R.S. Evangelista

The sun rose with clouds covering its upward enclosure. Their hovering above can’t keep up with the break of the day. The fading orange softly utters an amen to another days beginning. I’m compelled to do the same. I’m on my way again, up in the air, traveling above a blanket of clouds now, the present soundtrack in my ears towards New York City. I haven’t been to this great city since 2002. And believe me, I’ve been trying to get there for some time now. I’m always putting out the idea to friends, hoping for a reason to make it.

Much of life changes over the course of a few years. To think for most of my upbringing, I was coming to visit year after year. My Grandparent’s home was an apartment in Forest Hills that my dad had spent most of his growing up years. I remember the overly-full stomach I had after every meal of oatmeal or pasta or pea soup. The upstairs was a couple of bedrooms, one of which hosted countless trophies of my father’s baseball glory days. He played college ball for St. John’s until he got hurt. There was a fire place on the main floor with photos of all of us grandkids scattered about on the sil. The couch in the living room was always covered with some plasticy material I can’t believe guests ever allowed, sitting near the windows facing the street. The
“dining room” was central, where the record player sang her tunes, leading to the kitchen with yellow wall paper making me feel at home.

But my favorite room was through the kitchen down to the basement. There was the antique smell, full of goodies, old collectibles from years of living, working and playing. For a kid like me it was perfect. And my brother and I would often create mischief and have Grandpa Benedito running down the stairs yelling at us in some Italian verbage. That of course only made us laugh and him more angry.

Since 2002, much of life has changed. My Grandpa has passed away. And in April of last year, Grandma Rose moved to Hilton Head  just 10 minutes away from my parents. My older cousin Laura and her husband have two children growing up. Cousin JP, just a month younger than I, lives in Manhattan working for the music industry. My Aunt and Uncle’s house was host to countless parties we attended, dressing up to celebrate Christmas and New Year’s.

I’ve not only graduated high school, but also college. Come May, I’ll have lived on the same street on the eastside of Atlanta for four years. My love for Atlanta has grown and grown and grown, rolling over from an ideal aspiration, to a pressing reality. I could spend the rest of my life there, live and die there, and not have any regrets.

Traveling is always more fulfilling and healthy if you know where home is. My roots have been sinking in to the city of Resurgence. But here I am on my way again, headed to another land. On Monday I’ll be touring around Upper Westside at Union Theological Seminary, the seminary of Columbia University. This could be my abode come September, taking classes on theology and culture.

Can I leave Atlanta, where too few people understand rootedness? Isn’t it true that Atlanta will be the same when I come back? I will be the one who’s changed. I don’t know if I want to let go of all the people I love, all of my places I stroll.

I guess I don’t have to answer these questions now. Let me enjoy my weekend retreat, my time with family amidst this great place, this cultural mecca of American society. We can tell stories, share in meals and remember our connectedness. Today I will leave my future behind me and enjoy the present. And when I return, the future will find its way in me once again.

Just the other day it struck me: Life is delicate. And I don’t just mean you could die at any moment, hit by a car sort of thing. No, I was thinking about people and love, circumstances and creation. I was thinking about my brother calling me on the phone and just wanting to share about some fishing trip down in Florida. Sometimes there’s more behind a phone call. I was thinking about lunch with a new friend on his porch just the other day. Simple.  It’s like the seeds we’re all softly setting in the dirt come this time of year.

Isn’t life delicate? People are so real, and often faced with the day to day grind, pent up and full of emotion on the inside. We’re all driving to and from work, or school, in and out of meetings, forgetting how delicate everyone else is.

I remember one night in particular. My buddy Chris and I were sitting at the light at 10th waiting to get on the interstate. And I looked over at the car next to me, only to see this young woman weeping, tears clearly falling from her eyes. My heart broke in that moment, and I wanted to reach out and touch her. The light turned green.

Yesterday evening our power went out at the house. It lasted from approximately 7 to 11PM. We were tempted to say, “Of course it would happen to us.” See, nobody else’s power went out. This was strange. We lit some candles, put on some hot water for tea and just waited.

Eventually in the evening, after trying to get a hold of our landlord, we decided to call Georgia Power. It was an automated service, but the woman actually attempted emotional responses. This was not only making me laugh, but it was sort of mind boggling. She tried to respond appropriately and effectively by helping my situation; checking numbers and offering solutions.

But what caught me most of all was our ending,

“You can just hang up the phone,” she said.

“Or say, goodbye.”

A real human being eventually showed up and diagnosed the problems. Our power returned shortly thereafter.

I was recently reminded of our tendency as humans to be followers and admirers. Many of us are leaders, yet, I myself included, are always looking to something else. For there is nothing new under the sun. It’s just the truth in every aspect of life, from what to eat, to how to tie a tie, to what to read, who to listen to, how to speak, etc. All of this is influenced from someone or something prior to.

There are differences though, between admiring and following. Following necessarily incurs only when the one following takes on the character and personality of that which he or she is following; the leader. Admiring is not mimicking, but more of a distant expression, a cheering on approach, a watchful satisfaction.

Take for example this. And I have tried to avoid writing about a recent occurrence, but I keep coming back to it. This past week Owen Wilson, among others, was filming a movie in Glenwood Park. This is the development just down the hill from my house in East Atlanta. My roommate and I use the dry-cleaners there. Several of my past housemates and many of my closest friends have worked in this neighborhood. They were filming in and around Drip, the coffee shop, formerly known as Perk. This is crazy. “Famous” people were sipping lattes where I’ve been a regular for almost four years now.

Apparently the movie will be released in 2011 as Hall Pass, also starring Jenna Fischer (Pam of the Office). The premise of the movie is as follows; Jenna Fischer will play as Owen’s wife, and is allowing him a “hall pass” to go have a week of adultery at no consequences, to go explore other women. Now that isn’t so much worth admiring, but I did find myself with others coming to the set in Glenwood Park to watch. I was excited. Owen Wilson’s pretty “cool” and been in some great movies. In some ways I admire him. But mostly I admire his characters that he plays, as fun, witty, and making the most of life. Yet the reality is, Owen Wilson and his characters are just ones to admire. I have no desire to live the life of a movie star. It’s fun to watch from afar, to try to take a picture without a security guard noticing and to see a part of a movie being filmed. Yet he is not one to follow.

And while I was thinking about movie sets. It seems like lately Atlanta is becoming one of her own, a sort of fantastical, apocalyptic snowy entanglement. I mean, did you hear about the zebra that ran loose out of the circus?  This fearful and fearsome creature escaped through rush hour traffic downtown and into the interstate connector. Hundreds of folks pulled off to the side of the road in order to catch a glimpse of this freakish occurrence. Try imaging how sad it’d be as a zebra stuck in a circus. These fierce animals were meant to live out in the wilderness. They were meant to run, not to be caged in to a traveling entertainment prop.

Then I think; life is like a circus. And culture, American-western civilization has me tamed, boxed into a two hour act for everyone else to smile at. I’m performing for the masses to just accept me. But like the zebra, I’m just a little bit different. I’m more than just a simple horse. My colored stripes set me apart. And I love the one quote from the circus spokesman, “It was just an unavoidable accident…”

What! Wasn’t there something that could have been done? Was the zebra really always going to escape?

Like the Beach House lyrics say “This black and white horse arching among us, any way you run, you run before us.” May I follow this great other zebra, because no creature was made to be caged. The escape is unavoidable. And hopefully, we won’t turn back. For there is one who went before us, and broke open the circus doors.

I listen to Jonsi playing piano in the background. He’s there singing for anyone who is willing to listen.  I’m chatting with a friend like decent media abiding citizens. She’s there. I think about the folks I met half way around the whole this past summer; young, energetic, and Chinese and there.

In a world so easily attainable, we grasp for connectivity as if we never had it. Send one more text and you will feel better. Right? Email one more idea and put it on the calendar. Grab one more beer and you’ll be satisfied. I remember playing four-square in elementary school. Chalk on the sidewalk. Those were the days. Simple, goal-oriented interactions. Why don’t I Facebook all of the third-graders I shared recess with? Well, that’d ruin it.

It saddens my heart that when I’m in certain circles, people flinch when I say community. The phrase apparently has been overused and over-attempted. It’s like a misunderstood curse word. Yet under-done. They’re missing it. The lab partner, the co-worker, the sister-in-law. The cab driver, the pastor, the professor.

Jonsi’s never going to play music in my living room. He’s never going to cry on my shoulder in the rain. The boys and girls from third-grade are scattered about, filling jobs, to pay the bills, to repeat the renewed cycle yet again. Those men and women from back then don’t yearn to know who I am. They aren’t here to comprehend Community.

But you are.

I want us all here, wrapped up in a creative bubble that doesn’t burst until she’s ready. It’s a thousand kisses passed out to the masses and retreated back in. The reality is, we’re all in the same bubble. You are running off to save lives, to sink in the syringe. You are writing the songs, pouring the drinks, pulling the shots. You are in my living room sharing your stories.  We all want to listen.

I’m bombarding my eyes with words and images tonight. I can’t help but soak in some information on what’s just occurred in Haiti. I almost feel like my heart is slowing down, recognizing our mortal nature. These stories and photographs are making my soul churn. The country has collapsed. God have mercy on Haiti and her people.

I look back on my day, much like any. I drank coffee with friends, shared meals, wrote emails, etc. But I also had to call Gary our landlord’s handyman to come over. Apparently our water’s been mostly pooling under our house. We didn’t know. I just thought the pipes were still frozen. Gary stood still in our bathroom for a second when he first came over. Quietly. And then he just knew. He said, “What’s that sound?” I nodded with a lack of ideas. I was growing dumber every minute. “Sounds like running water,” he said. Sure enough, we walked outside and underneath our kitchen was water gushing into a puddle some two-inches deep. I could have prevented this, if we’d only consistently left our faucets running.

But does knowing tolls and numbers of Haitian deaths make any difference? prevent any of it? I rarely have been following the news, as if knowing makes anything change. I was worried about not showering for a couple of days. Earthquakes put things in perspective. Yet I don’t feel any better because my soaking up information isn’t helping the matter. Knowing about the devastation can’t take anything back, can’t fix anything, can’t save lives. According to The New York Times, Royal Caribbean Cruises still have scheduled ships to go to Haiti by Friday, and three more slated to stop next week. Tourism resumes as planned.

I hate it that tragedy brings me to write again. I hate it that Haitian deaths cause me to cry. I am cheap, and I have nothing to offer but my prayers. Please Christ, send your peace.

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.

I’ve a little more than an hour on the plane to express to you in words what seems inescapably difficult to grasp; why I went to Portland. Lately in my writing endeavors I feel more like the photographer attempting to freeze a moment that might capture more than a thousand words, yet you know that being there could’ve left you speechless like me. I would rather visit Antarctica than just see photos of it. I know it’s not the same. Is that why I just returned from Maine? There was something in early October that I had to experience that couldn’t be captured in any other art form except existence. If I show you some photos from my trip, you just wouldn’t get it. You’d wonder why I went.

I could write to you about the many pubs we sat in and the local beers Mike and I drank, some aged in oak-barrels, some spiced for seasonal greatness. Or I could tell you about the fine roasted coffee we sipped from Arabica, one of the dozen or so downtown, corner coffeehouses we passed. I could try to describe to you the changing of leaves we set our eyes upon from arrival to departure, rafting down Dead River category four rapids near Canada, or the yellow and red surrounding the city scene on every street turn, but sadly you weren’t with me experiencing Maine in transition.

I could try to describe to you Becky’s Diner on the main coastal strip where our waitress, Cameron chuckled as we admitted to being unfamiliar with haddock (quite delightful fish). There was also the hefty red-boiled lobster on the waterfront, and the tasty burger at the Great Lone Bear, a local joint in town. We met some folks and developed friendships, and of course amongst it all, watched and listened to Sufjan Stevens at the Port City Music Hall in a small crowd next to a couple of students from Gordon College. The whole getaway seemed right, as if our place was etched out for us there, and we rode in just in time to fill in the colors, the details.

And even though you weren’t there, I can tell you, things don’t just happen at random, but are intricately connected to something greater. I can be sure that I was supposed to be there. One thing I’ve been attempting to grasp lately is that it’s a healthy virtue to understand my place and be okay existing in it, to be happy and joyful where I am. And maybe that’s all I want to express. For the weekend, I was meant to be in Maine, and as I return, I know that I am supposed to be here, wherever and whatever here is. I’m all in. So if you’re still wondering why I left, I’m sorry. Maybe next time, I’ll leave you speechless.

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.

It was just a couple of weeks ago that I surpassed the 5000 mile marker on the scooter, and before I let this moment slip by, I pulled off Ponce De Leon just long enough to take a photo with my phone. It’s documented and recorded, at least for now. It’s been a little over a year since I started driving the Buddy 50cc that gets me around. As it turns out, most of my driving has happened between East Atlanta and the Virginia Highlands. More frequently I’ve found myself on North or Peachtree getting to and from Trinity on the northwest side of town. I have noticed that I am proud of these streets that I ride upon day in and day out. And everywhere I tread, I feel more like they are mine. Maybe that’s why I get so frustrated that the light system in the city is so inefficient and untimely. It’s as if I am guilty for not doing anything about it. I took pride in my street being repaved last week, as if my hands were part of the endeavor.

As I near my 24th birthday, I am beginning to wonder if I have adequately soaked up the fullness of this past year of life. Where am I? and where am I going? I like my job, and my scooter and my streets. I like the coming of coolness close at hand. And every chance I get I find my way to my favorite view in town. Is there a better place to stand than from the fourteenth floor balcony of Juniper and 12th?

I love the watch on my wrist and the rings on my hands. For I know where they came from and why they are there. I wear jeans with holes in them. I have a soft stain on my teeth. I can yet to grow a beard. And the people I love are all the same. We are busy and free. We are honest and private. We are better seen from the view of another. And in all of this, I desire and wish that I could just see myself as I am. And I would love it if I could take a four dimensional snap shot and hand it to a friend. And then maybe in 2030 they can show it to me again, maybe as a gift. Wouldn’t that be swell, all wrapped up in 2009 ribbons from where I stand.

It would be more than just a glimpse or a photograph. It would be more than an image in front of me moving and speaking and being. It would encapsulate my essence, like a veil as it’s lifted. And I could see the development of my soul, God-willing; a loving, caring, full me. I believe that what once was, is, and will ever be. So would I just be seeing me again? just less complete?

When I look at Atlanta and the faces I see, I am trying to catch four dimensional beings. But I’m all wrapped up in me. And when I unravel the truth of the matter, my memories will fade. I will lose photos. I will clean my teeth and grow a bushy beard. And even though the city might change, it will still be Atlanta with or without me. And it will be full of four dimensional beings. I just hope I’m selfless enough to see.

I enjoy reading The New York Times. As many of you know, I don’t enjoy watching television, nor do I think it is healthy, but I do find it worthwhile to be interested in what’s going on in the world. So reading the newspaper is my avenue of gathering information on current events. I would read the Atlanta Journal Constitution, but I find that many of their writers seem to have left their creativity and finesse at the door before they arrive every morning. It’s a shame too, because Atlanta needs writers to represent the City well. I can only hope.

And what I wanted to mention instead is that I have been merely flipping through the pages since my return to the states. My time has been stretched and current events fall by the wayside. I do keep an eye out for specific articles that catch my attention. Last week there was a decent write up on Russia’s need for power. And today I noticed and chuckled at the Styles section headlined Good Things Do Come in Pairs featuring Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen centerfold. Yes they are attractive in one sense, but what was more appealing to me instead was the dreary, nightmarish art work below the Home section. Normally it’s composed of surreal modernist architecture in some posh extension of New York City, or a piece on a developing area in town. Sometimes they deal with interesting material like today. The House of Your Dreams, as it’s titled, is shedding light on how even our sleep is being affected by the economic downturn. “People are trying to make sense of this big unknowable, overwhelming, insecure world,” and their dreams are taking on this stress. Some are even having nightmares of homelessness.

I wasn’t aware that so many folks considered dreams and how they relate to reality. It’s odd that The Times even takes interest in such things. But then again, I find this something worth writing about. I mildly considered trying to buy this year (a tax break being incentive), and I would be overwhelmed and frightened if after having done so I woke up in the middle of the night sweating over not being able to pay my mortgage because Mr. Obama wouldn’t stop yelling at me for causing gentrification on the Westside. We’ve had a rat in the kitchen recently, I guess that’s kinda like a similar home nightmare.

I’m not surprised that people’s dreams relate to what’s going on in the world. That sort of thing has been happening since the dawn of time it seems. I think the title stuck out to me for different reasons, and precisely the way the writer knew she would suck me in with her negative ploy on an otherwise well-known positive idea. Dreaming about home is rich and fantastical. It often happens during the day as a getaway from the work desk or alongside the other options in a game of MASH in middleschool; Who will you marry, how many kids will you have, what car will you drive, etc? You remember.

It was just the other day that my friend Tara pointed out to me her dream house right down the road. And at face value it was just another passing moment on an evening stroll in the neighborhood, but I feel as if she gave me a glimpse maybe of a little deeper down. She doesn’t take dreams lightly, and probably doesn’t share desires with everyone. And if she does, than it’s because she knows those sorts of ideas are inherent in all of us.

The homeless man on the side of the road just passed by asking over and over again , “Is anybody home? Is anybody home?”… I bet he has nightmares. I bet he has day-dreams too.

Foxes have holes, birds have nests…