The other night I "met" someone online and he said he had lived in the Finger Lakes region and I said I was currently in Ithaca. I explained that I had moved from lower Westchester and he laughed. He asked if I'd acclimated myself to the "cause-way" and I then realized he understood. I described Ithaca as The Truman Show, with the same people appearing at the same time, in the same place, doing the exact same thing. I explained, for a multitude of reasons, I didn't get out much and he assured me I was missing nothing.
He asked if the track teams still run down the streets together at the same time, the stampede for footsteps, the hollow looks and the lack of sweat. He asked if I smiled at neighbors and witnessed their forced attempts and how hard their eyes dart away. He then asked if I'd heard any good poetry about hardships and loss, written by someone whose life we both could only dream of having. Then of some sub-par play, written by a "townie" who everyone secretly wishes would stop writing these insipid pieces, for nobody other than the local actors, who are all failed art majors. I laughed, because it's all I ever hear about, but refuse to go. The pretentious nature of Ithacans is second to none. They all feel as if they helped Christ lug his cross, but you know, not with all that religious stuff attached.
As I laughed at his knowledge of the area, I thought I'd throw a few and he concurred that nearly every Cornell writer, seemed to have mother issues and if they didn't, they made every poem about a girlfriend about their mother and vice versa. He said, oh yes and told me, how he always laughed how much these boys hated their mothers, but lusted after them too. I asked if everyone was so narrow minded, not in their politics, but in their actual ability to think. He asked me if there was some town meeting or "guest" speaker, which everyone moved their calendars for. I asked why the quotes around the word guest and he noted that the person was usually a well known local, yet throwing guest on a pamphlet somehow gave the event legitimacy.
We both laughed at the absurdity of this little place, which people take it oh so seriously, especially when it's ranked for its greenness and its way of life. Meanwhile the fireworks, gunshots and heavy drug use, much of it done and sold by the middle class white folks, is never reported and from the lack of sirens, even investigated. We both laughed at how easy a place is to read and then he admitted he'd not been here in over a decade. We laughed again and then he said "You should write about it. Everyone in Ithaca writes about Ithaca. It's the thing to do." I laughed, but he continued, "Why not, that area is the home of micro brews, minuscule wineries and the self publishing hub of the the US. He said, if you haven't paid to have something published, you haven't lived in Ithaca long enough." He had no idea the nerve he struck. I said my thanks and we said out goodbyes. His parting shot, "Don't fear, it's safe to set sail. I did."
He asked if the track teams still run down the streets together at the same time, the stampede for footsteps, the hollow looks and the lack of sweat. He asked if I smiled at neighbors and witnessed their forced attempts and how hard their eyes dart away. He then asked if I'd heard any good poetry about hardships and loss, written by someone whose life we both could only dream of having. Then of some sub-par play, written by a "townie" who everyone secretly wishes would stop writing these insipid pieces, for nobody other than the local actors, who are all failed art majors. I laughed, because it's all I ever hear about, but refuse to go. The pretentious nature of Ithacans is second to none. They all feel as if they helped Christ lug his cross, but you know, not with all that religious stuff attached.
As I laughed at his knowledge of the area, I thought I'd throw a few and he concurred that nearly every Cornell writer, seemed to have mother issues and if they didn't, they made every poem about a girlfriend about their mother and vice versa. He said, oh yes and told me, how he always laughed how much these boys hated their mothers, but lusted after them too. I asked if everyone was so narrow minded, not in their politics, but in their actual ability to think. He asked me if there was some town meeting or "guest" speaker, which everyone moved their calendars for. I asked why the quotes around the word guest and he noted that the person was usually a well known local, yet throwing guest on a pamphlet somehow gave the event legitimacy.
We both laughed at the absurdity of this little place, which people take it oh so seriously, especially when it's ranked for its greenness and its way of life. Meanwhile the fireworks, gunshots and heavy drug use, much of it done and sold by the middle class white folks, is never reported and from the lack of sirens, even investigated. We both laughed at how easy a place is to read and then he admitted he'd not been here in over a decade. We laughed again and then he said "You should write about it. Everyone in Ithaca writes about Ithaca. It's the thing to do." I laughed, but he continued, "Why not, that area is the home of micro brews, minuscule wineries and the self publishing hub of the the US. He said, if you haven't paid to have something published, you haven't lived in Ithaca long enough." He had no idea the nerve he struck. I said my thanks and we said out goodbyes. His parting shot, "Don't fear, it's safe to set sail. I did."
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