Journal of a Sabbatical

October 2, 1998

wake up and smell the bleach

the book pile

Starbucks locator

Copyright © 1998, Janet I. Egan

First thing this morning, I heard on the BBC news that the national park officials in the Galapagos Islands have decided to evacuate the giant tortoises on the island of Isabela.. A stream of lava flowing from the Cerro Azul volcano is now less than two kilometers from one of the tortoises' nesting sites. Park will use a helicopter to carry out an inspection of the site and evacuate those in danger. The lava stream is something like three-hundred meters wide. Wouldn't want that approaching my nest :-) I was still asleep when I heard this so I had to confirm it later.

I'm still not awake when I get to the cat shelter.

If only Peresido would get out of the sink, I could wash dishes. I move the empty wet food cans on to the counter to soak and Peresido leaps up there to continue licking them. Yuck. Next thing I know he's back in the sink again. Somebody should've brought donuts to distract him. He loves donuts. Maybe not as much as leftover wet food though.

Jaguar lets me hold him. He sits on my shoulder quietly while I scratch his chin.

Martha tells me they missed me at the dinner Monday night 'cause I was supposed to get a plaque for the work I've done for Purrfect Companions and the pet therapy at Brigham Manor. So that's why Roberta was trying so hard to get me to commit to going. Martha says she'll give me the plaque when we get together to go to Brigham Manor again.

I changed my clothes in the bathroom, thinking I'd head over to the refuge to look for migrating shorebirds, but I found myself inexorably drawn to Starbucks in search of not only the ritual cup of coffee but also the friends who go with it. Oh well, maybe I'll see them at Lowell Celebrates Kerouac tonight or over the weekend.

Here in my humble office with the window open to the fall air, I listen to the Indians power past the Red Sox 4-3. Bret Saberhagen gave up three home runs for all that he didn't pitch that badly. Nomar Garciaparra went 2-for-4 with a Home Run putting him at 10 RBI for the series. It just wasn't enough I guess. I listen to the post game press conference. Jimy Williams stands by his pitching choice for tomorrow. Pete Schourek? How the bleep can he pitch Pete Schourek?

This mural is across the street from the historic Worthen House in downtown Lowell, one of those places to which I was first introduced by Charla, before its restoration. It used to be known as "The Old Worthen" in those days up until 1989. Its fan system is a historic relic - all belts and pulleys - one of only four of its kind in the US and the only one still in its original site. It may or may not have been a stop on the Underground Railroad. Jack Kerouac drank there.

My 1989 poem was written as an exercise for a poetry class I was taking at the Cambridge Center for Adult Ed at the time. We had to write an acrostic. Astute readers will note that the first letter of each line spells out "Jack Kerouac Drank Here".

The Old Worthen by Janet Egan sometime in 1989

Just before closing
Another round for the table
Carved with the drinkers' initials
Kerouac's are still here, some say,
Keeping faith with nothing
Every pint sucked dry
Reclaiming Lowell's losses
Outside into the night
Under a winter sky
All the faithless drunkards
Cringe against the cold
Driven out from boredom
Running toward chaos
Alone or accompanied
Needing all or nothing
Keeping nothing whole
Howling at the moon
Entering hell or elsewhere
Resting there or somewhere
Else. Eternally.

This poem is not nearly in the same class as the above. I returned to The Old Worthen tonight, in its current identity as the Worthen House, for some music and poetry as part of Lowell Celebrates Kerouac. The poem needs work, no doubt, but poets often scribble first drafts of poems in their journals, so here it is.

beer and cigarettes by Janet Egan tonight in 1998

Across from the nuns inexplicably carrying air conditioners
as they lead their charges off the edge of the world
into the cavernous lunch bucket
held by the Paul Bunyan-size mill worker
who gazes westward forever

Across from the pigeons cooing on sills
of boarded up windows among scarred red bricks
watching over the band's instruments
waiting for the show to start

The Old Worthen may have hidden slaves,
most certainly harbored poets
The new chapel of an old faith
that worships beer and cigarettes
God's having long since fled the scene

The band sets up
a woman consumes a beer and a cigarette all at once
breathing and swallowing the rushed sacrament of hipness
and they are all so young

Smoke stings my eyes
I cough and sneeze
the smell of stale beer fills my senses
I can't breathe at all
Excommunicated by allergies and sobriety
My age exactly what his was
the day Jack Kerouac died