Bloggus Interruptus:
I’d like to believe that all (both) of you who read this site thought that I wasn’t posting since Tuesday because of a romantic Valentine’s getaway.
Bad guess.
In fact, I had to hop on a plane Wednesday morning to Iowa of all places. Business purposes — presentation at the University of Iowa. Now to most people in the world, a trip to the University of Iowa in Iowa City, Iowa (they name it three times in case you forget) might not seem too thrilling, but I was kind of jonesed to be going. I graduated from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop way back in ‘91 and hadn’t been back to Iowa City since then. Going back to a place you lived for a couple years after a decade’s absence is strange. Everything is familiar enough that you know your way around, but different enough that you feel like it’s a new place. To tell you the truth, I couldn’t stop thinking “Wow, Iowa City looks like Lincoln, Nebraska.” I spent a week in Lincoln last summer. Business again. In Lincoln, I never remember thinking, “Wow, this looks like Iowa City.” My reference points have changed.
The other thing is the amazing rush of memories triggered by place. And such specific memories. Swinging on a playground late at night with a girl I was trying to date. The time we had to haul a friend from Dave’s Foxhead Tavern to the hospital a block away. The cheeseburgers at George’s. Pizza at Joe’s. The bar where I had the first date with a woman whom I fell in love with but never had the guts to admit my feelings to. The dim light and smokey smell of the fourth floor of the English-Philosophy Building. Losing at Scrabble in the Workshop lounge. Riding my mountain bike in the snow. Thirty-five cent bearclaws. Sitting on the levy after the flood. Learning to play pool at the rec center. Ice cream at the Great Midwestern. The used London Fog raincoat I bought at Ragstock for $6 (which I still wear!). Eating microwaved chicken sandwiches at the QuikTrip on the way home from the bar, because it was the only place open. The black angel. The morning I went to my ex-girlfriend’s apartment (yes, the one I couldn’t admit I loved) to retrieve some belongings I had left, and the smell of the two eaten halves of cantalope on the two plates. The realization that she’d quickly moved on to someone else.
Lost dreams, lost passions, lost friends, lost loves. So much that I had forgotten. Forgetting sucks. It’s good to remember. Sometimes painful, but good.