Vista Urbana, and not

I write to you from the sunny-side-up climate of Florida's panhandle. I spent Friday driving and watching the best laser light show I've ever seen gracing the sultry southern skies. Saturday was a lazy combination of book-shopping, the flea market, and starlit skinny-dipping in the pool to the sounds of the Counting Crows Recovering the Satellites. It has been a beautiful beginning to my vacation season, which is turning out to flow in and from random directions and is keeping me in excellent company so far - somehow, it's difficult to believe that such good times can continue, but they will. I am visiting with you this time to relay another letter/journal entry. I had to wait until internet access permitted, because I wrote it down on notebook paper in the spur of a moment. Perhaps that's the best way...


ex Knoxvillia~
Pax and welcome from the decrepit beauty of the well-gutted 10th floor of the Burwell Building above the Tennessee Theatre in downtown Knoxville. I've opened two windows and the sounds and smells of a riverside city blow in with the cooling breeze. Other than that, it's quiet up here. There's a window washer slung bravely in his harness and rope across the street. The job seems precarious, but it's calming to watch. Swallows and blackbirds flit from antenna to flagpole and back again. Fat pigeons cruise the air like hungry businessmen. This view, this place, is a gem.

I came into town seeking job opportunities and discovered, much to my chagrin, that public restrooms are not easily found downtown. Most restrooms are guarded under lock and key - by paranoia-driven floor managers - and are for employs only. This horrifyingly unveiled truth necessitated visits to several buildings, but ended in a jackpot of a find. I'd been told about the Bistro, but had never been; 'twas a shame, but now it has been remedied. I walked in to a dimly lit time-warp of a bar. I say time-warp, because the pace of life immediately toned down about 20rpm. Smoke lazed across the room in a slow waltz to the piano and upright bass that folded me into the breath of the place. A waitress with a young pleasant face polished glasses at the counter. A few white-collar pencil-pushers talked over a newspaper in low tones. I paused to look at a menu and discovered the treasure of a $20 date. I can't wait to take Kat. Oh, and they did have a bathroom, which came well-appreciated.

So, here I am, revisiting the upper recesses of the Burwell Building. But it is time to go, so walk with me, won't you? Let's go ride back down in the ancient metal elevator that groans and grumps like an old roller coaster. We'll walk down the street and pass our hands through the coolness of the sidewalk fountains next to the AmSouth building. We'll get in the car and turn on WDVX to hear what the mandolins and fiddles have to say. We'll sit and listen to the engine running for a bit and contemplate small treasures and corners of our own, before departing downtown. Thanks for spending some time with me. I suppose I'll see you later.

Etc...

Life has moved. She has changed like a roll of weighted dice. My eyes shift and then return to find that I have passed a few fencerows since I last glanced out the window.

I apologize for the hiatus in blogging. Big Brother at CNC has put the damper on some things on my computer, or it's on the fritz. For whatever reason, I can't load the Blogger main site, so here I am borrowing the services of Jared's computer, and he's standing behind me thinking to himself, "Geez, can't he use his own stuff. Stop drinking my Mountain Dew already, good grief!"

I have done my time. In a few days, I will no longer be wearing a number, and I'll be released from the bondage of Carson Newman academia into the parole of bill-paying. I'm in the process of moving Kat into our apartment, into which I will move in a month. For now, this is a short State of the Union address to let you know how things are until I can bring in a more comprehensive journal entry. Off to moving again...