Old School Tie
Entry by: Godai41
10th July 2015
Fellow readers: Please enjoy and feel comfortable with the neologisms and unusual word usage you meet along the way of this reading. In addition, may I mention the “I†is the narrator, not the author, of this piece? Thank you.
Title: Swiveling among a Town’s Old-School Ties
In a multitude of ways I swiveled among the ties that existed below, above, and to all sides of me. I emerged into life stationed in an alluring, appetizing geographical center (not downtown) of the place where I arrived at birth but swiveling about for the days, nights, seasons, yea years I stood as the forever moving, totally ordinary but somehow yet alluring physical center of the abode, yes, the small town, where I resided. Given a famous State founder’s family name, and drawing sparkling, universally sought after friends, I yet remained a moving, muted light in the village’s constellation.
To my east stood the highest point, and of course the richest too, of the city. Knowing of those who inhabited those staunch, high above the high street domiciles, but not knowing them—or known by them—I balanced in my deli cate center. The child of the deli cate owner and proprietor, I swiveled, yes, but securely in my apparently, but not actually, shaky shack. Few of those “Easterners†had ties to me or anyone near me, kin, neighbors, etc., but now and then, they sprightly moved through and past my pseudo “station,†although my daddy director did sell stationery along with the eats, I suppose but do not recall exactly. Those old school ties have a way of diminishing and shadowing out of one’s clear vision as the years accumulate.
To my south, only two or three streets away, flowed a young but filthy, smelly river. I, centered but swiveling, witnessed those passers by meandering that route, mostly in warmish times. I can’t say I knew them any better than I knew those on the eastern high hill, but I observed and silently absorbed their visages, limbs, and moving parts. They threw off more plainness than did the flavorless crackers sold on my dadmaster’s tiny, narrow shelves. Sighting them, my eyes encountering their eyes, their eyes encountering my eyes, I know only acknowledgement of our existence, nothing more or less, revealed itself. In the fearsome neighborhood schoolhouse seemingly erected in colonized times, flag poled in the center, I watched them and was watched by them September through June but centered and swiveling as I am, never bought a seat on their passing coaches.
The furious northerners unmoving from their throne pursued my swiveling frame and sought to swallow me, my brotherly underling, and even my pa ma alliance but we maintained our posture and followed no northbound track or tie. Aging to thrice times four plus one, so compelled to trek northwardly to school 180 semi-decent weather days per annum, I withstood the challenge of the northern community magnet’s religious, scholastic, even bibliographic reaches. Even the cars whirling back and forth on the Smith’s main terrain did not undo me. Inured by it all, I whirling about, withstood its tenacious grasping. Through all the passing waves we, my family and I, sidled left, right, angled around, averting the overt and covert colonizing movements. Secure swiveling among the few narrow grocery paths we owned and managed kept us stable and sane.
One co-center terrain inhabitant overtured and in the sight, hearing, smelling, even touch of the non-eatable Burgers of the city even appeared to domesticate and friendicate, me. Swiveling even more voraciously yet softly to maintain the feedery family’s centricity, I sauntered through the small grocery’s winding aisles, re-centering myself en route. The pursuer, an old school tie, crossed tracks, seeking to mingle herself and achieve oneness with my plain path. To those riding close by she seemed almost to
unswivel me the swiveler. No way! I swiveled forth, silent, assured, certain. Even my name, as plain as turf, surmounted the lithe co-center’s devious desire.
Betimes I swiveled west to find some rest among the slivery rowed homes. These stopping by spots, seemingly disheveled but whole, gave me respite. “Westron wynde, when wilt thou blow,The small raine down can raine.†Moving mahjong pieces, cracks and bams; ambulatory, crazed wanderers; early carriers of future lives; and other Winesburgian cohorts built unspoken, intangible school-of-life ties with me, the calm swiveling one. Recognizing and understanding the dynamics of the swiveler from the center of the village, they invisibly welcomed me, neither Easterner, Southerner, Northerner, or even Westerner, but Swiveler, into their homes, their lives, their selves.
Uplifted and still the centered swiveler, I cherish my old- and new-school intangible ties to the center of my village and the center of myself.
Title: Swiveling among a Town’s Old-School Ties
In a multitude of ways I swiveled among the ties that existed below, above, and to all sides of me. I emerged into life stationed in an alluring, appetizing geographical center (not downtown) of the place where I arrived at birth but swiveling about for the days, nights, seasons, yea years I stood as the forever moving, totally ordinary but somehow yet alluring physical center of the abode, yes, the small town, where I resided. Given a famous State founder’s family name, and drawing sparkling, universally sought after friends, I yet remained a moving, muted light in the village’s constellation.
To my east stood the highest point, and of course the richest too, of the city. Knowing of those who inhabited those staunch, high above the high street domiciles, but not knowing them—or known by them—I balanced in my deli cate center. The child of the deli cate owner and proprietor, I swiveled, yes, but securely in my apparently, but not actually, shaky shack. Few of those “Easterners†had ties to me or anyone near me, kin, neighbors, etc., but now and then, they sprightly moved through and past my pseudo “station,†although my daddy director did sell stationery along with the eats, I suppose but do not recall exactly. Those old school ties have a way of diminishing and shadowing out of one’s clear vision as the years accumulate.
To my south, only two or three streets away, flowed a young but filthy, smelly river. I, centered but swiveling, witnessed those passers by meandering that route, mostly in warmish times. I can’t say I knew them any better than I knew those on the eastern high hill, but I observed and silently absorbed their visages, limbs, and moving parts. They threw off more plainness than did the flavorless crackers sold on my dadmaster’s tiny, narrow shelves. Sighting them, my eyes encountering their eyes, their eyes encountering my eyes, I know only acknowledgement of our existence, nothing more or less, revealed itself. In the fearsome neighborhood schoolhouse seemingly erected in colonized times, flag poled in the center, I watched them and was watched by them September through June but centered and swiveling as I am, never bought a seat on their passing coaches.
The furious northerners unmoving from their throne pursued my swiveling frame and sought to swallow me, my brotherly underling, and even my pa ma alliance but we maintained our posture and followed no northbound track or tie. Aging to thrice times four plus one, so compelled to trek northwardly to school 180 semi-decent weather days per annum, I withstood the challenge of the northern community magnet’s religious, scholastic, even bibliographic reaches. Even the cars whirling back and forth on the Smith’s main terrain did not undo me. Inured by it all, I whirling about, withstood its tenacious grasping. Through all the passing waves we, my family and I, sidled left, right, angled around, averting the overt and covert colonizing movements. Secure swiveling among the few narrow grocery paths we owned and managed kept us stable and sane.
One co-center terrain inhabitant overtured and in the sight, hearing, smelling, even touch of the non-eatable Burgers of the city even appeared to domesticate and friendicate, me. Swiveling even more voraciously yet softly to maintain the feedery family’s centricity, I sauntered through the small grocery’s winding aisles, re-centering myself en route. The pursuer, an old school tie, crossed tracks, seeking to mingle herself and achieve oneness with my plain path. To those riding close by she seemed almost to
unswivel me the swiveler. No way! I swiveled forth, silent, assured, certain. Even my name, as plain as turf, surmounted the lithe co-center’s devious desire.
Betimes I swiveled west to find some rest among the slivery rowed homes. These stopping by spots, seemingly disheveled but whole, gave me respite. “Westron wynde, when wilt thou blow,The small raine down can raine.†Moving mahjong pieces, cracks and bams; ambulatory, crazed wanderers; early carriers of future lives; and other Winesburgian cohorts built unspoken, intangible school-of-life ties with me, the calm swiveling one. Recognizing and understanding the dynamics of the swiveler from the center of the village, they invisibly welcomed me, neither Easterner, Southerner, Northerner, or even Westerner, but Swiveler, into their homes, their lives, their selves.
Uplifted and still the centered swiveler, I cherish my old- and new-school intangible ties to the center of my village and the center of myself.
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