R.S. Evangelista

I am suffering from pollen. I imagine that many of you are suffering as well. So here are some optimistic thoughts from Olivia Judson of the New York Times to lift our spirits…

“Birds do it. Bees do it. Beetles, bats and light summer breezes do it.

I refer, of course, to that raunchiest of sex acts: the pollination of flowers.

When it comes to sex, plants have more headaches than the rest of us. One problem is that they can’t travel about to find a mate - they are, after all, rooted to the spot - so they have to depend on intermediaries to bring egg and sperm cells together.”

And she goes on to say, “…A bee, after all, can only carry so much pollen at once. The wind is not so limited…”

Oh how similar we humans are to the bees, I might add.

It’s worth reading the whole article, but only if you like that sort of thing:

“Breezy Love, or the Sacking of the Bees“

Last week was different for me than any other week of my life. I really was in a cubicle. I must leave by 6:40 to beat traffic in the morning and stay til about 4, get home by 5. This is my season of life now. This is my submission to get out of dept and find financial stability. This is my arrival as a mid-twenties single male in America. This is a blessing for now.

I take a break from droning
and remind myself
I am a poet.

The snow was like flurries this morning
leaving clean, clear dust
on the windows
the kind that nobody’s allergic to

My response to J.D. Salinger’s Death:

I was once asked by a sentimental friend what the perfect gift would be at the perfect birthday celebration. My response, after little deliberation: all of J.D. Salinger’s unpublished writings bundled up, neatly bound, just for me. It’s been many years since Salinger published any work, and as you probably know, he has been a recluse in Cornish, N.H. until he passed away four days ago.

The man hasn’t caused me any life altering impulses, nor do I feel compelled to assassinate anyone. I rarely even grasp confidently what the many themes and purposes of Salinger’s stories are. I can’t say Holden Caulfield helped me to fall in love with literature. So what is it about this writer? Why am I in love with his work?

I picked up The Catcher in the Rye when I was nineteen. I guess Christian high schools aren’t as inclined to promote literature where the protagonist’s favorite phrase is goddam. So it makes sense that I wasn’t introduced to the man. A couple of months later I found time to pick up Franny and Zooey. It was in a time of life where seasons began to shape reality. And The Glass family found me in Autumn, and that’s where I’ve stayed. From there I read the rest of his published work. Something in the normalcy of his stories causes me to think about time pulling all of life forward. When I read Salinger, I’m inspired, and it’s not just because he writes highly of Christ, but it’s entirely because he thinks so highly of him.

And not that I have the man figured out; I could be wrong. Was he full of ego or extremely humble? How would a hermit respond if journalists and fanatical folks constantly interrupted his solitude off in the mountains of Greece or Russia? He could be so selfish as to lock himself away, to “commit suicide”, at the overwhelming nature of reality; or he could be a saint. Salinger is an artist of details. The nuances of conversation help to create depth and personality. His diverse characters draw the reader into their lives, captured by an insight into young folks beyond most noteworthy writers. I feel as if I know the characters, and they exist. I hope to one day meet them.

For me, I will continue to read and reread Salinger’s stories. I will be inspired by his characters and their search for truth. I will live in this world and seek out authenticity, trying not to be a phony. I will pass on his stories to others and hope their effects are the same, that people will find a reason to read, a reason to live because of his creativity, that friends will receive him, journey with him, share him aloud in cars, on planes, in homes with their lovers and brothers and daughters.

J.D. Salinger is just like one of us. He struggled with purpose and reason. I mean, he tried to write for the Fat Lady, but rarely is that easy. He had to try to write for the Fat Lady, didn’t he? For wherever we are in life, whatever we do, whether we are tying shoes or singing songs, may we remember the Fat Lady and be. Just be.

Is it strange to think about having Christmas every year in the southern hemisphere? At first it doesn’t sound odd to live in Ecuador or Australia. I guess if one likes those sorts of places. But then really pondering the idea of Spring rubbing shoulders with Advent and putting out Santa Clause with his reindeer in the front lawn in summer is just strange. I just don’t think I would be comfortable with that kind of change.

A couple weeks ago I saw a Christmas tree already standing in the diner off Howell Mill. I noticed mostly because it wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet. But I’m bothered because somehow, every year, “the holidays” eclipse Autumn. Winter is never cut short by the ground hog, and Spring always releases into Summer, which the South truly hangs on to. Winter Solstice doesn’t even begin ’til December 21st, yet somehow Autumn ends in the heads and hearts of Westerners right after Turkey Day. Can’t Advent and Autumn exist together?

Recently in Atlanta, some of the underpasses had been cleared of homeless people and their few belongings. Then as I was driving with a friend of mine, he turned to me and said, “The bums are back,” to no dismay, and other conversation ensued. But my mind was elsewhere, stuck with the thought, and remembering last Christmas morning making egg and cheese sandwiches with a “sister” of mine for those poor, homeless folk before heading back to visit our families.

And that’s where I find myself this morning, the same Island, passing the same security guard, off the same Gray Fox Lane with the same drive way I’ve been going to and fro for over sixteen years now. And I think about John Krasinski (The Office) and his girlfriend in the film “Away We Go.” They’re in their mid-thirties hoping to find the right place to rest their heads, flying from city to city in search of the perfect home to settle down in. Whether in Arizona or Canada they leave each place longing for more. Their hearts search on. And they visit old friends and family members in hopes of some connection that will last. And in “Away We Go,” Alexi Murdoch plays in the background, singing their soundtrack as they face the troubles of this world; parents that don’t love their kids, losing loved-ones, leaving loved-ones, miscarriages and all the chaos of reality. They are homeless in a sense, and don’t find what they are looking for until the end of the film. One virtue they do cling to as they journey is unconditional love. It’s the syrup that holds all of life together, as their married friends from college describe to them at the diner in Toronto. You can have the pancake, and the house made of toothpicks and coasters, but without the syrup, it won’t stick. It’s the love, even in the worst of times.

I wonder what it would be like to watch a movie like that with a homeless man. I wonder if he would enjoy the ride and then tell me how lucky they are. I wonder if he would say he has syrup in his life. Because he knows that all of us are longing for place, just in different ways.

Or maybe it would be strange and awkward because he thinks I’m not grateful for my past and all the syrup that I have. Maybe it would be like that moment at a party, where you are facing the person in front of you, and while they’re talking to you, it dawns on you and you realize that you keep sipping from an empty mug, an empty glass. And you want out, at whatever cost, because you’re a phony. And you just don’t care about the person in front of you.

It’s as if I’m always caught off guard
And the creeping up isn’t so much as scare.
I haven’t seen a ghost
And I try to be alert,
Maybe more like getting a return call
When I’m taking a nap.
I clear my throat,
Try to pull it together in a good couple of seconds
Before I say hello.
They always know.

And the leaves are turning golden
While I’m getting out of bed.
But while leaves always turn,
They always fall before too long.
So should my impressioned face
Upon a pillow slow me down
Or stop me from catching the cool.

The cedar door is open
Pulling in the harvest.
And the musk pervades my sense of smell
Causing me to turn and do something
About the best few weeks of the year.
When the sky is ne’r more blue.

I don’t just let my hair grow long and twirl it
Yeah, it’s funny, but it’s truth.
God, I want to live
And move like the wind.
If I had the season in my hands,
I’d have to say good bye
For it’s too strong
Too persistently onward and uncontainable.

Please, Autumn, where is my humiliation?
Show me little.
That’s what I need.
That’s what we all need.
And maybe you could contain me,
Along with the fruit of the harvest,
You see worth to keep in my broken being.

I might find peace behind the old cedar doors
If you just hold on to me.
Would you just hold on to me?

Check out our Trailer for the Fallen Leaves Party

A friend of mine spent some time as a music critic in his earlier writing career. It’s tough, he says, when you have to think of people in that sort of light. For that I don’t want to be a music critic at this point. Instead, I’m just going to stick to writing about musicians I enjoy. A few months ago I tried to display in so many words how absolutely wonderful The Decemberists are, especially after seeing them perform at the Tabernacle. Maybe you remember that I mentioned Blind Pilot as their opening act, a pleasant appetizer at the time.

But Wednesday night was something else. They took center stage at the East Atlanta Restaurant and Lounge with a sold-out crowd. Since their bike tour around the country in 2007, they have added to their numbers and came out with a full-length album. “3 Rounds and a Sound” has been a substantial and consistent gem in my collection since January. To see them up close and personal is a different matter. They were absolutely phenomenal as soon as they stepped foot on stage. Their six piece ensemble with horns, glockenspiel, upright bass and banjo, among others created a sound similar to The Shins meets Iron and Wine. Led by singer, Israel, they were more than one could ask for. Inspiration grew inside me with each new melody, and their love of life and music only added to it.

For a single man in his mid-twenties and out of a job, it’s tough to be inspired lately. But Blind Pilot took hold of me and resonated with my soul. I had to keep back my cheesy smile and catch myself before anyone else began wondering what might be wrong with me. These folks from Portland understand a bit about life and our need to own up to its realities. From “The Bitter End” to “We Are The Tide” you grasp a sense of unity in their voices, like we’re all in this together…”We’re standing in the streets, staring at the blood red moon, we are the tide, we are the tide.” Their songs are mini-anthems of hope, reminding the listeners to hang on together.

It’s odd sometimes how affected we can be by music and the changing of seasons. As you may have gathered, I’ve been soaking up Fall and spreading her for anyone to grab a hold of. She has a special sound, unique and different to any other time of year. I’ll have you know, Blind Pilot is an Autumn band through and through. Maybe you think I’m crazy, but they have sucked in this season with all their being. And they’re pouring it out in every strum, pushing it out with all their lungs to get you to understand. For they see life as it is, a healthy recognition of time in transition, with the weight of the world upon them. And Blind Pilot’s not afraid to hang on for the ride…  “I had the itch to fly and I flew, now at best we would make our dreams with something used.”

See, Autumn is about truth, about slowing down enough to grasp beauty. It’s about admitting where we’re at and sticking to it; changing when we need to change, moving when we need to move, heading towards a place called home, where one day we’ll be. And Blind Pilot knows that, sees that, plays and sings that.

What a better chorus to end on then…”The only line that is true is the line your from.”

When you are fired, or even when you think you might lose your job, your mind runs rampant in all directions and begins to open ideas that have been packed deep within the corners and dusty attic of your brain. All of the desires you wished you could do with freedom of a new outlook suddenly come to the forefront of plausibilities. And sure, visions and dreams are difficult to attain, but losing a job can sometimes force you back to the ideals.

Recently I found myself in a weird, limbo stage of an experience. I was caught “in-flight” back to Atlanta from my weekend away in Maine. But before the flight, I received word that my boss was going to fire me upon my return, and he just hadn’t told me yet. It’s strange that everyone else seemed to know. It wasn’t exactly the emotions I wanted to hop on a plane with, but I flew anyways, standby Delta, scotch nearby and waiting potential reality. I wondered if turning back to Portland would be better. I doubt that was the answer, but it sure was tempting. And part of the unknown was that they hadn’t actually fired me yet, and didn’t have true grounds to do it. I covered my bases before I left. So my quandary was on whether to exhaust my mind on how to keep my job or on what the future could hold, what would be next.

Here I am in the next. I have a firm foundation, not so wrapped up in where I find my work. For my daily breath reminds me that it always works out. And maybe the reason I was supposed to go to New England was to get forced out of San Fran Coffee, because I might not have left otherwise. It’s time for something better. I returned encouraged and rejuvenated for whatever is ahead, and my mind is still opening dusty boxes of ideas, like being found in the attic. And every time I walk outside, away from myself and my stored up ideas, I’m reminded that I’m part of creation. It’s a good thing it’s Autumn.

I look out from my tiny little porch towards the city. In Autumns past I’ve been excited about relationships and leaves falling with the changing of colors and the beauty that I find in the coldness of time upon my face. I remember places I’ve been, like Minnesota for a wedding or North Georgia meets Greenville where I’ve been surrounded by nature and people I love. This year, Autumn is somehow more connected to this city. I don’t know what it is, and I haven’t put my finger on it, but this Fall is Autumn and Atlanta; Autumn in Atlanta. And my anticipation is more like a boy looking for a bright new bike on Christmas morning than anything else.

Have you wondered why we keep getting rained on? I have. It’s as if I know Atlanta needs the rain. Without the extra watering, we might not be soulfully fruitful like we could be. And with that in mind, it makes sense that it’s still warm too. We’re not ready. The great hand of creation knows what’s good for her creatures, even if we have minds to possess our own creating. We’re still products of something greater. And when people are drowning and infrastructures are falling, I hope that it’s obvious enough.

I’m a pioneer for a celestial city, which I might not find ’til after I die, but I don’t know if giving up is the best mentality. Atlanta in transit needs some more ground-staking, some more expecting that we can be grand. We are full of peoples longing to be somebodies, full of folks longing for something greater. And my plea is this, my call to you is this: Try on Autumn in Atlanta this year. If you hear Sinatra singing about New York, be inspired to stay, not to leave.

I don’t know about you, but when the trees are shedding their leaves, and when I’m standing on my front porch during Autumn, my view of this city only gets better.

I’ve been waiting for you
at every corner,
through every outside door
and into night,
there I hope you’ll be.

And I vaguely remember
your subtleties,
your brisk cool,
your calm thoughtful moving motion.
You bring time’s elapsing moments
and the slowness of aging realization.
Future comes through the same
outside doors you own.

When I focus,
I see the decaying notion of
life in true perspective;
Falling.

Isn’t that what I’m doing anyways?
Falling in and out of time and season.
I am always dying and being reborn.
You help me see clearly,
like the city shedding leaves,
learning her bareness
before beaconing towards light yet again.

The wind will rustle.
Age will come,
and color will transcend.

And I’ve been waiting for you
in my burnt skin.
I need a layer of your truth once more
to see life as it is;
Bare and rustic
with fullness
even as time continues to tick me forward.
I’m better off clothed in your coldness
than baking in the sun.

Autumn, Send your harvest love.
Show me who I am.
Carry me with your fallen leaves.
And when you’re surrounding me,
when you’re all around me,
when you hold me in your brown and gold hands,
may the harvest come,
and I know I’ll be home once again.