R.S. Evangelista

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.

Now, two weeks after Mr. Salinger’s death at age 91, the letters are being made public. They are likely to be among the first batch of many such correspondences, given Mr. Salinger’s history of letter-writing, that will surface and deepen — or perhaps even alter — the public’s understanding of one of the 20th-century’s most puzzling, and puzzled about, literary lights.

Now cloistered at the Morgan Library and Museum in Midtown Manhattan, the letters had reached the museum by way of gift, a single clamshell box of papers in a much larger collection of 20th-century American literature assembled by Carter Burden and donated to the museum in 1998, two years after Mr. Burden’s death.

The references to Mr. Salinger’s writings are tantalizingly specific. One 1966 letter refers to an accumulation of “ten, twelve years’ work” that includes “two particular scripts — books really — that I’ve been hoarding at and picking at for years.”

*all quoted from Ny Times article

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

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.

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.