Sometimes in this life, you need to "man up" and "face the fact" that you don't like writing in blogs. I don't like writing in blogs. I've started and then abandoned and then deleted and then restarted this blog a thousand times. Which is STUPID. I should make myself go to the gym, or something. I shouldn't make myself maintain an internet-diary.

Once, I wrote the address for this blog in a contributor's note. If you read my contributor's note, and you came to this blog because you need to contact me for something, you can email me at

sundoglitnonfiction@gmail.com

Otherwise, you can still read the three things I wrote in here last September. Those were the days, those three days last September. I maintained my internet-diary like someone with something to prove.

Smell ya later, The Internet!

"One Sunday Morning" by Wilco

Today, I asked my students if they grow sentimental in the fall. You know, I said. It gets colder, and darker, and the leaves change and then die and then it’s winter. Doesn’t that make you a little sad? Don’t you get sentimental?

And they blinked back at me, and some of them tilted their heads and smiled quizzically, and the skinny guys who flank the left side of the room stared dully at nothing, and the troupe of blond volleyball-playing girls in back shut their eyes and yawned and wondered if they’d get out early today. Nobody said anything. Really? I said. It happens to me every year. I listen to different music—The Kinks, Belle and Sebastian, this song I just posted. I watch The Royal Tenenbaums two to three times. I go for long walks through the woods by my apartment, and kick my feet through the dead leaves, and the light through the trees is different than it is in summer-- it’s strained, it’s thinner-- and it occurs to me, again, how temporary everything is. And it’s a sad feeling, but it’s a good feeling, too. Everything seems richer. People seem kinder. And though whatever your life is now is always changing, or ending, you have it now—right now—and isn’t that something? The world is about to turn gray and cold and inhospitable—but look at it right now! These are the things I said at the beginning of my Introduction to College Composition class. And some of my students laughed, and some of them looked bored, so I shrugged and set into motion my innovative lesson-plan.

Later, I played this song over the speaker system as they wrote. One of them—a no nonsense, military-haircut guy-- looked up from his paper and said, isn’t this song a little depressing?  And I said, what are you talking about? It’s beautiful. Listen to the guitar. And I did an air-guitar thing, I pretended to play along, but he frowned, and shook his head, and went back to his writing.

Today, I rode my bike downtown and ran errands. I purchased a bunch of bananas from Farmer Q’s, which is where one goes to purchase cheap bananas. I went to the food co-op and bought some tomatoes, because now is the time for good tomatoes. I went to the Border Grill and ate an unremarkable burrito, but I had a full punch card so it was free. What am I, an asshole? I’m going to complain about my free burrito?

In the co-op, two young women I did not recognize said hello, waved, asked me how I was. At this moment, I was sorting ears of corn, trying to find the best ones, the largest ones, with the fully developed kernels. These are the ones I wished to purchase. I’m okay, I said. How are you? These women were hackey-sack sorts, hula-hoop sorts, knotted hair and halfshut eyes and stoned voices. I’m okay, one said, smiling. It’s good to see you. It’s good to see you, too, I said, and they glided away, and I went back to my corn, not understanding what had happened but feeling glad that it had happened.

People of Marquette: everything is about to die! There will be sleet, and it will be gray, and the light will be dead and the sidewalks will be coated in ice and we won’t know what to do with our time, we won’t know what the fuck to do with our time, but look at we have now. Look at the way the sun lights up the clocktower downtown. Or the lake-- enormous and empty and unfathomable-- roaring always just past the breakwall. Or the stunned, sleepy expressions worn by everyone wandering downtown in the early evening. They’re walking their dogs, these people, they’re running their errands, they’re on their way to get a drink or an appetizer or a book from the library, and when you walk by them they'll slow a little and turn their heads to face you and say, hey, how are you? And you’ll smile back at them, these strangers, walking so slowly through the downtown shade they might be walking underwater, and you’ll say to them, I’m good, thank you, how are you?

"Coming Down," by The Dum Dum Girls

I live in Marquette, a small town in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Here is its location on a blurry map:

With a population of 20,000 people, it’s the Upper Peninsula’s largest city, and also its most culturally-diverse (in that there are Thai restaurants here).There’s a Norman Rockwellish, downtown with brick buildings that house bars and cafes and a Food co-op. Three brewpubs. A surprisingly adept system of bike trails. Lots of parkspace near Lake Superior. People you don’t know will say hello to you on the sidewalk. You will learn to say hello back.

It takes fifteen minutes to bike from Presque Isle Park to the Beef-a-Roo and in between is the entire town. Head down Presque Isle Avenue, past the university, left over to Third Street, past the grocery store and bike shops and bars, left on Washington, cut through downtown and coast downhill to Lakeshore and the bike path and take that the rest of the way out. Ride this any day and you will see people that you recognize. There’s the lady who wears a parka, no matter the weather. She shuffles outside of the library with her head turned down. You see her every day, tottering across Marquette, her eyes locked on the sidewalk, as if she were very afraid of stepping into a manhole. You do not know her story. You will probably never know her story.

Or the window-washer downtown. A small man in his seventies; plaid shirt, newsboy cap. He walks around with a bucket and a squeegee and washes everyone's windows. He works every day. You see him on Sundays. You see him on holidays. One day, just outside of Donckers, which is an ice cream and sandwich shop, you have this exchange with him:

WINDOW WASHER MAN: Nice day, huh?

RICHARD HACKLER: Nice day!

WWM: Going to work?

RH: No, going to Doncker’s.

WWM: That’s what I mean!

And he walks away and you do not have the heart to correct him, so the window washer man will continue to think that you work at Doncker’s, though you do not work at Doncker’s.

There are others. There’s Theo, sitting on the bench outside of Dead River Coffee, which he owns. He wears flannel shirts; his face looks carved out of a treetrunk. Ask him how he’s doing. “Shitty!” he’ll say, and though you won’t know how to respond, you will like him more because of the exchange. He sells you green coffee beans, and you roast them in a hot-air popcorn popper in your kitchen. There’s the English professor, anchoring the end of the bar at L’attitude with a Don Delillo paperback folded open in front of him. He’s drinking a martini, holding his glass steadily in front of him, saying something charming to the pretty bartender who’s planted in front of him with her hand on her hip. His eyes are halfshut, his smile is easy, and his left hand flits in front of him like a dragonfly. He looks like he’s casting a spell; he’s a conjurer fueled by gin.

This is your life. This is your whole life, and all of it unfolds within the space covered by a fifteen minute bikeride. And sometimes this is comforting and sometimes this is suffocating and this is how it is.

To gauge your current state of mind, do this: ride your bike seven miles out of town, to Hogback Mountain. This is up county road 550, a winding two-lane road that dead ends in Big Bay, twenty-five miles away. Lock up your bike and hike the forty-five minutes to the top. Look around: to your left, Lake Superior, blue and flat for hundreds of miles, stretching west to Minnesota, north to Canada. To your right, trees and hills extending to the horizon. And that little clearing below you? That gray little cluster of buildings hugging the shore? That’s where you live. Most people live far away, in much larger places. You live down there.

And, in this moment, you will either feel very isolated or very insulated. You are alone up here, and there is nothing to distract you out of your head. There is no correcting outside-influence. If you are content, you will take in the view and feel happier. You will not want the world encroaching. If you could wish it farther away, you would.

(And this is how it is now. It's summer. There's a farmer's market. The marathon happened today, and the town was full of crossing-guards wearing green vests, helping the runners cross streets. There's a blues-festival going on in Mattson Park, I think. There's a basket full of flowers hanging from each streetlamp. There's some basil growing in planters outside of the Upfront, and no one will stop you if you try pick it. Why would you live anywhere else?)

But if you are unhappy—if you are bored with your job, if you are breaking up with someone, if you have begun to feel adrift—you will look around and feel stuck. You will want to badly to flee, to get away for a weekend, but where would you go? Ishpeming?

And so you’ll bike back into town and you’ll walk along the lake, in Presque Isle Park, hopping from boulder to boulder. The lake is gray and churning; the lake is there to fuel your sense of melodrama. You will walk against the wind, which has chapped your face, which has cut your features sharp, and this song will be your soundtrack. You live in a region of the country that is frequently left off of maps. Look out at the water, bleeding into the low sky. This is your life. This is your whole life.

"Trigger Cut," by Pavement

This song is grad school. This song thinks that you can change the world with a poem, though it also suspects that this is a stupid thing to believe. This song knows a thing or two about post-colonial theory, though it would rather blow its brains out than discuss post-colonial theory with anyone ever again. This song leaves a two dollar tip for the girl who hands him a cup of coffee in the morning because he wants her to know that he’s not just some asshole. (This song cannot afford to leave two dollar tips for cups of coffee.) This song knows some big words, but doesn’t know how to make them signify. This song knows which bars in town feature the best happy hours. This song owns a t-shirt that says Cars Are Coffins. This song voted for Ralph Nader. This song knows some really cool bands that he’d love to turn you on to sometime. This song is a regular at the plasma center. This song will totally attend your poetry reading. This song feels dense and complex things for his vintage road bike. This song can’t imagine ever working a full-time job. This song has thought about teaching in South Korea. This song hates getting up before nine. This song isn’t really sure where he’ll be next year.

Men and women in your mid to late twenties pursuing graduate degrees for no good reason: this is your song!

This is our song!

Listen to the words—

Lies and betrayals

Fruit covered nails

Electricity and lust

They’re nonsense. They don’t say anything; they don’t mean anything. But listen to the ache in his voice, or the bassline urgently prodding things along, or the drums staggering to keep up. That’s where the feeling is. That’s where the point is.

And you know what it’s like, maybe, to walk through your neighborhood early in the evening, when the streetlights are flickering on, and there is a swell in your chest, suddenly, a physical thing, almost knocking you off balance—the light is fading from behind you, and you open your eyes fully for the first time all day, you don’t need to squint anymore. And you stop— the trees are hissing overhead. Your neighbors across the street-- a middle-aged couple-- are talking in low voices on their front porch, and you wave hello to them. They wave back. Nice night! the man calls. Nice night! you call back. A couple down the block is walking a basset-hound. They’re twenty-one, twenty-two maybe, and the basset-hound is their practice kid. They’re standing on the sidewalk in front of a low row of shrubs that the dog is smelling so passionately it's almost an erotic act. The boy’ holds the leash absently with his left hand, and the girl is standing close to him, rocking on her heels. She’s wearing a sundress.

You will want badly in moments like these for your life to be larger than it is. You will want to throw candy from a parade float. You will want to swing-dance with strangers on the street. But most evenings pass quietly and they’re not equipped to accommodate you every time you feel big things on the sidewalk

And so you go get a beer. Or you write a short story. And your fondest wish is that this short story might someday be published in a magazine with a name like Wooden Spoon or The Utica Review of Short Fiction. 

And this is sad, right? Yes, this is a little sad.

But words are what you have right now, and so you will use words. They will not expel what you’re feeling, and they will not quench your sense of urgency, but they’re what you have. So use what you have.

You’ll figure it out someday. You’ll know where you’re going someday. In the meantime, write a poem, or build a sculpture from things you find in a dump, or invite over your friends on a weekday afternoon and write a song with them.  Keep moving. Make some noise. You’ll figure it out someday.