No matter where I move, or how unresponsive I choose to be, the alma mater never ceases to amaze in its ability to track me down, its long arm of an alumni association ever peppering my mailbox with donation requests and magazines published to engage a thoroughly disengaged party. One day, far down the road, I’ll probably donate regularly, though at this particular junction I believe all debts have been paid. Sure, it was a good experience, but wasn’t tuition thanks enough?
There have been a few mailings now about the five-year reunion for the class of aught-three, with festivities looming nigh in October. I imagine the correct response is excitement at the chance to relive the swirl of people, places, and food–to join your peers in tying the roots of the past to the push of recency. The immediate sentiment for me, however, is a profound disinterest, a heavy feeling couched in my core, ground deeply into my stomach floor. It’s unpleasant. I know I should regard this event fondly. But I don’t, and restlessness overrides once again, shoving any nostalgia aside as it exhorts me to move, move, move forward.
This inclination to run, this thrill of being ready to fly, used to strike me a lot, especially around the tail end of my time in Chicago. Now I’m trying to lock it down. Seize some permanence. The townhouse–and the godawful market tied to it–certainly plays some part in this, but something tells me what I’m searching for isn’t built on crawl space or slab.
GoDaddy apparently found out who, precisely, was its daddy today when downtime struck for hours on end, during which the more vocal readership in the office gleefully informed me that this website had vaporized. I wish the initial response was a little more disappointed, perhaps preceded by a slight dip in the Dow, followed by the extinction of a minor species of dog, and maybe, in a nursing home hundreds of miles away where they dramatically reenact select posts after every Jell-O social, there was a great gnashing of dentures.
The other site, the one that promises to never, ever disappear, not for a million years, has settled into a pleasant groove. There’s been a surprising influx of guest-submitted content, along with feedback that offers, if nothing else, a fresh way of looking at the site. These alternative lenses are great in moderation, because at a certain point you write yourself into a hole, a winding crevasse where the product may just be entertaining to an audience of one.
All that said, though, the only truly sustainable lens is your own. It’s also a lens that requires renewal, and to this point I’m currently letting it recharge. Recently I’ve regarded the site as a terrible electronic shrew, ever nagging for more, more, more. Sure, I’ll write a review, then another, but it’s never enough. Never. And– Oh, no! It heard me. It hungers for more. Save yourself while you can. Click the “X” in the top-right corner of your screen and run. I’m going to hide.
Far away in the desolate tundra of Canada, legend has it that golfers who fail to drive past the women’s tee box must pull down their pants, which only seems shameful because of two assumptions: first, you aren’t already standing in the women’s tee box. And second, you aren’t encased in what apparently passes for haute couture in the Northlands. After a recent outing to the lush greens at Duke, I can confidently say my trousers are firmly attached and slowly, ever so slowly, I’m approaching the shores of mediocrity.
Specifics of the recent outing would bore you, I bet, and really your imagination could furnish an accurate portrait: tee time at a godforsaken hour, bouts of rage, lots of grass, merciless heat–in short, and as expected, I invested $75.00 in the privilege to feel punished. Golf, in a word. What I’m more interested in are generalities and a renewal of commitments. There are only two goals now. Hit far. Swing less. And I don’t plan on revisiting this topic here until I shoot 110 or under.
The frame of mind, scrappy and cheap, will remain the same, with scavenged equipment and a continued refusal to seek professional tutelage. There’s this intoxicating feeling when you’re on the range, where the guy next to you is swinging clubs equipped with compasses, vodka misters, carrier pigeons, the works, and yet you produce the same–or better!–with your bag of shit. His driver has GPS. Yours has dirt and possibly a sticker. The more important feeling, as with most things golf, is what transpires between you and your own game. It’s knowing what a good swing feels like, effortless, quiet, connected. And even if you don’t have a teacher, when you still yourself under the sun, it speaks to you.