Learning to ride, falling down, getting back on
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And so it was pronounced: there would be a gathering of the multitude, and musicians would play and fireworks would light the sky. The people were joyous, for they had just beheld the resignation of a powerful leader who had sought to rule through discrediting these free people. A note of justice was to be heard through the festival.
I think I’d rather talk about Charlotte. North Carolina, that is. I really can’t be objective about Chapel Hill, and my subjectivity is too complex to put into words. But Charlotte! There’s a town I can write about cause I really don’t like that city. I can’t quite put my finger on it, you know, because it would take half my hand to really cover it all.
So many people have so many good things to say about Chapel Hill, we thought we’d ask some folks what they don’t like about it. A sample of public opinion:
“The casual village atmosphere has become a casual rip-off atmosphere.”
“I don’t like the cars on Franklin Street. Close it off and plant flower gardens on the asphalt.”
It’s not just that this is a small town where everybody knows you. Even on my first day in Chapel Hill I was greeted by many smiling faces and hellos as I walked down Franklin Street. Believe me, after Buffalo, NY, and Washington, D.C., it was an overwhelming feeling that made me say, “Yes, I think I’ll stay here,” as I know many other travelers have done.
Three A.M. on East Franklin Street and there were just these three things moving. A battered green one-ton pickup truck with a hanging muffler and two kids from New Jersey; an old guy who told them how to get to Manns Chapel Road; and the cop car that made a quick u-turn and followed them out of town.
“. . . as my taste became more refined, I abandoned de Musset for Verlaine, and, as a rule, I’d say that one who was brought up on Hugo would dedicate himself entirely . . .”
Coming down here: tunnel of freeways, of semis, left lane, embankment, passing at 80, 85, 90, an occasional unconscious suicidal 95, 100, thinking of the Missouri regiment marching up Canyon de Chelley (deep narrow canyon in northern Arizona) with the Navajos covering them from the crevices of the canyon all the way up but they didn’t know it: the Navajos had to admire folks with that kind of nerve, or at least wanted to figure out their number.
BODY enters world. Spirit enters body. Go.