Please, God, Let There Be a Bowling Alley in Heaven
Introducing love, journalism's The Hemingways collection
I’m Darren Samuelsohn, and this is what Sundays look like at love, journalism — a dispatch from the notebook, unfiltered, from whatever year I happened to be living in.
Today's edition begins a new series from the notebook: The Hemingways — one page, one sitting, no revisions, always signed off with #30#. Also a special bonus for paid subscribers!
I’d wanted to stop at the house where Kerouac last lived before departing Florida but time got away and even with a full day flight delay the visit didn’t happen. What you’re about to read filled my notebook a few mornings later back in DC.
It’s a writing thing I’ve been doing for a while where I keep my journaling to a single page and try to land around the words I’d already chosen as a title, no matter where the page takes me along the way. I’d been circling versions of this for a long time, and it clicked into fresh form after visiting Hemingway’s Key West house in January. I’ve been playing with it in, um, earnest, ever since.
Going forward, love, journalism’s readers can expect more of these outside-the-box writing exercises. Paying subscribers at any level can also expect a limited printed edition in the mail at year-end. Become a subscriber now to get yours.
And now…
Please, God, Let There Be a Bowling Alley in Heaven
Declarations of donut independence. Rise up and do justice to the doughy compartments of fudge and life and grins and smiles of endless topping bars where pure black coffee mixes into a rhyme of cereals and commercials. And I’m so sorry childhood ever ends. Please, god, let there be a bowling alley in heaven.
#30#
Everywhere, Moms Sigh, So Heavenly
Pinch deep down in the side of your ankle, above the bone, in the muscle. Squeeze carefully both sides. Hold tight and feel — oof. Good oozes of sunrise. Blue day starting. Those joyous first birds wake and sing songs of great days to come. Move the feet and start to shake free. Eat breakfast. You deserve ground coffee. Moms take care of such things. Moms look out for their kids. I love my mom, I love so much. Everywhere, moms sigh, so heavenly.
#30#
Little Laughs of Recognition
When the words suddenly come and know too where they’ll land, you can do tight leg tucks and shimmy, shimmy, bang, bang. Because the freedom comes in these kinds of moves where form rewards tightness. Mind over matter and promises of firsts ahead. Little layers of success, little layers of certainty. When the landing is right there in sight, hunger in the morning gut, hunger in the head when birds, morning, sing, and I delight in the little laughs of recognition.
#30#
Maybe This Is What They Say It Is
A brain empty already by five thirty AM. Bugs aren’t even yet buzzing. The mosquitoes leave no change. Here I show off what’s happening. No idea tomorrow what I said today. This never ever happened. I can say I won’t remember, and nor should you — like a dream, like a road on vacation. Maybe this is what they say it is.
#30#
What’s That Chicken Scratch?
Hard rock, ‘cause there wasn’t much else but Chick-fil-A or expensive Chinese food. Delayed American, again, two hours, then canceled and redirected without asking, to Miami. Okay, bar fajitas. A hundred dollar tab for two Negronis, too. Tatted fed waiting for daughter. She disses the bartender for reccing the original Hooters. Not much else in Clearwater — I mention it’s home of Hulk Hogan and the Scientologist. She rolls her eyes. I know. I got stuck there during concrete snow this February. Helping mom — the Mom Express, kids helping parents. Then two guys see my journal, ask me to move my bags. Excited. Who still does this, one of them asks? The other, smack, at the sight: “What’s that chicken scratch?”
#30#
Don’t Look Back at the Garbage
Brains tend to knock down, dismiss, shoot messengers. They win many times because they run things around here. Here’s where I see the rub — they should be ignored, dismissed too, for that goober of a thought. Champion it and give it all the room it needs to grow — a day, a month, a grapevine lifetime. Stick it to the man. Stick it to the stupid monkey mind brain. Let it be in your notebook. Don’t look back at the garbage.
#30#
Now, Suns Come Up
Son, I tell you now, I know not to tell you anything. Sorry isn’t even the half of it. I apologize, I apologize, I apologize — on behalf of fathers everywhere, even though I never fathered a soul’s real blood. So question me, so show me, so forgive me. I’m not your dad, I’m not your pa, I’m no one really but me. Best I can do is show you, pick you up, take you anywhere, prove through actions over words. Do what I say and not what I do. A tune you know I know. A road you know I know. A bird whistle, a plane, Jane, a choppy day at sea. My promise to you now is to be my best, to let the best rest, and to sleep early — for the body, for the soul, to walk with joy, by cat kisses, to pee. And now, suns come up.
#30#
Dastardly Coughin’
His name, when I learned it, made no sense. Who picks a name like that? Makes no sense. Did he do something wrong? Did his dad? Grandma? Last, I understand — grandpa’s... you can keep going back, and somewhere they got to that. But still, who sticks that on a kid, so the kid gets called this — dastardly coughin’.
#30#
Gray Cat Scratched at the Tree
A squirrel hustled from tree to tree, got so high so fast, no wonder he had no clue, except I’m sure he did. Down below, Gray got into his potato roll. Art therapy! Great, it’s what it is. Thanks to it, we can choose a way, and then back — while the gray cat scratched at the tree.
#30#
Bonus Track: My Blood for the Mosquitos
I’m a proud Ashkenazi Jew. I come from two places my people found fantastic. I was a snowbird before I knew the word for it, a jumper before bungees, a singer who owned the lounge, loved women, loved life, loved so much more than my family. Genetically predisposed to trauma, separated preteen from mom and dad’s union — who knows what bad seeds formed, pitted one against another. The ultimate ref. I had no choice but to survive two boomers, parents who fought and survived and were born here, so don’t even ask. A line behind me that shoots sideways now — my blood for the mosquitoes.
#30#