Discovery

 
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Mercury Monarch

Missouri River Bluffs at Night

Missouri River Bluffs at Night

Music influenced most of my experiences during junior high and high school—Thursday night Key Club meetings, Friday night football games, choir festivals, and hiking in the woods. Music accompanied the view over the Missouri River gorge towards the Rocky Mountain Front and Canada too — exactly where my friend and I were parked. It was dark and the moon had set, so it felt endless through the car windows, with just enough ambient light to define the dim edges of things. Earlier that week while I was sitting in my history class waiting for it to begin, J. walked over to my desk, squatted next to me, and quietly asked if I’d like to go out sometime. My jaw must have dropped. I assumed she was messing with me because it was so random, but as I looked at her she seemed serious. “Um… sure” I said. “How about Saturday night. Are you free?” she asked. “Yeh. I think so… sure… I think… I’ll have to… yeh… Yes.” I said. “Great! Maybe let’s talk on Friday and figure something out”. “OK” I said. She smiled and went back to her desk. I didn’t know her, and she didn’t know me, but we had mutual friends and some common interests, so we might have things to talk about. I’d noticed her in this class, in the hall by our lockers because they were near each other, and sometimes in the lobby of the performing arts building.

The following Friday we figured out the plan and eventually found ourselves parked in my parent’s brown, four-door, Mercury Monarch way outside of town after we’d seen a 9:30pm movie. I don’t recall what the movie was, but I remember sitting next to her in the theater. After the movie let out two hours later, we drove awhile and eventually found a good spot high above the coulees facing the falls on the Missouri River. We had all the windows open, so the smell of damp sage outside the car from an earlier rain, drifted inside. We sat in the front seat for hours, listening to the radio, smoking, drinking, laughing, and talking about everything for the very first time. We connected easily and became friends quickly, before we sank into the beige vinyl seats. I took a lot of risks driving my parent’s cars into places like this, rugged river bluffs and two-track mountain roads were all best suited for four-wheel drives, not the family sedan, but I didn’t own a four-wheel drive, or a car of my own at the time.

Besides our energy, that spot was embedded with lots of historic energy, because in June 1805, the Corps of Discovery spent a lot of time in this area. They had to portage four giant boats and all of their gear around the ‘falls’ on this part of the Missouri River. Ours was the same dimly lit horizon that the Lewis and Clark expedition saw at night. All of them may have hiked through this exact location looking for firewood, foraging for edible plants, hunting, and keeping a watchful eye on their new, unpredictable surroundings. They’d been trespassing into occupied territory during their entire journey, including this place. Every tribe from the Midwest to the northwest knew they were there. Fortunately for them, the indigenous people were mostly helpful and tolerant. Sacajawea was an integral part of the Corps too and was frequently responsible for their survival. Some have even written that she had saved their lives on more than one occasion. She may have stood where we were parked too, hauling her baby and her gear across the wild prairie. It felt a little wild that night with my friend too. It wasn’t 1805 wild, but It was a Saturday night in 1977 wild.

— — — — — — —

“Fly me high through the starry skies
Maybe to an astral plane
Cross the highways of fantasy
Help me to forget today's pain” Gary Wright

— — — — — — —

June 13, 1805 – Lewis and Clark Expedition Journal

Anxious to prove he’s right, Lewis scouts ahead of the rest of the ‘Corps’ and is overjoyed (at first) to find the Great Falls, describing them as a “truly magnificent and sublimely grand object, which has from the commencement of time been concealed from the view of ‘civilized man’*.

But it soon becomes clear that the portage (carrying canoes over land) around the Great Falls is going to be far more difficult and will require more than the one day he planned. To help with the challenge, the men fashion crude wagons from felled trees and drag the canoes and equipment across miles of unforgiving, cactus-strewn terrain.

“It takes them almost a month and a half to take all of their gear 18 miles,” says Buckley. “It’s probably one of the slowest parts of the whole trip.”

*Unsettling view of a white man.

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Songs :: Dream Weaver and Love Is Alive by Gary Wright, I’m Not in Love by 10cc, Hello It’s Me by Todd Rundgren, Wishing You Were Here by Chicago, Baby Come Back by Player, Dust In the Wind by Kansas, Venus and Mars by Paul McCartney, and Lowdown by Boz Scaggs

© C. Davidson

In Goldenrod :: [Supplemental]

 
Jeenee in Goldenrod :: 28th Anniversary

In Goldenrod :: 28th Anniversary – Franconia

Songs :: In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel and I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) by the Proclaimers

© C. Davidson

He's On The Terrace

 
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Bryan Ferry :: Photographer Unknown

American Icons Program Brochure/Poster – Front cover

American Icons Program Poster – Front Cover

30 August 1988

It was a typical Tuesday until I received an afternoon phone call from my friend in the Performing Arts Department. “Hey, Craig. What are you doing right now? Are you busy?” “I’m working, but I can talk.” “Are you sitting down?” she asked. “No, I’m standing. Why?” “Bryan Ferry is in the building.” “What? ” I said. “Brian Ferry is sitting on the terrace outside the restaurant as we speak” “Bryan Ferry is in the building?! I repeated. “Yeh, he’s on the terrace,” she repeated. “Wow. I’ll call you back!”

I hung up the phone and walked across the hall to the conference room, climbed up on the white built-in, waist-high cabinet that lined the entire side of the room below the windows, and looked down to see if I could spot him. I couldn’t see anybody no matter how hard I scanned and pressed my face against the glass. I walked back to my desk and called her. “I looked out the windows. I don’t see anybody on the terrace. Are you messing with me?” “No! Can you see the whole terrace?” she asked, “Not really.” “I’m telling you he’s sitting down there. My friend who’s working in the restaurant right now told me.” “I can’t believe it! Why do you think he’s here?” “He has a concert downtown tonight. You didn’t know?” she said. “No. How would I know that?” “Because you’re a fan! You should go down there and get his autograph.” “Good point. I can’t go down there though. It’ll be embarrassing. He’ll think I’m an idiot.” ”I doubt it. If you don’t go, you’ll regret it.” “Yeh… you’re probably right… OK. Thanks for letting me know!” “Call me when you get back,” she said. I stood there nervously for a few minutes. I was full of adrenaline. I told one of my co-workers what was happening, and she agreed that I needed to go. Another five minutes went by and my phone rang again. “Are you already back?” “No, I haven’t left.” Why are you still there? He could leave.” “OK.” I said.

I nervously grabbed a couple of printed samples, a pen, and headed down to the restaurant. They were closed until the dinner hour, so it was empty except for a few employees milling about. I walked through the bright space to the huge solid wall of glass and the enormous glass doors that led outside to the terrace. It was sunny, hot, humid, and I still didn’t see him. The terrace wraps around the building so I couldn’t see all of it even from there. I slowly walked to the end of the terrace that overlooked the sculpture garden. I stood there with my heart thumping for a minute, turned slightly, and saw someone leaning back against the towering brick wall on the rear legs of their chair. I took a deep breath and slowly walked towards them. As I got within a few feet, I blurted out, “excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering… are you, Bryan Ferry?” He leaned forward until all four chair legs were on the ground and said, “Yes.” “I’m sorry to be bothering you. I’m a big fan.” “Oh. Thanks” “I was wondering if I could get your autograph?” “Sure.” I stepped closer and handed him a folded brochure/poster from the American Icon lecture series, and an issue of Design Quarterly I designed, and the pen. He signed them both and handed it all back to me. “Thanks a lot.” “You’re welcome.”

“Are you going to the show tonight?” he asked. The one I only knew about because my friend told me fifteen minutes earlier. “No, I can’t go.” “Oh…, that’s too bad. Are you sure? I’d be glad to set aside a couple of tickets at will call.” I was stunned. “Really?” “They’ll even allow you backstage too.” “Wow! That’s amazing. I wish I could, but I have to work tonight.” “I understand. I know how that goes.” “Thanks so much for the offer though. I’m sure it’ll be great. Thanks again for the autographs.” “You’re welcome.” We shook hands. He leaned back against the brick wall on the rear two legs of his chair, and I headed back inside.

I was ridiculous — autographs, a brief conversation, free tickets, and I could have joined other groupies backstage. Why did I say no? I regretted my decision more with every step. I’d already said no so I couldn’t walk back to him and say I've changed my mind. When I returned to my desk, I called my friend, told her I got his autograph, and thanked her for letting me know. She was excited for me. I didn’t tell her about his offers though.

Songs :: The entire Flesh and Blood and Avalon albums by Roxy Music, and his entire Boys and Girls album

© C. Davidson

Terry Badlands :: [Supplemental]

 
Terry Badlands :: North of Terry, Montana

Terry Badlands :: North of Terry, Montana

Area Map :: Image–All Trails

Area Map :: Image–All Trails

Songs :: Hong Kong Breeze by Larry Coryell, Lies by Manassas and I’ve Got a Feeling by the Beatles

© C. Davidson

Fallingwater

 
Announcement

Announcement

A Fallingwater Entrance :: Photographer Unknown

A Fallingwater Entrance :: Photographer Unknown

Interior – Postcard :: Photographer Unknown

Interior – Postcard :: Photographer Unknown

Exterior :: 2007

Exterior :: 2007

I have a suite of recurring dreams that occasionally show up together and the feeling they leave behind sometimes lasts the entire morning and if I’m lucky, lingers for an entire day. They uncover powerful fragments and hazy touchstones from my grade school and junior high years that merge with the smell of my dad’s architecture office, the landscapes surrounding my hometown, sage, the Missouri River and one of the last big hugs I shared with him. Those dreams and residual feelings are based in real history, but they’re filtered, reshaped and reconfigured into abstract versions of themselves as I grow older.

Occasionally I spent parts of some Saturdays at my dad’s first office. There were three main rooms with exceptionally high ceilings. The drafting studio had big, heavy, wood drafting tables lining one side of the room under large east facing windows, worn, noisy wooden floors like in a saloon from a western movie, and classic, minimal nineteen fifties and sixties office furniture in the understated reception area and conference room, and a couple of small storage spaces. The public bathrooms were out the front office door and down an expansive, dimly lit hall. It was a magical world where I spent hours looking through sets of technical drawings, blueprints, and original ink renderings on Mylar that I pulled from the endless banks of flat files. I leafed through the architecture magazines at the long wood conference table where I first learned about Richard Neutra, Oscar Niemeyer, Louis Khan and Frank Lloyd Wright. Back in the drafting room, sometimes Phil K., Bill K., or my dad, would ask me what I was looking at, we might talk about it if I had a question and then one of them would often wave me over to show me what was on their board. Eventually I’d settle in next to my dad’s drafting table and watch him work for as long as he could tolerate me.

Four decades later during a quiet Easter weekend with my folks, we talked about the idea of visiting Fallingwater someday. We’d originally discussed it a few years prior when my dad was healthier. We knew it wasn’t possible anymore. We’d missed our window, but we talked about it anyway. We’d had quite a few spontaneous architectural adventures together over the years, like visiting the University of Lethbridge that bridged a coulee by Arthur Erickson, the Kresge Auditorium and Chapel by Eero Saarinen and the Baker House by Alvar Aalto in Boston, the Portland Museum of Art by Henry Nicoles Cobb in Maine, the Chapel of St. Ignatius by Steven Holl in Seattle, and several buildings in Minnesota, including Saint John’s Abbey by Marcel Breuer. Most of these visits were spontaneous sidebars to trips already in progress.

Similarly, I found myself at Fallingwater the following summer after that weekend in April. It was a last-minute decision to visit once I realized how close I was while passing through Pennsylvania on my way back to Minnesota from Providence. I couldn’t miss the opportunity after years of talking about it, even if my folks weren’t with me. My first overnight stop was in a small town near Mill Run, Pennsylvania. I made a reservation to tour the house for the next afternoon and I was lucky because usually it takes weeks ahead of time to schedule a tour. After a late breakfast, my drive took me through the deep green countryside and the rolling farmland of the Appalachians, interwoven with oak forest, immaculate Dutch barns, cattle and hidden limestone ravines. Eventually I found myself in a medium sized parking lot surrounded by woods. After I parked, I didn’t see the house from the lot, you kind of sneak up on it and before I knew it, I was standing in front of a secondary door carved out of stone and glass, almost like it was a private entrance to a cave. Once in, the ceilings were surprisingly low, and the compression I felt was slowly released as the height grew slightly in the main living space. The ceiling heights don’t change radically anywhere though, they’re all low and horizontal and the spaces seemed to pull me sideways just like I imagined they might.

I paid for the basic guided tour which provides some history and allows you to explore independently afterwards. They also provide fancier tours that end with wine and dinner at sunset. After roaming through the interior for a while where I touched as many custom components as I could, like window hardware and built-in cabinetry, I stood in front of the fireplace for a long time, stunned at how part of the stone floor surrounding it was an actual rock formation from below that protrudes into the space. Eventually, I exited through some doors to one of the floating porches and sat on the perfectly designed rail that accommodates everyone’s height and everyone’s body type. It was wide enough to sit on and textured just enough to provide traction and confidence as you looked down over Bear Run and the green ravine below — feeling how this place steps down the slope which echoes what the falls do, and on its descending journey from miles upstream was visceral.

Afterwards, I walked the short trail to the overlook to experience the same view I’d first seen in my dad’s office decades earlier. After some other admirers and I took each other’s picture, I called my folks from that spot to let them know I’d finally made it for the three of us.

— — — — — — —
"There in a beautiful forest was a solid, high rock ledge rising beside a waterfall, and the natural thing seemed to be to cantilever the house from that rock bank over the falling water..." Frank Lloyd Wright interview with Hugh Downs, 1954​

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Songs :: The Stable Song by Gregory Alan Isakov, July by Amy Petty, On The Nature of Daylight by Max Richter, I Contain Multitudes by Bob Dylan, Darn That Dream by Dexter Gordon, Another World by Joe Jackson, Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd, Heroes by David Bowie and Sand by Phish

© C. Davidson

Iowa Vernacular :: [Supplemental]

 
When I saw this image pass through my feed, I thought it was a new Frank Gehry building. So, I clicked on it to find out more and discovered they are storm-damaged grain bins at the Heartland Co-Op in Luther, Iowa – August 2020. Image :: Associated Press

When I saw this image pass through my feed, I thought it was a new Frank Gehry building. So, I clicked on it to find out more and discovered they are storm-damaged grain bins at the Heartland Co-Op in Luther, Iowa – August 2020. Image :: Associated Press

Songs :: Why Can’t I Touch It by Buzzcocks, Hometown by Bruce Springsteen and Starting Over by The Crystal Method

© C. Davidson

Four Giant Firemen

 
Young Seeley

Our Daughter

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I don’t think I noticed how alarmed my daughter was at the time. She only told me many years later when we were telling the story to someone. She revealed the fear she’d felt that afternoon when I told her what was happening. I probably used too many words and explained the situation in too many different ways at the time, all with varying scenarios and radically different outcomes, thinking the more information I provided her the better, while simultaneously projecting all my anxiety straight onto her. She seemed fine, and discreetly disappeared to her room upstairs and began to collect her most prized stuffed animals and a few other possessions in case the house burned to the ground, leaving only ash and melted artifacts.

We’d been out of town and the evening we arrived home, we opened the front door and noticed a faint smell of smoke. Something was burning, but there was no visible cause. I spent that night periodically searching the house for the source without any luck. The following morning we started to see a haze of layered smoke in the air. It was slowly getting worse. We walked through every part of the house countless times again that morning and still couldn’t identify the source.

That afternoon I called the health care office where my wife’s appointment was and asked the receptionist if she was done and able to come to the phone. Coincidentally, she’d just finished and was standing at the receptionist’s desk. “Hello? What’s wrong?” she asked. “I think I figured out where the smoke and the smell are coming from.” “Where?” “From above the ceiling in the bathroom.” “Why do you think that?” “Because I noticed that the paint is discolored in a weird pattern and the surface is really hot to the touch. I’m calling because I’m hesitating to call 911. I think I can manage it.” “Really? How?” “I’m not sure yet”, I said. “Don’t you think you should call them just to be safe.” “No… I don’t think so… well…. maybe… yeah, probably. You’re right… yeah, I should call them.” I needed her to gently nudge my ego so I didn’t have to. After I hung up, I called 911 and told the operator what was going on. She said she’d dispatch the fire department. “Ok! Could you do me a favor?” “What’s that sir?” “Ask them not to run their sirens” There was a brief silence. “I’ll let them know,” she said. Our neighborhood fire station isn’t far away and within five minutes, I began to hear distant sirens. They got closer and louder, until they were parked and screaming in front of our house. I guess she forgot to tell them. Seeley was sitting at attention on the couch with her full backpack when the front doorbell rang, followed by numerous loud knocks.

Are all fire-fighters required to be enormous? Because they usually are, like the ones at our door were. I wonder if there’s a minimum height requirement. Some commonly accepted six foot minimum like in other parts of society, usually pointed out by men and women who are only that height wearing boots, or think about that type of thing frequently. I hope there isn’t a height minimum and that it’s just a coincidence, because I feel like if I was 35 years old again, in good shape, still short, but with my high tolerance for heat, I could have been a fire-fighter. I’m certain there are fire-fighters that are my height. There must be. These four weren’t though. When I opened the front door I was staring at their chests. I scanned them from there to the top of their head-lamped helmets. Their rubber suits, other protective gear and pickaxes made them feel even bigger. They were giant first responders.

After investigating the situation, they confirmed that they’d need to punch through the ceiling in the bathroom. So, one of them took his pickax and did just that. He broke through and as soon as he did, smoldering sheet rock and burning wood embers dropped out and landed in the bathtub. It was shocking because there was a significant amount of material burning and smoldering in front of us. Seeley and I sat together in the living room while they stabilized the situation. They left soon after and then an investigator arrived to determine the exact cause and had us shut the power off to the bathroom. It was an electrical fire caused by some incompetent DIY exhaust fan work completed years before we even bought the house. The fact that it caught fire at this time was completely random which made it even more unsettling. I asked the investigator a few questions and he said that by late that evening we would’ve had a full blown fire.

That same night, the electrician we called arrived to repair the wiring, replace the exhaust fan vent tube and sign-off on turning the power back on. The next day he returned to repair the sheet rock in the ceiling. We were lucky. We were safe. Our cat was safe and the stuffed animals were back where they belonged.

Songs :: The Book of Love by The Magnetic Fields and Peter Gabriel, Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough by Michael Jackson and My City Was Gone by The Pretenders

© C. Davidson

Oregon Euphorics :: [Supplemental]

 
Exposure on the PCH – Self Portrait :: 2018

Exposure – Self Portrait on the 101

Songs :: Something You’re Going Through by Graham Parker, React and What’s Golden by Jurassic 5, Keep On Doin’ It by Tom Scott and The L.A. Express, Rockin’ Down the Highway by The Doobie Brothers, and Kashmir by Led Zeppelin

© C. Davidson

Reasons to Drive Through Iowa City

 

It was hot and humid during the two and a half days I drove south to Chicago and west through Iowa, Nebraska, and Wyoming to Montana, my final destination. I drove to Chicago to visit friends before heading west. My first major stop after leaving Chicago was Iowa City. Visiting Iowa City has been on my road list for a few reasons.

One :: I designed book covers and a complete book for the University of Iowa Press years ago. I’d never met anyone from the Press because I worked with them remotely, so I only knew their voices, their phone numbers, and random professional stuff. I’d been curious to see their campus because I like having an image in my head of where people are when I’m on the phone with them. Whether they’re sitting on an open porch, in a tall office building somewhere, or in a space with clear sight lines to the campus quad. Sometimes if I know someone well enough, I’ll ask what kind of room they’re in and what’s around them. I didn’t have that conversation with anyone at the Press, but now I can imagine what their day might have felt like on that campus.

Two :: Steven Holl designed the fine arts complex on campus and I planned to see the building while I was there. I’ve only visited two other buildings of his in person, the addition to the School of Architecture building at the University of Minnesota, and a chapel in Seattle. When I arrived, the buildings were locked, but I could walk around the outside and take pictures. I tried to remember what the inside was like because I’d seen interior photographs in an architecture magazine. Afterwards, I googled co-ops where I could grab dinner and other supplies for the nighttime leg of my drive through the rest of Iowa and Nebraska. I found one near the university, drove there and spent thirty minutes wandering the aisles making my selections and absorbing the sweet smell of herbs and teas.

Three :: I had a professor in undergraduate school who taught painting and drawing and later moved to Iowa City to teach. I took a two-hundred level painting class from him and a year later he advised a friend and myself in a video and performance art independent study. Occasionally, he called me ‘birdman’ and compared me to Buster Keaton. I was confused by both things and it felt oddly intimate since we didn’t know each other very well. At some point during the quarter he said, "your paintings look like they’re painted by a right-hander.” I was defensive at first. As the days passed, I realized they did look like they’d been painted by a right-hander. I had a lot of diagonal strokes from upper right to lower left. I began to question how I was physically painting and how my brush strokes influenced the images. I always appreciated his observation. I don’t remember anything else he said about my work during that class, and just that feels like a lot.

Songs :: (Cross the) Heartland by Pat Metheny, Sunshine in Chicago by Sun Kil Moon, Secret Journey and Voices Inside My Head by The Police, The Blue, Wide Open by The Crystal Method, and Summer Madness by Kool and the Gang

© C. Davidson

Lavender and Lilac

 
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Tuesday 24 November 2020 :: I was working late and listening to Rickie Lee Jones and Shawn Colvin and hoped my wife was having good dreams in Florida. I thought about my daughter in the Powderhorn and hoped she was happy, safe, and that we could spend the holiday together. I thought about our overseas Christmas together a few years ago too, and began to look through my photos from the trip. I was completely absorbed in my screen like I was there, when a floral scent slowly filled my corner of the room, and lingered, then vanished as quickly as it appeared — like maybe it didn’t happen, that maybe I’d imagined it. I got up from my chair and searched around my worktable and eventually wandered through the entire house trying to identify the source. I couldn’t find anything. The smell of lavendar isn’t an everyday scent. Maybe during the summer when I’m on the deck near the potted lavender, but it was late November, the plants were frozen, and I was inside.

Soon after we moved into this house, we noticed a lavender scent would appear and linger for a minute or two and then completely disappear. It happened a hand full of times during our first year. We usually experienced it together and eventually thought the same thing. Someone, or something, was in the room with us. It was random but it felt specific and intentional. Eventually we decided that if it was someone, maybe it was the original owner of our house, the grandmother of the person we bought the house from. Maybe she was checking to investigate who we were, if we were worthy the house she and her husband had built in 1920. When that happens, so obviously out of place and time, yet crisp and real, it means something else is happening. When both of us are experiencing the same thing simultaneously, it’s real.

Eventually it stopped happening. Then this night I thought she might be back, but it smelled more like lilac, not lavender. It was different and made me think about my mom, her favorite color, and the lilac bushes she and my dad had planted between our house and the neighbor’s house. They provided a tall, green fence eight months of the year. When they bloomed their perfume was trapped in that in between space just like that night, where I could just linger in a white and purple cloud.

Songs :: Into Dust by Mazy Star, Send Somebody by Colin Hay, It’s For You by Lyle Mays and Pat Metheny, and Into the Mystic by Van Morrison

© C. Davidson

Laundry Index :: [Supplemental]

 
I tried to sell these empty laundry soap containers on eBay years ago. No one bought them and eventually my post expired and my account was dormant. I’ve often thought that if the two caps that don’t match, had matched, I may have had a bidding war on my hands.

I tried to sell these empty laundry soap containers on eBay years ago. No one bought them and eventually my post expired, my account was dormant and then completely disappeared. I’ve often thought that if the two caps that don’t match, had matched, I may have had a bidding war on my hands.

Song :: I Don’t Know by Beastie Boys

© C. Davidson 

Bootlegger Trail

 

It was Friday night and everyone was in a good mood. We chatted outside our cars for awhile and confirmed the location of the party, including any landmarks, or the nearest mile marker in case someone became separated. After we left our rendezvous point, I flipped through my friends cassettes and finally landed on the newest Boston album. We drove on the west side of town towards the river, past the fairgrounds then left past my brother-in-law’s Dads gas station and garage while More Than a Feeling and Peace of Mind played. We passed the refinery and turned north on Highway 87 at dusk. We were behind Matt and two of his friends in his pristine black truck, and six or seven vehicles behind us, from trucks to Volkswagen Beetles.

The third song on that album is Foreplay/Long Time and it was perfect because as soon as we approached the top of the hill and began to exit the highway, the faint transition began. We slowed down to make the gentle turn onto Bootlegger Trail and then the song exploded into the best part. As soon as every car in the convoy centered themselves in the lane, we all accelerated in sync like our cars were linked. We were in my friends red and white four-door sedan, with white leather upholstery, brand new tires, and an expensive sound system. We couldn’t hear each other speak and we didn’t really want to because who talks when that song is playing. I wasn’t interested in the rest of the album, so I searched for the next one to keep the momentum going — songs by The Outlaws, Ozark Mountain Daredevils, or Pure Prairie League were always good candidates, but I landed on the Tres Hombres album by ZZ Top. I was surprised because we were both aware of each other’s music collection and I didn’t know he had that one. I fast forwarded through the first seven songs to La Grange which was perfect for our convoy speeding north.

Eventually Matt signaled his turn onto a two-track dirt road on the south end of a classmates family ranch. The people in our convoy would only be a portion that would arrive that night because word spreads quickly on Friday nights. It was late October and chilly, even with a big fire on the edge of the coulee, and a hill on one side to help break the wind. After hours of milling about and talking with everyone next to the heat of the bonfire, and in nearby cars, we said our goodbyes. Then we connected with two friends who’d asked for a ride home. As we left the orange glow, dark silhouettes, and sparks streaming up, I flipped though his tapes again. We turned south from the dirt road onto pavement and accelerated. I leaned forward, turned the volume up and we all settled into Night Moves and drove back to the hazy light of town.

— — — — — — —

Community :: A group of living things with something in common like beliefs, customs, or identity. Communities might share a sense of place in a geographic area, or a virtual space.

— — — — — — —

For S. S.

Songs :: Foreplay/Long Time by Boston, Green Grass and High Tides by The Outlaws, Sure Feels Good by Elvin Bishop, La Grange by ZZ Top, and Night Moves by Bob Seger

© C. Davidson

Don't Know–Not Sure :: [Supplemental]

 
Don’t Know–Not Sure :: Diptych – 20” x 32’ x 2” – Latex on Canvas

Don’t Know–Not Sure :: Diptych – 20” x 32’ x 2” – Latex on Canvas

Songs :: Too Much by Drake, Into Dust by Mazzy Star and You’re Right (I’m Wrong) by Colvin and Earle

© C. Davidson

Instant Ramen Time Machine

 
Benefit Street Apartment :: Ramen Photo–Monthira Yodtiwong–iStockphoto

Benefit Street Apartment :: Ramen Photo–Monthira Yodtiwong–iStockphoto

During the last few years of college and especially my final year, I ate a lot of instant ramen. To this day when I smell it, or see the packages stacked on store shelves, I’m transported to my apartment between the giant hedges on South Black Street, or my late-nineteenth century beat-up studio that overlooked Providence. Those two apartments and years of overlapping memories still swirl when I’m in the grocery aisle, like the past, present and future are singular.

I’d by a case worth of instant ramen at Albertsons and Star Market every few weeks. Then I road home, prepared dinner, turned on the university radio station and slurped my steaming bowl of noodles. Sometimes when it was raining or snowing and I looked out my huge windows while eating, it reminded me of that street scene from Blade Runner with Deckard at the noodle bar. After I finished, I nursed my coffee and cigarette and evaluated whatever was on the drafting table. Other nights I biked to Market House to work, or a midnight shift painting in the Bank Building. Wherever I was, they weren’t just noodles, they were a lifestyle.

I didn’t eat as much ramen after I moved to Chicago. I don’t remember what kind of food I prepared at home when I lived there, but I know I went to restaurants and had take-out a lot. Once I moved to Minneapolis I cooked for myself most of the time. Years later, after my wife and I were married, ramen found its way back into our rotation because she loves noodles too. Then our daughter was born, and she became a noodle fan as well. We ate a slightly better-quality instant ramen than when I was single, mostly because she pimped it with veges and meat, and a half-hard-boiled egg, so it was transformed into something better.

A few years ago, though, she suggested we stop eating the packaged version entirely because there were too many additives in the tasty powder. Being averse to most lifestyle changes of any kind, I was immediately concerned and voiced significant resistance to her plan. She listened to me and then gently suggested I be open. So, she began to buy bulk dry noodles and then added everything like she usually did and prepared the broth from scratch. I was spoiled. However, unless she made ramen for us, or we got ramen take-out, I didn’t make it that way just for myself because my issue was the same as it was in college. I’m impatient. I want to be eating it in five minutes and I’ll gladly sacrifice the quality to have it that fast. Food impatience might be a part of my ancestry, from when very distant relatives were starving in Scotland, or Germany, and had to eat almost anything they could find to survive that didn’t make them ill — occasional meat, grass, sticks and other unidentifiable stuff that was probably just dirt. That’s what they could find, and they needed to eat it immediately when they found it.

Then last fall, my wife moved to Florida to care for her mother. I held out for as long as I could, but at about the six-week mark, I caved, and went to our favorite Asian supermarket and bought a case of instant ramen for myself and a case for our daughter. At first, I felt disloyal and a little ashamed like I was having a ramen affair, so I kept it to myself. We talk on the phone daily though, sometimes more than once, so what she’s making for their meals on any given day is a frequent topic of conversation and what I’m eating comes up too. Eventually I couldn’t take it any longer and confessed that I was eating outlaw ramen at home again. She laughed. “That’s not all you’re eating though is it?” she asked quietly. “No, but it’s in heavy rotation.” We left it at that. What could she really say or do at that point anyway? There are over fifteen-hundred miles that separate us and I’m already blowing through my second case like an instant ramen time machine.

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“We’re noodle folk. Broth runs through our veins” :: Mr. Ping, Po’s Father – Kung-Fu Panda

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Songs :: Doin’ the Things That We Want To by Lou Reed, Catapult by REM, Love and Affection by Joan Armatrading, Without You by The Doobie Brothers, True to Life by Roxy Music, and Early Morning Riser by Pure Prairie League

© C. Davidson

Eye of the Tiger

 
Fullerton Avenue Beach

Fullerton Avenue Beach

One Friday afternoon in 1986, my boss, the owner of the design studio I worked at, came to me around 4:30 and asked if I’d stay late and help him with a project. We needed to design an album cover and generate a final comp for his meeting in our office at 7:00. I agreed. Shortly after 5:00, my co-workers began to filter out for the weekend, and I walked outside with one of them to smoke a cigarette. When I returned my boss said, “Ok, here’s what I’m thinking. I have this unused color print from a photograph we shot for the (Furniture) Corporation brochure. Earlier today I had a variety of transfers made in different colors and sizes and in various typefaces, for the album title, and the bands logotype. I’d like you to do a couple of layout options while I’m getting the final photo print ready. Do whatever you think works best combining the photo and the type, and then let’s meet about 6:00 and make a final decision.” I looked at the transfers and asked, “so the band is Survivor, you mean the Eye of the Tiger band… that’s the client?” “Yeh.” “So, we’re designing an album cover for Survivor?” “Yes.” They were huge at the time, so I got nervous.

I made black and white Xerox copies of everything so I could create rough layouts while preserving the ‘final’ color components. I made two and after I finished, we looked at them, picked one, made some adjustments and then proceeded to create the final comp. We mounted it on black presentation board, looked at it for a minute, and congratulated ourselves because we’d pulled it off with time to spare.

Since there were ten minutes until the meeting, I headed back outside to have another cigarette when the studio door flew open, and Frankie Sullivan and Jim Peterik appeared. They saw my boss and walked past me towards the conference table where he sat. Both wore tight, leather pants, shirts with the top three buttons undone revealing their tan skin and chest hair, and 3/4 black boots like the early Beatles wore. They met and I went out to smoke. When I returned, I cleaned-up the mess we’d made at the opposite end of the studio from where they were meeting.

When the three of them finished they walked over to me, and my boss introduced us. Sullivan and Peterik smiled, thanked me for my help, shook my hand, and they left as suddenly as they’d arrived. My boss was smiling too because they liked the cover. Then we gathered our things and walked out together—him to the nearby parking lot to get his car and disappear into a northern burb and me to the ‘L’ station on Chicago Avenue. Meeting two pop rock stars, walking out into the humid orange dusk and summer heat, with the rumble and squeal of the trains passing overhead was surreal. Everything happened so quickly and then it was over. I found a window seat on the train, settled in, and looked east towards Lake Michigan where I’d probably spend Saturday or Sunday afternoon tanning, swimming, and eating Italian Ice on the beach with thousands of other Chicagoans.

Later that summer, my boss told me that the album cover design had been approved by the record company and there weren’t any revisions. Then months later in November, I walked into my neighborhood record store on Belmont Avenue under the tracks for my weekly visit and saw the album sitting on the ‘new releases’ shelf. I’d spent hundreds of hours, hundreds of thousands of seconds in record stores in my life and felt a lot of things, but I never felt that.

Songs :: Is This Love by Survivor, Run Through the Jungle by Creedence Clearwater Revival, She Caught the Katy by The Blues Brothers, Sunshine In Chicago by Sun Kil Moon, Someday, Someway by Marshall Crenshaw, and I Feel Alright by Steve Earle

© C. Davidson