Simplicity

Last month, as it really has been a month now, I took my annual voyage to the summer camp for nerds, AKA the College Board's read of the AP US History exams.  We've been in Louisville, KY for my tenure, which isn't all bad.  I lived in Kentucky twice, got my bachelor's there, and while it is not my longest place of residence it is the place that captured my soul for homesickness boughts and markers of oddly made binaries of identity.  In blunt laymen's terms, I'm not from the Bluegrass but parts of me are.  So, amid the mass of grading--and OMG there are so many essays in seven days--I meet up with some old friends from years gone by.  And . . . I partake in local cuisines, like Ale-8 and bourbon.  We all know that I have a long love of bourbon . . . 

That being said, this year's view derives from the Marriott . . . as I wasn't at the Galt.  Did I mind? Eh, ya know . . . those little free apps and bourbon mixers at 5 everyday went a long way.  Speedy elevators and wifi that had speed . . . So the Marriott was a win in my book.  Those bourbon lemonades alone.  

The view is usually along the lines of this romance:

This year, views along Main, provided a similar sense of peace and beauty.  

A nice piece of refuge is always welcome, especially among the scores of endless essays during the week.  

Along the way, Louisville has its own minor league park . . . a yearly game, or two, for ten bucks or so is always a treat.  Why? The simplicity of baseball, the cracking of bats, the beer in plastic cups, sitting in the seats, open air, and sun on your face . . . idle conversations with friends.  This, right here, falls into a level of simplicity often romanticized about . . . never fully captured.  

Though, you never know who and what you'll see at a minor league park . . . kids scrambling for balls, troupes selling random notes du jour, or former big leaguers lost in the spoils of minor league play. 

And for you NY Yankee fans . . . yea, that's Duncan, relegated to the minors.  Quote of the night of simple pleasures: "Yea, Duncan was just so mother-fucking vulgar."  Yea, that was me discussing Duncan's exit from the majors, while sitting under the no cussing sign.  Yes, I define irony.  

Very possibly the worst photo of me ever taken.  The first one was worse . . . in short, there is something to be said to holding the camera at eye level and not--ya know--chest level or lower.  See above picture for a photo taken too low.  The imagery is nice though, via filters.  Ignore the angle making Micah and me look like platypuses.  

As the days turned into evenings, and the week rolled on (as they always do), Micah and I pondered the purchase of Willie Nelson tickets.  Four years ago, I think, Micheal Buble was in town at the Yum! Center.  Eh, we hemmed and hawed, and in the vows of poverty we took to be academics we skipped the show on grounds we couldn't justify the hundred dollar cost.  Needless to say, the memory of not going has done more than haunts our memories since.  So, when we saw Willie on the river . . . well, we searched.  Then, then, we decided to hold off on fifty bucks for the open air show.  Instead, we went for a wander along the river.  As the sounds of Willie engulfed the air of that summer night, the perfect evening did more than envelope us.  The perfect breeze, the requisite amount of stars in the night sky . . . the glistening river backdrop . . . 

Standing at the gates we listened to the sounds of Willie waft around us.  Then . . . then the dude Todd and I decided to, well, ask people leaving for their ticket stubs.  See, Allison Krauss opened.  They entered and left pre-Willie.  We have no shame.  See note above about vows of poverty.  

Four perfectly good tickets later, for folks who left pre-Willie . . . I will never understand why, but their loss and my win is comparing apples to oranges.  

Inside we wandered, and ended up:

I make no apologies for meandering the crowd, with my skirt and six dollar beer.  A night with Willie, who--well--I've been singing since I came from my Momma's womb, served the right amount of simplicity.  Perhaps this is the type of thing you should only do at 19, and not . . . in your late 30s, but . . . I make no apologies here.  Songs embedded in my own folds of memory filled the literal recollections of that evening.  A simple release devoid of sweating and cussing while I penguin style run six miles, shears slicing silks, knits, and cottons, and poetically crafted tales of the passings of life were all put on hold . . . just for a few.  

Standing along the river, in the peaceful night air, a prolonged moment of bliss occurred.  

As for the cray, cray photo chick . . . anyone got photoshop? Take that chick out for me? Or, better yet, make her fool ass go viral with stupidity.  

Then, the week of endless essays came to an end.  Along the way, my flight was overbooked and I opted for a reroute via Cincinnati . . . in a cab paid for by Delta, after having an accidental Willie show, I had an unplanned road trip along paved paths of my youth.  Scenery, like a water color painting, filled the oracles of my eye for miles and miles . . . a couple of hours later it all ended at the Northern KY/Cincinnati airport.  Perhaps I shouldn't be left alone with my own thoughts for that long.  Indeed.  

In the meantime, though, I gazed  starred out the window in dumb luck shock.  Roads and places I had not thought of in years flooded through the modes of memory.  Band trips, road trips with friends, roads winding into hills and trees and grassy knolls . . . it all added to a little bit of simplicity and moments of non-tangible tranquil space.  

Of course, I have to admit . . . being in a one-time home was nice . . . for a moment.  In the end, I embraced my resonate happy to be home with the hustle, bustle, senoritas screaming on the stoop, and prolonged sounds of life and chaos passing by.  

Yet, a week later my Momma has surgery, and in the course of that stress filled ball runs along a path well known, in the rural enclaves of southern Virginia, filled me with a respite of simplicity.  If only for a moment. 

  The boat dock, threes miles from my parents front door . . .

Momma came out kicking, and I headed back to my own home.  The summer, as in July, has officially begun.  City pools had opened, and my evenings have become encompassed with lap swimming again.  The idle rhythmic pace, the gasping for air, the 32 laps to a mile . . . that is a simple pleasure, available for about eight weeks every year.  As I move my arms, and legs, to propel through the water and make it to the other end without getting nailed by another swimmer, my mind wanders and finds relative moments of escape and that fleeting moment of simplicity that is devoid from much of life in the modern world.  

The city, I will always call home from wherever I do reside.