AUGUST 22, 1997
(On the Road in Literary America)
Intrepid writer Amy Halloran is traveling from Seattle to Maine.
Until September, Halloran's weekly journal covers lit. culture (and
roadside attractions) across the U.S.A.
| journal three |
The Adrian Mold book is gone and so is my
diary style of thinking. I
can't divide the days anymore so I'll just begin here and go backwards. I
got up early this morning to woman my sister's jewelry booth at a crafts
fair at the empire state plaza in albany NY. This fair is called a
foodfest, which galls me. Why can't anyone use full words anymore?
The Adrian Mold book is gone and so is my diary style of
This is the state capitol. Imagaine what other shortcuts are being taken.
The workers all look at me as I waltz to the bathroom because I am
something different. The grunge of these "new" marble buildings is
reassuring. I used to be appalled by the gaudy novelty of this place,
thinking of the building sthat were destroyed, all 20 city blocks, to
edify stupidity. I think I thought my thoughts could cahnge things,
destroy Nelson A. Rockefeller's stale vision of a future and resurrect the
remnants of a past I romanticize because it resembled what I knew as a
kid: brick and brownstone buildings with stone lintels around their
windows, sidewalks to the front and side of the house, aiming for
foreboding front doors.
In the west I miss the buildings the most.
In the west I miss the buildings the most. Older architecture not only
more style but it contributes to a sense of place. I am happy when I am
here, where I am from, to be where a lot of people have been before me.
Of course, the abundance of history dictates an overbearing sense of
tradition, which I had to escape to behave in a way that wasn't
rebellious. Every time I come back east I think more of staying.
There are things I love about Seattle but in my 7 years there I have never
felt at home. I always have one foot out the door. I can't imagine what
would do here, but I can imagine returning.
Over the weekend I went to Maine. Ate lobster on a wharf - the
quintescentially Maine event. Those in the know toted wine or beer as the
shacks selling seafood couldn't get a license. We sat there, dry and
staring at the living museum of New England in the summer. People on
vacation from other places, and locals, tagged by preppiness that looks
exactly like the pages of the Preppy Handbook. I could not believe their
Izod shirts and docksiders. I was awed by their presumed ease. I bet the
only discomfort they experience is childbirth and hangovers.
I am reading "Last Dates," a book I got at
Army. I need to catch up on the rules of the mating road.
Middle aged men we met were reading new
age books by Deprok Chopra and old age inspirationals by James Allen. My
sister is reading "Angela's Ashes." My father is writing editorials about
having to pay for toll roads that are in repair.
I need to catch up
on the rules of the
-- Wandering Reader
[ALL CONTENT © 1997-1998 hotink.com