A Noble Manchester

May 14, 2011

I went to the Crescent hoping I’d feel the revolution.  This place, where Engels first conceived the Communist Manifesto around 1840, was originally called the Red Dragon. I love that it had been called the Red Dragon.  They think, those who believe, that is why the revolution was red.  (Even today they say this city is red and that’s because of United.  Today, though yes, today the city is Blue!  35 years of loss has shifted and today the city is Blue).

There is no plaque near the door, no table in a corner where the words were written.  There is nothing that would distinguish the Crescent/Red Dragon as having been where something of significance had happened.  The Crescent is a tiny whole in the wall – my favorite kind of bar - two rooms each with its own front door and a passage behind the bar that connects the rooms in the back.  And no plaque will ever be awarded because they can’t prove that the manifesto was conceived here.  There were no witnesses.  There is a letter, though from Engels to Marx that refers to this place where Engels had been writing the tenants of what would become the most significant social and political influence of the 20^th century.  There is a letter.  But that is not enough to prove that it happened here. 

I left the Crescent and wandered out of Salford back into Manchester past the People’s History Museum.  I’ve spent so many hours there each time studying the story of Peterloo, which breaks my heart each and every time I think about it.  In 1819, the Massacre at Peterloo began as a demonstration for voting rights with 60,000 peaceful citizens in attendance.  The demonstration turned into an uprising whose first victim was a 2 year-old boy named William Fildes. 

As with all revolutions it begins with an action or a revelation so small, gentle, simple.   One that suddenly turns everything and devastates so wholly and the symbol of the loss, a child or in my case the inability to have one, manages to transform revolutionaries from the most surprising of volunteers.

Abbie Hoffman of the Chicago 7 once said, “I was probably the only revolutionary referred to as ‘cute’.”  I have his words printed on the back of my business cards.  It is the unexpected that appealed to me, the slight annoyance in his tone that a revolutionary could be so easily dismissed with a quality like cute.  I have been dismissed, my quest assumed frivolous and that has never mattered to me.  And like Abbie Hoffman I believe those who misjudged were clearly missing the point, the enormous truth that will accompany a revolutionary who is cute.  When the gentle, the simple, the small and the cute feel a need to rise up and change the world as they know it that is when we know something real is about to happen.  The provocateurs, the significant, the heavy weights will always find something to battle.  It is those like me who can adapt, who can lemon squeezy make limeade from limes, whose life has been extraordinarily blessed, those are the forces who can exact change.  It is because we have everything to lose, it’s because it would be so easy to just not change. 

I think it is a willingness to be on the vanguard, the line in front of the line and say, “I want things to be different.”  I doubt William’s mother Ann thought she was going to get the right to vote in 1819, I doubt that’s why she was there.  Perhaps, she thought her voice would create a more equitable world for William some day.   And almost 200 years later we have so much, but must remain vigilant because it is easy to forget even the smallest of gifts.  Small, invisible, sometimes dismissible gifts. 

I have to admit, I like being on the vanguard.  I need to be on the vanguard, press forward first.  And I thank you for falling back; I actually imagine you are on the vanguard too, just on the edge of my periphery right in line, out of my sights, allowing me to battle this all my own.  I thank you for not showing up.  I see that would have made things rather difficult for me.  Wise strategy on your part, Captain.  Your wisdom is one of the many things I already love about you. 

I’ve been writing letters.  I have witnesses to the revolution I have undergone.   It happened here.  And from in front of the front lines I have learned revolutions do not require that I reinvent the wheel.  It means sometimes making just a tiny little adjustment and from there you just roll with it.  

May 13, 2011

Steve Perry used to sing to me.  You know, the legendary lead singer of Journey.  I met him several years ago at Vivian’s Café in Studio City.   I knew him when I was in high school too.  He was (is) a god and when I met him as an adult I was still (I still am) so completely in love with him.  Yeah…he used to sing to me.  He’d see me coming and he’d sing, “Jennifer, Juniper…”  You know the Donovan song.  Just the opening phrase, not the whole song, and my father used to sing that exact phrase to me too so when Steve first did it I felt a tiny stitch in my heart.  And I thought, “Oh, crap, I don’t know if Steve Perry is single or if he’s even interested in me, but now I can’t marry him, because he sings this song to me and it makes me feel so fragile.  I can’t possibly allow myself to be fragile around a man!”  Which as we know now was probably exactly what I should have done. 

But, yeah, Steve Perry used to sing to me, how many girls can say that?  And it’s a good thing there’s a song with my name it in because sometimes I forget my name.  Sometimes I have to sing it to myself because there have been times when I’ve gone a solid day or two without ever hearing anyone say my name.  A girl could forget who she is.  My identity bound so tightly to the sound of my name.   And sometimes people try to call me Jenn or Jenny and neither is really me.  Jennifer or Jennifer Grace is really what sounds correct to my ear, the whole of who I am.  My family has a nickname for me but that is just for them, you might try to say it one day but it will sound funny coming form your mouth (like those boyfriends of the past who have tried, God bless them) and so you’ll invent your own pet name for me and I for you but we will identify one another mostly by the tone of how we address each other.  The tone of your voice, the way the syllables of my name, all four of them, are pressed from your lips.   I will recognize you immediately when I first hear your voice.

And despite this certain certainty you are still something of a confusion; just how I might happen upon you, who exactly you are.  I don’t have any of it solved.  I came here hoping to identify you but I have fallen short of that target at least from this original intention, that being to meet you, to document us.   Instead I have documented this city.  Manchester. 

And Manchester is a confusion too.  I look around and wonder What exactly is Manchester’s identity?

Sitting in a café in Ancoats and the Burt Bacharach song, Raindrops has just come on.  That’s the song I chose for my debutante presentation.  It’s the song my sister had at her presentation and it’s the song my father used to whistle the most.  In the end another deb had chosen Raindrops first so I had to find another song. I ended up with Tomorrow from the musical Annie (it was 1983…) which considering the lyrics is an interesting choice; from “Raindrops keep falling on my head…” to “The sun will come out tomorrow.”  Funny, the choices we make without even realizing what we are or have done.   And it’s been raining all afternoon here in Ancoats…and I forgot my raincoat…

Yes, Manchester’s identity; another thing I’ve yet to solve.  I’ve asked a number of people over the last few months, what does Manchester identify with?  What exactly is the industry here?  Once it was textiles then music and soon media.  But media you cannot contain because factories are now our computers and we sleep where our grandfathers worked.  So what will it be?

I do feel ready to find you and begin us.  Shut down this factory and put to test the mechanics of me, industrialize my development, embrace the new social order that often follows significant change.  There are the 35 or so (plus or minus several dozen) people who daily check in on my journey to you (Google analytics the modern day counting house). I am grateful to and for their company, their encouragement, their insight, love, joy, rage, pathos and valor (Someone in London actually spent 7 hours here yesterday.  7 hours?  7 hours!  Someone in London by way of an internet provider in Manchester - Google analytics!   How unusual!  How curious!  How bizarre!  I’m assuming they opened a window and then forgot they were just sitting on this site.  I’d hate to think I was being stalked.  How ironic!)   And those who came along with me, they have been good to me, to us.  Wishing for good for us.  And so I am the slightest bit hesitant to shut this factory down. 

Mostly a bit nervous knowing there will be a new kind of work in store for me.   There will be a lot more work.  K5 has reminded me that with you will come a whole host of new challenges.  N1 has agreed, a journey like none other that I could imagine.  And I wonder just what will it take to build us?  What kind of industry will you and I be?  What will our union form, conceive, result?     If you must know, I have to admit, I have shirked responsibilities in the past.  I have hidden in an old version of me that shied from commitment. 

I have come to learn that fear of failure assures that you attempt nothing.   There is proof in all those sweet lovely boys that I ended with, every single one of them.  I have ended every romantic relationship I have ever begun believing, “If I do not commit then I cannot fail.”   But now I know I won’t ever succeed either. 

And so my commitment to you is this. 

May 9, 2011

I wanted to write about the Mancunian Swagger today and so I set out this afternoon to sit and watch men walk.  Seriously, stare at them and get clear on what exactly they are doing with their bodies that results in the brilliantly synchronistic head to toe show of pride. 

And so I sat down in Albert Square.  Stunning day.  So I tweeted it and attached a picture. 

No one responded…which I chalked up to Mancunian Pragmatism.  If it’s gorgeous out, don’t celebrate it because any second now the sky will open up and dump on you (and they were right).   Actually it’s more like a “don’t draw attention to the sun shine, otherwise you’ll scare it away” which I think is really just a British penchant for playing it all down.   We don’t play things down in America.  Americans are known for their fearless ability to self promote all the good stuff we’ve got going for us.  We’ve even been known to stretch the truth a bit “up sell” I think they call it.  Boast a bit.  Which brings me back to the Swagger.

Now, those folks who live in the South frequently complain that Northerners are a bit full of themselves.  Southerners say that those from the North are boastful and this kind of self-aggrandizement is somehow distasteful.   As far as I’m concerned pride in one’s accomplishments is far from a deadly sin and as best I know it never made that “thou shalt not” list, not even in revised editions.  Anyhow, so I thought,  “Great!  I’ll fit right in.”   I have kind of a boastful nature, a bit of a strut in a girlie roll my hips in a figure eight kind of way. 

When I arrived in Manchester I was so thrilled to recognize the Swagger.  The Ian Brown/Liam Gallagher Mancunian Swagger.  And Guru Dave writes about the Monkey Run in his tome on the defining cultural moments of Manchester.  If I remember correctly the swagger got legs in the late 19th century and stretched them until post World War II.   The young people of Manchester would put on their finest clothes and strut up Market Street (still a monkey run), or Oldham Street or Stockport Road on parade and without spending any money at all manage to while away the hours only causing a modicum of trouble (for example by singing wildly offensive songs like “Yes, We Have No Bananas”).   This was the precursor to “cruising” and I see how over the years the Monkey Runners determined a need to find their King. 

Liam Gallagher on parade is rather extraordinary; the arm swing is truly a sight to behold.  He parades with his chest high, shoulders back and his arms - almost in the shape of a “C” - are held a good three or four inches away from his body.  Toes are always pointed out, a bit like a ballerina if I’m going to be honest, walking with emphatic heels first.  Monkey Runners lead with their hips, taking strides much longer than necessary for their statures.  And Liam does this shoulder roll thing that’s synchronized with his walk, right shoulder is up when the left shoulder is down, and he bends his knees far more than necessary, he’s so acutely aware of being watched.

Ian Brown utilizes a little more integrity, perhaps because he is the king, when he asserts his persona through his swagger  - I just said that Ian Brown’s swagger has integrity.  Ian is ganglier, leaner.  He hits the pavement harder, there’s very little bend to his knees and from the shoulders up he’s much stiffer.    But still toes pointed out, too long a gait and far too wide a stance when he stops moving. 

The Salford variation as exemplified by Christopher Eccelston is a swagger that modifies nicely in inclement weather.  Christopher is quite tall and rather lean and so he hits the pavement hard like Ian with shoulders back and head high - toes, yes pointed out, arms not quite as wide - but he adds this kind of head bob thing.  Like a pendulum in a clock his head drops really only to the right in sync with his gait.  Right foot forward and his head rocks right.  Right and right and right and right.  There’s a real rhythm about this strut; hypnotic.

I’ve noticed this Salford variation on a number of men in town, hands stuffed into pockets, elbows pointed out to balance the toes, shoulders forward against the rain or wind, head down but eyes up.  Their whole bodies curve forward, again, like a “C”.   Still though with the rhythmic head bob, right, right, right…  It’s a bit like the Lowry image.   Which precipitates an evidentially chicken/egg theory question…which came first…Lowry or the image he created?

Now all variety of Swagger is accompanied by a very wide stance.  When these men stand still their feet - with toes pointed out - are easily a meter wide.   Claiming space, I suppose. 

So, because I wanted to gather more evidence I sat in Albert Square and watched men walk for about ten minutes until I realized I was in the wrong part of town to get a real swagger.   The men in Albert Square are too politicized to swagger.  The men in Albert Square tend to work in Town Hall and that means they’ve had to generalize themselves in order to appeal to the masses.  A generalization, I know, but I think chances are good they’ve de-swaggered themselves and since I was able to spy only one decent swaggerer I felt rather vindicated in my opinion. 

So I picked myself up and headed for one of two places in town where I knew I would find egos.  Market Street, yes, but it’s too crowded to be able to watch someone for more than a second or two.  No, I was headed for Spinningfields where I was certain I would stumble upon some parading.   I cut through Brazennose Street (aptly named) and stopped for a moment in Lincoln Square where I, for not the first time, pondered to myself “Why does this statue of Lincoln have disproportionately large hands and feet?”

Seriously, what is that about?  He’s not even close to being to scale.  That couldn’t have been a mistake, the artist had to have intended to convey him in that way.    Every time I see that statue I think of a boy I dated in high school who had enormous hands and feet.  He was about 6’ 5” when he was 17 and he was basketball player.  He played Center and not surprisingly his nickname was Flip.    I was also in love with a boy when I was 9 who’s hands and feet grew faster than the other parts of his body so he had these teenager hands and feet with this little kid body.  His nickname was Thumper.  Anyway, Flip used to wink at me and say, “Big hands, big feet…you know what that means?”  And I’d blush and try to hide it by rolling my eyes at him and reply, “No, Flip, I don’t know what that means.”  And he’d chuckle at his own 17-year-old boy slightly off color joke and say, “Big gloves, big shoes.”    And I’d think to myself, How did I end up with this goofball? 

I actually had been in love with Flip for a long time before we ended up dating.  When I was 11 I had a not so secret planet sized crush on him.  He was 13 and super cute and very popular and he didn’t know I even existed.   I was extremely awkward and not super cute and I had only three friends who became quite bored with how obsessed I was with Flip whose real name happens to have the same initials as Burt Reynolds.  One Monday morning, my three girlfriends, Kathy Smith, Lisa Hausmann and Stacy Deckinger, came running up to me and excitedly told me to guess who Kathy’s mother had run into at the beach club that weekend.  Kathy gave me one clue.  “His initials are B.R.,” she emphatically stated.   Well, of course, I guessed Flip.  There’s no way under those conditions I would not assume that “B.R.” meant the boy I was pining for.  I ached, I pined for him so terribly.   In my universe B.R. meant Flip, not 1980s box office draw Burt Reynolds.  Boy, were those girls annoyed with me. 

But just four short years later I caught Flip’s eye.    Then two years after that I dated Thumper, whose body had finally caught up with his big hands and feet.    Yes, sir-ee, I eventually get my man…

And so now back to Mr. Lincoln, what is with those big hands and feet?  I keep trying to come up with some metaphor, like he gave the slaves their freedom, a gesture so large that he must have big hands…no…that sounds too ridiculous.  Or maybe it’s like Flip used to joke, “Big hands, big feet…big gloves, big shoes.”  And who could fill Lincoln’s shoes?  My Genius PHD Flatmate is an authority on slavery and so I sent her a text.  She texted me back that she had “…no idea why the statue of Lincoln in Lincoln Square is not to scale…” but she did know someone who might.    There’s an answer out there, somewhere.

In the meantime, I sat in Lincoln Square and watched the boys strut by.  And I thought about pride and Lincoln and slavery and I thought about this city that was built on cotton.   Aptly nicknamed Cottonopolis.  I thought about the ancestors of the boys who would strut by, those men and women who in the 1860s didn’t think twice about supporting Lincoln and his effort to abolish slavery.  Manchester supported the abolishment of slavery.  Poor wage earners who worked in factories where raw cotton was turned into textile.  Poor wage earners who could no longer feed their families if America no longer exported cotton.   They were just people who knew what was right and no matter the cost would support that good.  Manchester is so obviously proud of its contribution to the doing of right.  

And the head rocks, right, right, right.  

And the Monkey Runners who have evolved from those men and women may not even realize why they are genetically disposed to feel so proud.    I think it is because they have evolved from a brave humanity and they have earned the right to swagger. 

May 8, 20011

At Tatton Park in the gardens there are rows of pear trees, pretty and uniform in a regiment ready to blossom and then fruit.  On the perimeter of the orchard is a wall of apple trees that have been forced to grow like grapes.  Wire walls brace the delicate trunks with branches splayed and tamed to creep right and left and when J2 and I wandered the gardens a few weeks ago I didn’t quite understand why this method of growth made me feel so unnerved. 

Are apples supposed to grow this way?  And I almost still refuse to believe they are apples.  J2 and I debated the point hashing over the names of the labeled varieties.  I thought perhaps pears but she insisted, correctly, No, they are apples.  And I thought how unexpected to witness this forced and overly vulnerable manner of growth.  To which I thought, Okay, yeah, now I get why I am unnerved.  I’m looking at myself. 

The unexpected is something I have come to recognize, if that is even possible, eliciting frequent Oh, certainly that’s happening because that’s not something I would have anticipated.  And there are times that the unexpected has made me feel like a cross-sectioned Gala spread thin and captive all the while knowing that I put myself in this particular garden knowing that I was forcing if not demanding that I change.  Coming here, making my quest public was my chosen method and what followed was an indirect but perfectly fruitful madness.  Because here’s the deal, I did not entirely enjoy this inorganic means to the end.   I knew it would be difficult but I didn’t think to anticipate the variety of difficult - life rarely allows us to anticipate such crucial teaching tools - and the intense exposure was actually repellent to me, but it all thankfully enabled an accelerated growth, emotional steroids I suppose, which is why I am moving on sooner that I had originally anticipated.  I have learned my lessons quickly, late bloomer that I am. 

I have thankfully found my vulnerability – remember that was key to this process – to resemble a quiet forgiving strength and a delicate but agile curiosity.  And it was very much worth it, the discomfort that came with dropping myself into unfamiliar territory and then choosing to have my face and mission put on the cover of a newspaper.  What was I thinking?  Well, I wanted people to follow my journey, connect, perhaps even feel compelled to reach for themselves and despite at times having wished I had remained anonymous I realize that more important than my comfort was my example and I’m proud and hopeful that my public risk might somehow have inspired others.  It is after all the discomfort that produces the most lasting result.  

People respond to grand gestures and life does too.    And not surprisingly both happened, one with vim and the other with sweet vigor.   As my Genius PHD Flatmate so wisely observed, You realize only 30% of those who contact you will be mentally sane.    Her statistics were a bit off.  I would say 34.8% of those who contacted me were capable of successfully navigating the Tatton Park Blooming Privet and of the 34.8% I think only 6% of those were people I wouldn’t mind getting lost in the privet with.   That is to say people with whom I would enjoy solving the maze that is this life, either through work or friendship or both.  Most of the people I have met along this journey seem to be on paths, neither good nor bad that are ill suited to mine and I learned the hard fast way.  It is a continuing process – part of the flesh of life – the choices I make about who and what I decide to remain attached to; the support system I am willing to cling to, devote my strength to or rely upon within the context of my vulnerability, my soft underbelly, my core.  I am acutely aware of how powerful an individual can be and the cliché is true, all it takes is just one to spoil the entire harvest.

And it is for this reason that I choose City over United. 

This cliché is why I loathed, too strong a word, was ambivalent about the Lakers; Kobe Bryant is a brilliant player but a poor sportsman.  It is why I refused to embrace the make your dream happen inspiration of American Idol; Simon Cowell is a gifted producer and musician but is I find unnecessarily mean.  And it is why I choose City over United.  Now Wayne Rooney shouldn’t take this personally.  He is the Red Devil (also a variety of apples for enthusiasts) I refer to but really it has nothing to do with him.  It’s me.  I just don’t trust him.  It’s that I cannot abide the game playing off the pitch.  It began with the late summer contract diversion that conveniently followed his prostitute PR nightmare (let the fans think I’m leaving and they’ll love me again).   It is the calculation of clockwork press announcements that polish his image just seconds after he’s misbehaved. It’s that there is always a lack of unity that accompanies assigning one player too much value.  It’s that he’s so good at the game.  It’s that I spent 20 years in Hollywood and it’s all so horribly transparent.  And it’s boring.   Here’s another cliché, there is no “i” in team but there is one in United.  Now, I know there’s also one in City but at least the “i” in City refers to their leader.  

But again, it really has nothing to do with Wayne.  It’s all about me.  It’s who my gut tells me to rely upon.  It’s who I feel safe with.  It’s who I trust my vulnerability with.

May 7, 2011

Yesterday, I walked the city by way of the canals.  I took this city by way of its veins and at first I thought, Yuck.  Yuck, yes, because the beginning of the stretch that leads out to the Quays near Canal Street is kind of yucky.  Stinky, littered with trash that had become separated from its irresponsible owners and just plain yuck.   Clearly not the sort to be easily deterred I know that this city is not all that meets the eye.  First impressions and all and so I stuck with it and as the canal pressed closer to Whitworth past the Palace Theatre and then into the cavern below Deansgate Station I knew I had been right to continue on.  Fresh air flowed along the passage and the waters became clean as well.  

And further along I began to notice the city from this angle.  Grand looming structures, some whose past was more glorious, that bravely sit right on the periphery of the canal and I couldn’t help but feel I was in the safest place on earth.  

I grew up in a neighborhood that had a network of canals that linked in a long and meandering route out through the intracoastal and into the Atlantic Ocean right off the stunning beaches of Ft. Lauderdale, Florida.   My father’s boat, that he cheekily named The Silver Fox, was really the perfect size for ourcompact family of four and we’d take the long ride out to the ocean, well over an hour-long ride through neighborhoods under drawbridges and into downtown.  As leisurely as the ride out would be the arrival always felt tumultuous, the Atlantic being a somewhat aggressive body of water, and thinking on it now, I secretly wished that I was in the water as opposed to just being on it.  

And so yesterday as I walked the cobblestone paths that edged alongside the Rochdale and then into the Bridgewater Canal in Castlefield I felt so completely safe, surrounded by high walls of ancient brick variegated with moss perhaps as ancient, impressive viaducts, the remains of a Roman Fort and the complex supports of joining railways.  

And beyond Castlefield where the path snaked narrow beneath low arches I wasn’t the slightest bit worried I would fall in, or maybe it was that I wasn’t worried should I fall in.   I found myself so willing to walk the most private part of this city, found myself almost eager to experience the intimacy of this angle, through Manchester’s veins from the humming center of its heart.  

May 5, 2011

I spent the morning at the Museum of Science and Industry and it tops my list of places I most enjoy in this city.  I’ve been three or four times in the last few months and there is so much to see.   I haven’t even made it yet to the 1830 Warehouse and really and truly the reason it’s taken me so long to get through the place is that each and every time I go I simply HAVE to go back to the Power Hall even though I’ve seen it already.

There’s something about the items on display, the sheer force that is contained in that building, that I find so impressive.  Just entering the hall the first thing I notice is the thick smell of oil.  Palpable and invasive that smell somehow assures me that everything will run smoothly.  And then the machines, my God, those hulking monuments were relied upon to create something as delicate as momentum.   Machines that due to sheer weight are almost impossible to move somehow managed to create for us, weightless by comparison, a succession of tiny progressive shoves in the direction we wanted to go.    And the coveted desire of forward motion allowed one brilliant idea, with great velocity and ingenuity, to follow the last and suddenly steel and iron were forged into machines that swept us off our feet and made countries small. 

Countries became so small that we began to dream big.

There is a piece of exposed track in the Power Hall that I think has probably served us quite well.  Built in the1850’s this shed was where goods were transferred from rail to road.  And those tracks connect to the line that took passengers away from here.  There’s also an old bench from the Liverpool Road station that used to face those tracks.  

I sat on that Liverpool Road bench where thousands before me had waited patiently or maybe anxiously for the the train that would take them faraway and I realized something happened to me midway through this journey of mine.  Actually a number of things have happened, things I got on board with, things that derailed me, I lost sight, got off track, even ran out of steam I’ll admit, the sheer force of what I was attempting pressed against me, the truth that when you are uncertain of your destination you can be sure you can’t even anticipate the place you will end up.  I had this vague idea of what I was searching for, what I was hoping to accomplish and as the smoke clears I realize that this destination is far better than I had imagined.  I am exactly where I need to be; this platform of possibility that I am standing on.

I will miss Piccadilly Station, arriving even departing.  I will miss riding the train, that forward pull against my body an unseen force that demands that I get from one place to the next. Trains make it easy, just sit back and relax.  You don’t even need a map.  Maps are important, I know, maps are crucial.   They’re not just for cities they are for journeys.

Back in August I wrote these words…

“I love maps more than anything in the world, with exception to Coconut water.  And my juicer.  And my family.  That’s a given.  And the way I look in Aviator sunglasses, although not with my current haircut.  It’s very short and sexy but with this haircut Aviators make me look like I’m a cop and that’s not sexy on me.  Currently, I wear those oversized sunglasses like Jackie-O wore.  Those work well with my haircut.  Which is so funny because my mother used to wear sunglasses so similar to the ones I’m wearing now and she’s always had short hair.  And it just goes to show you; you should never throw anything away because it will always sooner or later come back in fashion.  I could just kick myself for throwing out those rainbow striped leg warmers.   Oh, crap!

Do you see why maps are crucial for me?  I get distracted.  I wander.  And I do love maps.  I love what they look like.  I love their bird’s eye view of everything that exists within a city or a locale.  I love that I can look at a map and quickly find a way to get where I want to go.  They make life so efficient and under control… “

Perhaps it’s that I need a map for my life or a map for my heart.   Where does one find a cartographer who has skills like that?

But before I get on a train or even a plane to depart from here to the next there, there are few things left for me to do.  Decisions to make, quick one last visits to points of interest that I love.  I’ll have to visit Harry (my dear beloved Harry), the John Rylands, the Crescent.  I have thoughts to share on the Mancunian swagger, the revolution, reinvention and industry of this place…and then there is the matter of United or City…do I have to choose?

And so I am off to formulate a plan for the next ten days, a kind of map,  just so that I leave nothing to chance.

May 1, 2011

I have been thinking about you a lot lately.  The subject of you has come up so often – people who are curious if I have met you, those who secretly (and not so) think I am daft, perhaps ridiculous even a horror (like a disaster that was bound to happen) – and I quickly shelve the subject.  Because while on the surface, while in terms of concept and fragile clever conceit this last several months was about you, it had in fact truthfully very little to do with you.  You as in you with all the particulars of the man that you are.  

You are in theory here in Manchester, like the blizzard of dandelion fluffs that have taken over the city – you are the gentle promise of next year’s spring floating through the city, effortlessly making your way through open windows and doors into shops, darkened movie theatres, restaurants even my flat.  You are everywhere, within reach but elusive to my grasp because as we both know and have known since the start; finding, catching and containing love under these conditions does not work.  Concept cars are just that, concepts that are not intended for the road.  It is a way to determine what could work, find the flaws, tweak the design and prepare for the possibility of an exciting future that we simply have the willingness to imagine.  

In theory I was looking for you.  In practice I was finding myself.  I had lapsed so far from the possibility of the kind of woman I wanted to be.  I lacked the compassion to like or even respect myself.  I had no idea how to be or do any of those things that you are worthy of.    I didn’t want to find you, not  just yet.  I knew I wasn’t ready.  Even now I only recognize when I lose my handle on this delicate new version of me.   But I see it and I know the difference now, how it feels, this calm, this faith and it suits me.  

And the promise of what is to come makes me feel like a dandelion on air.

I have to go back soon.  To America.  I am not yet certain what will happen after that.  I have a few ideas, dreams, simple ambitions that will put to practice all I have learned.  But, I have no doubt that I will be on the road to you.  Clearly this particular journey will have come to its end so I will tuck these letters away for safe keeping (on the internet) for you to read someday. 

Or maybe I won’t even tell you that they are here.  Maybe I’ll relish in the moment-to-moment miracle of how you discover me, like some excellent mystery that you had no idea even existed.

April 28, 2011

I woke up this morning and I thought, They’re married already.  Wills and Kate had a private ceremony with just the family last Thursday.    She wore the dress she really wanted to wear and not the one that would look best when photographed.  They exchanged vows in an intimate way that would make sense to them, vows that would allow them to communicate just what they feel for one another without worry or even a second thought of international propriety.  They exchanged their vows in some quiet little corner of Buckingham Palace, in the middle of the day, when no one was paying attention.  Maybe the Queen wasn’t even there.  Maybe just Harry as a witness and a Vicar from her village.  

That’s what I woke up thinking and as I write it I am more and more convinced it is correct.  Maybe not last Thursday necessarily, but that they did it already.    At least that’s what I hope.  If ever I have hoped to be right it is on this matter.  Please, let me be right.  Let them be married already and let tomorrow be just the fun and fluff for all of us.

I am certain that I will spend most of tomorrow in tears.  I am susceptible to the romance of it all even though I know in my heart they already did it.  I am susceptible to the larger meaning of missing Diana and having watched William as a little boy.  It may not be popular to have an interest in the Royals but I can’t help it.   I was raised on Walt Disney and an endless parade of media hyped princesses and the belief that once she finds her prince everything will be right with the world. 

I know it’s not always the case.  Not even close to being real.   I know princes are human and princesses sometimes have to go to work and fight the dragons too.   Even still I am so susceptible. 

We have no aristocracy in America.  We had the Kennedys, most are gone now.  We had JFK Jr., how I loved him.  How heart broken I was when he was taken.   It’s a fantasy, all of it,  I know but the adrenaline can’t be denied.    Wouldn’t everyone love to live in a castle?  It seems silly to suggest they give it up.  Unpopular to some even unnecessary perhaps.  But most of us want this wedding, need this wedding and them, relish in the ceremony, the grand gesture of it all.  It puts us on the map.  Places us within a context, marks time and creates a commonality.  We are witnessing an expression of love.  We are witnessing their commitment.    All of us together at the exact same time.  And perhaps unpopular, perhaps unnecessary, but I will always prefer to share the commonality of a wedding to sharing the commonality of a war.   A fraction of the expense and all in celebration of love. 

But I do hope they’ve managed to keep something for themselves.   I hope they had the good sense to marry ahead of the plan.  I don’t mind in the least if they keep that tiny secret for decades to come. 

 Ohhh, I know I am right.  Hoorah!  I know, I am right! 

April 22, 2011

There was a duck race down the River Irwell in Spinningfields this afternoon.  So clever I thought, A duck race on Good Friday! and I was so excited that I put it in my calendar over a month ago. 

I actually thought there would be real ducks racing…which I thought would have been fun to watch, real ducks waddling through town, quacking an all.  And I mentioned it to Gordo this week, “I’m so excited about the duck race on Friday, but who’s going to clean up after all those damn ducks?”  And he laughed and I think, hell I know, worried for my sanity as well as cognitive skills and he responded with, “Jennifer, real ducks would just fly away.”    And quicker than I could say, “Ohhhh,” he tweeted about my gullibility qualifying it with, “She’s  American.”

My flat mate just got back from America; Genius PHD that she is and she brought some Kentucky moonshine with her.  I don’t know that moonshine bears any relevance to her studies on the American slave trade during the 18^th and 19^th centuries but it certainly adds a little flavor.   I think my Grandfather made moonshine.  I seem to recall a story about a still in Kentucky during prohibition and one of my relatives pointing and firing a gun at a Federal Marshall when that Federal Marshall happened upon the family still.  I also recently found amongst old photos and papers a prescription for liquor that was issued to my other Grandfather during prohibition.   The prescription was written by a doctor and it allowed my Grandfather to take it to any pharmacy where they legally would dispense medicinal Gin.  Which makes me smile when I think about it, the two completely different ways my Grandfathers went about solving the exact same problem. 

Tonight my Genius PHD flat mate forced me to try a shot of the Kentucky moonshine. And as it went down I made that face that everyone makes (I believe) when they taste moonshine and I wondered, Did my Grandfathers make this face too? It was pretty awful; so much for any healthy bacteria that might have been lingering in my system.  That stuff could burn the paint off the walls in a house all the way over in Wigan.  And right before I fearlessly put it back I thought, It can’t possibly taste as bad as it smells.

Gullible is not a big enough word for me.    The word for me really should have at least four more “L’s” in it or perhaps be a sentence full of “L” laden adjectives like silly or susceptible or miraculously foolish but loveable. 

 It’s just that I like to believe in the intricate possibility of how I envision it.  I want it to be as grand and collaborative as I can imagine.  Why not a duck race through town?  Because the alternative, hundreds of people standing on the banks of the River Irwell watching for almost two hours as thousands of rubber ducks floated down river just felt too impossible to be true.  But then it is Easter weekend and that’s what Easter is about all the impossibilities that we believe, the impossibilities that we celebrate.

Even still, despite my slightly gullible and wishful nature, I hold onto to certain beliefs; some I can’t quite explain, some that I won’t ever try to explain and even a few that I just retain because they soothe me.   I want to believe.  I need to believe even though I know that the truth is ducks probably will fly away if they’re forced to race through town on Good Friday and no matter who your Grandfathers were you can’t escape making that face when you take a shot of Kentucky moonshine.