- The Limitless Quinn
I went to bed last night with lines (not the ones above) running through my head. I got them down on my Pad as I fell asleep, woke up in my clothes and with the lights on at 7am and had a few more lines come, almost instantly. I couldn't wait to come up here, sit in front of the breezy windows, and find out what came next.
Then, the pigeon foolishness out back began.
Doors slamming. Salsa music playing at an ungodly volume. The incessant scraping of pigeon shit from the dozens of cages. Blue skies and breezes or not, there was no way I was going to find out what came next in the poem by sitting up here. So I took E to work so I could have the car, and I drove. For hundreds of miles, stalking my prey.
This action gave me a new word, a new idea, a new mission : #poemstalking. (It has a hashtag because I first thought it on Twitter, of course.) The idea is this : what if lines of verse didn't just live in the ether, or in my imagination, but rather in an actual physical location, and that tracking them down was akin to a poetic scavenger hunt. I could really get into this ...
I was pretty sure I knew where the lines were. But I took the extremely long way 'round, for no good reason. Unless whimsy and space count as good reasons. All the way out route eighty, across the river, over the mountains, winding winding winding, down down down, coming eventually to Easton, then down the long and lovely Delaware River Scenic Road.
I listened to music. I talked to Beth Ann for a bit. I breathed. Ohhhh, how I breathed, trying, if such a thing were possible, to make my body accessible for the poemstuff when it appeared. Close to 200 miles later, and with rather stiff legs, I got out of the car a few hundred feet from where I last lived, in Bucks County PA. Now it was time to go for a walk ...
The canal path. I don't think I appreciated it very much when I lived along it for close to seven years. Then, when it flooded historically in 2004, I grew to hate it for taking so much from me. Imagine my surprise this morning, when I knew beyond all doubt that this was where the poemstuff was waiting for me, hiding like a troll under the bridges, or quite possibly behind the old bakery off Main Street.
The walk was sublime. I filled my lungs and broke a bit of a sweat and got hissed at by overprotective goose parents. I smelled everything, heard everything, saw everything. A line came under the first bridge, a few more on a bench atop another bridge. Finally, a few more came, sure enough, while I was sitting on a rock behind Cramer's eating a chocolate chip cookie while listening to the waterfall.
I was pretty sure the heavy lifting was done, and talked to Bug on the walk back to the car, which was a nice bit of grounding. All these years, and so many versions of ourselves, and we're still here. She's not really ever found her way back there, which is fine, but I'm grateful she understood why I was there, and that it wasn't nostalgia, but a genuine sense of inquiry and observation.
Driving across the even-narrower-than-I-remembered Washington Crossing bridge, I drove through Titusville, which was just as idyllic and time-stand-still-ish as I remembered. In an old life / new life mash up of epic proportions, The Muse called me while I was walking in front of the old church and graveyard, and we had a lovely 20 minute chat next to the Friendly Love Wall ...
So funny, that she works just outside of Princeton these days, and the one day I am in that area, she was working on location in North Jersey! So much for having a date at The Bent Spoon! Nevertheless, I continued on, winding through Pennington and various county roads I was surprised I remembered, arriving on Nassau Street after six, as the light was beginning to get interesting.
Why am I always drawn to Palmer Square, and to the pathways of the University? Why such complex feelings when I walk there, mystery and regret in equal measure? I'm like a ghost who keeps haunting a place, confused, not realizing it's dead. It's weird, but I accept whatever it is, and I keep walking, feeling, open to any clues, if they should ever arrive.
Standing in the archway above, which was actually another poetic dream location from awhile back (parallel universe, The Muse had wings, long story ... ) I was filled with such longing, wishing I could show her places like this, especially like this. But patience is my lot right now, even if it is not an emotion poets are famous for.
I made my way back to Palmer Square, for one more walk around, then it was time for the ride home, which felt longer and more tedious for its directness and lack of promise. But for now at least, adventures must end, and I was grateful for everything I felt today; positive and negative, light and dark, and promised myself I would do this again, that I would keep on haunting ...
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