“Walking Home, 1979”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-19)

Inspiration.

The fantasies and frustrations associated with this indispensable fuel are many. Seemingly opposed in nature, yet authentically halves of a greater whole. Like a crackle of lightning, bursts of inspiration arrive with rude and mighty immediacy, and then disappear into nothingness. In their wake, the memory of that instant illuminated by fire can be everlasting. But their energy must be harnessed in the moment. An opportunity of inspiration lost is truly lost forever.

A recent example of this phenomenon happened when I was perusing the social media platform, Facebook. A friend with whom I share a connection to the city of Ithaca, New York had posted a poem written about his student memories of that distant burg. As I read his work, my nostalgia for Empire State returned:

Jake's Red & White: Ithaca, New York: 1972


by Drew Stevenson

Hangovers,
Self-inflicted oppression.

Friday's misguided hours
Easily assuaged Saturday mornings
With walks down Court Street
To Jake Geldwert's grocery
And a cold bottle of Yoo-hoo
To drink on my way to Joe's Restaurant
Where gin and friends await
And hangovers' further vengeance delayed.

But Sunday hangovers linger,
The Court Street walk not so sprightly.
The bell over Jake's door rings
And I cross the wood floor
To the frozen foods case,
Selecting two pot pies,
Chicken or beef,
Morton's or Swanson's,
It doesn't matter.

Jake, a small man with a big presence,
Stands behind the counter.
One day he will drive a would-be robber
From the store with a broom.
As I put the two small boxes down
He always jokes
That I owe a hundred dollars for them
And I always hand over my couple of bucks
With a smile.
Mrs. Geldwert stands quietly nearby,
The tattoo on her arm.
Auschwitz.

Back in my apartment
I heat the pies in the oven,
Dump them together in a bowl
And unenthusiastically
Break up the steaming crusts with a fork.
Hangovers & Jake's Red & White.
Saturday & Sunday mornings of my youth.

In personal terms, I had arrived in Ithaca during 1978, with a passion for radio broadcasting and Punk Rock music. My departure came five years later, having exhausted the creative opportunities at hand and the good will of friends. I read Drew’s composition with much enthusiasm, while having coffee. It had me pondering similar moments from my own experiences, by Cayuga Lake. A reply-in-text began to form in my head. On my iPhone, words filled the screen with joy and reverence:

Walking Home, 1979.

West State Street
Tompkins County, New York
Malcontents on the air
Music addicts
Poets, philosophers, personalities
A hippie disc jockey from Michigan
A teacher of video arts
A fellow from the public library
A PhD candidate from New Orleans
An Aussie student
A clerk from Discount Records
A visionary with tape machines
And me
Only 17
Leather jacket with razor blades from the medicine cabinet at home
Padlock on my neck
Like Sid Vicious
A nail and chain on my shoulder patch
Like the Ramones
On Friday nights
I grew under the lights
Like Audrey II
In an urban zoo
Shouting, sweating
Fist in the air fouled by cigarettes and beer
Live crowd of university kids
All ready to be part of the show
Freaks on display
Thrashing their budget guitars
In the hope of glory
Aliens in their own land
Everyone was in a Punk band!
Nervous police outside
Confused, amused
Polite in the moment
While we burned dollar bills
Drove the Guru’s VW onto the set
Drank, spit and swore
Took calls with no safety delay
Ran videos from Cayuga Lake
Thrashing, crashing
Finally settled back to earth
At 1:00 a.m.
Then at the State Diner, up the street
We had a meeting of sorts
Post-production
Laughed at ourselves
Planned and scammed
For next week
On Channel 13
Leather heroes
Studded, painted, chrome-tipped
Worship of the un-hip
Channeling pavement mojo
Reckless
Fed on desire and ambition
Fed to the fill
Fed on vinyl grooves
And seedy moves
But in a moment it would be still
Friends bid welcome to the dawn
Soon to rise
Alone, I zipped my jacket
Savoring the last coffee sip
My shoe-leather trip
Up to the Commons’ edge
And north
Each block toward home
Taking me farther away from the melee
From the reverse day
Step one, two, three
Boots on the sidewalk
Kicking out the rhythm
Of Clash tunes, or Richard Hell
Quieter and quieter
Not in my head
But around my ears
Past the park where fights happened for money or bragging rights
On certain nights
Past the closed emporium, remodeled
Past porches lit with pale light through cloudy windows
Past an Olds Toronado, in gray
Past the old gas station
With its green, early 50’s Chevrolet
The car I needed
But never bought
With pennies in my pocket
And dryer lint
A $14.00 guitar over my shoulder
Walking, walking
Brown house
White house
Yellow house
Out and about
Walking
Northward trek away from the studio set
Until I reached my home
North Cayuga, by Fall Creek
Stealthy in the dark
Up the front steps
Quiet into the kitchen
A pot of macaroni & cheese
My reward
My reprieve
Sat on our threadbare couch
Just before sunrise
Rubbing my eyes
Meal in my belly
On top of Miller High Life
And liquor
Off-stage at last
A turned page
A scripted ending in place
Surrender my face
Leather hung in the closet
Clark Kent once again
Meek and silent
New York stations on the cable
Hammer films
Or Bud Spencer and Terrence Hill
Cheesy, cheesy
So ended my night
Until next week
Pro wrestling displayed
Statement made
Pogo and Cretin Hop, moving to the brat beat
Feeling neat
On West State Street

The brilliant flash was gone almost before I could catch my breath. I tapped out the stanzas with excitement and fear, not wanting to lose these images before they were captured. Then, after writing my recollection-in-poetry, I sat in silence. With orgasmic intensity, the muse had spoken in my ear. Then, said no more.

My chore was finished. Now, it was time to share.

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