R.S. Evangelista

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…

I grabbed a beer a couple nights ago with a couple of my barista buddies. We settled in over at the Brewhouse Cafe in Little Five Points mostly because they have Fat Tire on draft, and that sounded like a good idea. What was a warm Georgia evening turned into a pleasant night on the patio looking out as the city drove by. We talked about how the world began, and whether or not we would want to be sent into an Assisted Living situation in our old age. Conversations are best when you can talk about serious matters, political and religious rambles, and still want to keep drinking together. And they know I’m a churchgoer…

We’re all at different phases in our lives. Rob’s settling down with his wife, which is a beautiful thing. He mentions his desire to pickle his jalapeno peppers and how extensive the process is. Adam’s excited about the thought of attending his ten year reunion soon. He biked to meet us. That’s what he does. And I guess if one were to drink too much, it’s a lot less dangerous of a ride home. I scootered of course, which is categorical of an urban hipster if that’s the box you might want to put me in. But, it’s a year old and baby blue, so it’s not nearly as dirty as the PBR-drinking, mustache-sporting, tight jean-wearing folk you might want to associate me with.

We weren’t as interested in associations as we were just catching up and having a good time. I’ve been in China for a few weeks, and I realized how much I enjoyed my job while I was gone. So after awhile, we inevitably got to talking about San Fran. Was there anything I missed? a story here, a joke there, etc. But we were all willing to admit how lucky we felt. It’s a unique thing to be able to go almost anywhere in Atlanta and see someone you know. Sometimes we don’t remember customers names (which I regret), but we do remember their story, as much as we’ve come to know.

And even though we might all be at different places in our lives, we share something in common. We are human, sharing in the same sort of daily struggle and grind, laughing or crying.  But even more than that, we love our jobs because we love people. And that’s what we have in common.It’s not because of the coffee, and certainly not because of the early opening. It’s the variety and familiarity of faces we get to see and know from all over this sprawling city.

A poem from the airline:

Is that the roar of a city I know?
like a lion or phoenix at the end
of their road?
But as I gain closure and move closer,
she regains her youth
and time hands over some back
and I think I might remember.

Yes. her beacon stands,
her fire glows
and the river flows with
that same red youth,
a passionate folk for hope.

And they have their laugh.
I can hear it.
like the child I remember in the summer lawn
rolling around next door.

Yes. This is home calling, as I fly in
over the horizon, and I know her well.
This is where I was born
and reborn with new life and new learning.

I hope they haven’t forgotten my name.
And I hope there’s a place for me behind the counter
and a place for me to rest my weary head.
I hope they remember me, because
I haven’t forgotten them.