theology&geometry

Hi, Nina. You may not remember me, but the front end of your fancy 1996 Acura 3.2TL became intimately acquainted with the rear end of my 2000 Oldsmobile Alero at the end of December. Perhaps you recall that meeting. I recall it was quite traumatic for you because you yelled at me to look at your car, opining all the while that it was going to cost SO MUCH to fix, even though you were the one who hit me.

Anyhoo, Nina M. Booher of Spotsylvania, Va., it has come to my attention, via the accident report that has finally made its way into my hot little hands, that you told the officer that I swerved into your lane, which caused you to plow into the ass of my car.

I suppose that in your drunken state, it probably seemed like I was swerving into your lane even though I was sitting completely still for a good three minutes, waiting on a break in the steady oncoming traffic. But then again, it probably also seemed like you were happy and popular and headed downtown for a night of great fun, but that turned out not to be the case, either, as, apparently, they arrested your ass and took you downtown for other less fun reasons.

Which makes you a little psychic, I think, because, as you’ll recall, the first thing your stupid ass said to me when I got out of my car and looked at you was, “I”m fucked. I’m going to jail.”

That’s a special talent, Nina. It should serve you well. Maybe the first thing you will think tomorrow when you wake up is, “I’m an arrogant, lying bitch who’s lucky I’m not having the holy living fuck sued out of me. Yet.”

So, Nina, what I’m getting at is this: Not only were you monumentally bitchy to me when it was completely your fault that we had this accident at all, but you were also fucking stupid enough to stand around in front of me with your tuxedoed fratboy goon squad and openly debate who was going to take the fall for driving, only to wuss out at the last second and have the truth wrangled from you by an angry cop. But on top of that — the shit icing on a shit cake — you had the cojones to walk over to that cop and tell him — out of my earshot — that I was the one who pulled some stupid shenanigans to cause that wreck? Wow, Nina Booher. You may be the dumbest Spotsylvanian ever. Which probably doesn’t say much.

I hope you forgive my immaturity in this matter. But I thought you and anyone who Googles you should at least know how I feel.

I hope the mayo was rotten and the chicken infested with salmonella.

You feckless cretin.

… because he apparently is my neighbor:

FUCK YOU.

There are two lanes. You’re free to use the other one.

If the crack that you recently smoked is seeping out of your widened, red, wet eyes so that I can spot you from across the room and know instantly that you’re a crackhead who’s about to say something to me, even if it’s as lovely as, “You got a name to go with that pretty face?” do not be surprised if I laugh, embarrassed, and say, “Ha, no!” because I am merely standing there debating giving you my real name. And while I am 80 percent set on telling you I am Jo Ann, I keep quiet while you tell me, rather awkwardly, that your name is [name withheld to protect the drug addled] and that you “hope we can meet again at some other more opportune time.” Which, when you’re a crackhead, probably means in the parking lot while I’m fumbling for my keys (thankfully that did not happen).

[for Tuesday, Oct. 9]

There’s something I need to say to you.

We haven’t known each other all that long, or spent more than seven hours together, but I’m in love with you. I’m not sure how it happened, and I wasn’t really expecting it. I’ve been in a serious relationship with Memphis now for almost three years.

Sure, I’ve met other cities. I had a few brief flings with New York, but it was just too overwhelming and dirty for me. Just last week I was introduced to Honolulu, and I have to admit, I had a fabulous time there. Honolulu is so laid-back, and so sun-kissed that it feels charmed and quite cut off from the rest of the world. I fantasized about what it would be like to leave Memphis and spend more time with Honolulu, and it was exciting. But also a little too drastic. So when I left and came back to Memphis, I was sure it was the right thing to do, even though a part of me was disappointed to return to my old routines.

But you. You’ve made me rethink everything about my life.

I mean, I’ve known all about you for years. You’re legendary now. You used to be quiet and sleepy and hard-working but mostly underappreciated. And then several years ago, something happened to you and people started to take notice of your musical prowess. Suddenly everyone was talking about you and trying to get with you and figure you out, dissect your every move and extract the larger meaning, and assign traits to you that you didn’t necessarily want. But you hung in there, and you seem to have adjusted well and not gotten completely self-important.

As I coasted over a hill with the sunrise to my back Tuesday morning, I saw you for the first time. And, not to be shallow, but you are absolutely beautiful. There’s something moody and serene about you, something a little cold, but something so fascinating that I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Each of your curves leads to an unexpected place, where there’s yet more beauty to behold.

The sun bathed you in pink light that morning and as I saw you wake up, I felt like I was at home, and although I hadn’t slept in more than 24 hours, I felt invigorated being around you. I imagined the rest of my life there with you, waking up and watching the sun rise, with Puget Sound nearby, cooling the air, and the mountain in the distance watching over us as we went about our day.

You’ve done a fantastic job of cultivating wonderfully open-minded and creative people to surround yourself with. They seem to be urbane and sophisticated, yet not too uppity. They seem liberal and tolerant and diverse. They’re unlike many of the people around Memphis and Nashville, where the cultures seem much more traditional and conservative, and you can’t put “fuck” in huge print, even in the alt-weekly.

And, Seattle, you recycle. And you’re clean. That is so freaking cool. I know, it sounds corny. But Memphis, on the whole, isn’t really all that into the environment. Memphis tends to prefer an empty paved lot to a grove of fir trees. It’s just another way in which Memphis seems backward-thinking and old-fashioned, which just doesn’t jibe with my personality.

As close as I feel to Memphis — and we’ve grown very close these past three years — I just can’t shake the feeling that we’re not quite meant for each other. I don’t know. Maybe I’m still expecting too much of Memphis. It’s happened before. I know there are a lot of things keeping it from being my perfect match. Poverty, thick summer humidity, stubbornness, corruption, deep wounds from the past. Memphis can sometimes act like Artax in the Swamp of Sadness, unable or unwilling to get up out of the muck and keep moving because the problems just seem so insurmountable.

And yet, Memphis’ gritty determination and authentically creative attitude keep me tethered. They’re the only things that keep me sane here. But I feel like you’ve got all that. And more.

I’ve never had another city tempt me the way you did, Seattle. And I’ve not been able to stop thinking about you since.

I’m sure people will come along and tell me bad things about you so as to soothe my aching heart. You’re expensive, you like seafood a little too much, you live a little too close to a volcano, etc. But something’s pulling me toward you.

I hope you feel it too.

Project 365

Sorry I was doing 67 in a 50. But thanks for letting me go.

“Slow it down” was a nice touch, by the way.