around, say, from the airport to Manhattan. There are the buses, I know, that have lifts but that seems extremely unwieldy for a large group with luggage. Taxis are essentially a figment. The subways are woefully inaccessible.

Suggestions?

I'm not here to annoint you

Wednesday I finished teaching at noon and walked out of the department into a glorious, warm day. I decided to inaugurate fall break with lunch on the square. I was heading up the sidewalk beside The First National Bank of Georgia, which has a luxurious thatch of a lawn. I remember thinking to myself, I should keep this chair out of that. Chairs, all vehicles, I guess, drift as they go, reacting to the terrain, etc; you correct by steering. Well, the Jazzy is lightweight and reacts in ways my old chair would never have done. The front wheel caught and spun me around, out into the grass. I thought, before hitting the ground, what the hell just happened? The old chair would have laughed imperiously at the lawn before demanding its lunch money.

So there I was lying on deep sod, with a blue sky up above and sunshine streaming down. It was not unpleasant, really. It had been how long since anything like this? 21 years. I was pulled from the grass after my accident. But then I could feel nothing. This time, despite the almost picnic vibe, my head had scraped the sidewalk edge. I could feel little threads of blood.

A man from the muffler shop across the street ran over. He had been looking out the showroom window when it happened. He had already called 911. I didn't need it but I thanked him all the same. A mom and her kids came over. Soon, the fire department. A clown car. Shriners in their little go carts peeling about around me.

Ok, I'm kidding about the Shriners and clowns. But the firemen soon saw I was fine and helped me up.

One of them took out a little notebook and asked for my name.

Chad Davidson, I said.

Fall break

Good bye to this good man, Ken Smith. He died last night, which is hard news. He taught fiction at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga, my undergraduate alma mater. Mysteriously ill for some time from a never quite understood or diagnosed immune system disorder, he had been recovering from heart surgery this summer. The old story: complications followed.

When I taught there two years ago, he was newly struggling with whatever was wrong with his body. He had to wear these white gloves to protect the skin of his hands. He looked tired. He was tired. It was the last year he'd teach.

I never took his workshop but I knew him him all the same. Sweet and tender, at the long, wine-soaked final parties for the Meacham Writers Workshops, he would sometimes kiss the top of my head as I was leaving.

Laurel, my old friend from the same days, speaks well of him too.

He was the sort of man that was easy to love and I did.

Hi

Most days it seems like I get home around 7. But Wednesday it was 5. Coming up the sidewalk, maybe a block from my apartment, I felt or sensed a little flutter, a hiccup, in my chair's drive. I slowed down, sped up. It seemed ok. I crossed the street.

In front of my apartment door, I stopped to push the garage door opener-style button velcroed to my left armrest. The door opened but my chair would only limp in a labored ellipse. The right motor had gone out. I could smell a faint burned-up electronics smell.

You can imagine how long it took to hit just the right angle into the apartment. If you are imagining a very short time, that is not what I mean.

So I half-assed inside, made some calls. I was going nowhere so I graded a few late papers, full in the knowledge that, lo, Thursday would bite. And it did.

I sat around all day waiting for an Atlanta company to deliver me a rental. Cost? 330-odd bucks for the month. Yay being disabled.

At 7 LaShawnda ambled up with the chair. The Gramps Chair. The Paul Particle Deccelerator.

The Jazzy. The Jazzy Jet, in fact.

Top speed: 3 mph.

Which seems slow in the abstract. The abstract, where you think, yeah, having your penis torn off by a chimpanzee named Moe is a bummer. Bad but you've never met Moe and everything is intact.

The abstract, where I scoffed for years at The Jazzy dribbling past, only to be saved by its slo-mo isn't-Grandpa-cute-barely-passing-through-space-sporty-contours.

But then you run smack up the side of Reality.

And in Reality 3 mph is extremely slow.

Especially when you have to walk to work every day.

Damn you, The Abstract. Damn you, The Jazzy.

***

So I'm going to New York in a couple of weeks. In my rented cherry red Jazzy Jet.

Goodnight

Recent reading

Quantum Lyrics by A. Van Jordan
The Clerk's Tale by Spencer Reece
Leadbelly by Tyehimba Jess

Grr

So one of my chair's motors burned up yesterday.

Hey

Monday the fraternal twin of Danny Glover in The Royal Tenenbaums held the door for me. Not an exact match, not a doppleganger, but damn close. Same hair, same facial hair, same snazzy dress.

He said to me as I passed through:

"Roll on, speed-demon. Roll on in peace."

If them

ACCENT

Werner Herzog, I’m trying to speak like you,

though outside autumn wildly arcs

and the Alps are only a word I have

loved a long time. Tired is not

what I want my body to be

but a mist above snow. So I’m pretending

this Teutonicism. Jackhammers

through lake ice. Rabid flocks

of woodpeckers immune

to migraine but not so much hunger.

Last week I learned this,

that recycled glass has a name.

That it’s cullet. I thought of Faulkner,

his mongrel personae. Which

is to say I thought of

suffering and fire and the south,

to which I am speaking

like a fool. Amused in my flesh,

even by my flesh, though

lovers never laughed. Sighed appropriately,

called out, murmurations

and writhing. In my mouth

I held them as well. All of you,

come back, my nerves seem

to clearly say, though mumbling

I’ve said the direst things

or stopped one at my door

in muslin dreams, her body specked

with paint. Longer still

won’t you stay is what I meant though

what I said I cannot say.