The . Hours . Festivals

How is that we come to have a body?
I mean is that your body?
I mean do you own it?
Is it you?

I always thought I’d be the kind of person to age gracefully, that didn’t slouch, that grew a big beard and learned how to fish. And yet hear I am aging, I don’t know how to fish, I slouch, but luckily I can grow a big beard but I think that’s even hit it’s max.

I like rooms, I think you do too. I like to be in a nice room, to have a nice drink while sitting on a nice couch. I like to think there might be kids around, maybe not mine, but a friend there who’s got his or her kids. I want to be in a nice room and I want to be optimistic. But then there’s this thing with having a body. It receives pleasure from nice things and it smiles when it’s getting this reception. And that’s what the body should be feeling, right? While in a nice room? But what if it feels pain? I don’t mean my leg hurts from a long day or long run or bumping into a table. I mean what if the pain can’t be explained? What if it won’t go away? What if it’s always right there with you? And I don’t mean emotional pain, although I certainly could, I mean the physical reception that something is off internally that your body let’s you know it feels. I’ve been trying to think of a description for it. And really it’s like an out of body experience, like you’re standing there or sitting there and you feel naked and you can see yourself, see what you think you look like and what you want to see is a person at peace, at ease, but what you see instead is like a strange reflection of your body in a position of discomfort and then you really do want to get out of your body but you can’t. It’s like being locked in a room. And you look around at the room and you think about how nice of a place it’s been, of all the pleasure you’re received and maybe given there, but suddenly you want to get out of it. You look at the door and you start to imagine that if you walk out of the room the pain will go away. And so you go ahead and walk out and stand in another room. But the pain is still there. And you start to think about all the pleasures you’ve felt in your life and how’s it probably a pretty good life, I mean you do read the news and you do know people whose life isn’t so good and you think that all things considered, yours is. But then you stop thinking for just a second, maybe even less, and you start to feel the pain again. And so you walk out of that room into another room all the while imagining, trying to will into being the absence of the pain as you walk through the doorway. One step, two steps, and then you get through the frame and into another room and it’s still there. So you go ahead and walk out of the house and keep walking, down the street, around the block, across the street, and down another block, and then down another. And you think that if you can just keep walking the pain will stop, you’ll walk it away. And so you go. For an hour, maybe two and you start to think you’re doing pretty good, you’ve got this thing taken care of and so you stop. And there it is. You can’t will it away and it’s like the whole world has become a room in which you live with your pain. And if you’ve got to have it well then you want metaphors to give it a name for after it passes. And you really want to think it’ll pass. And then one morning you wake up after having fallen asleep feeling a numbness which the pain becomes at night, and it has. It has passed.  I want to know that it does and it has and I’m not feeling it now, but that while it’s there it’s like the whole world is a room.
What this gets me too is that as I age I’ve had to come to a different agreement with myself about my relationship to pleasure. How not feeling pain is a form of pleasure. How what I thought would never happen to me has happened to me. I mean, do I own this body? Do I own this pain? Could I sell it? I see a picture and I want to tell you a story. I used to do this. I’d go into a thrift store and buy ten photos for a dime and write a short story about them, put the pieces together, make something up. But now I see a picture and when I start to think about what it is I’m imagining, I start to imagine pleasure. But then I start to imagine pain. Has this person felt this before? Did he sit in a nice room with his shirt smiling at a lover anticipating the pleasure that goes along with the upcoming events and suddenly get cut short by pain? I doubt it. I really do.

And so this gets me back to my question: how is it that we come to have a body? Whenever I don’t know what to write and I do want to write, or even if I’m lonely and need to think through something, I imagine writing to someone. In this case it’s you, whoever you are. Why don’t you imagine we’re friends, that we’ve gone on a road trip together, that we’ve sat on a beach and thought about kissing one another but held off for one reason or another. Don’t worry about gender, or age, or color: let’s just imagine that we care about each other. And that we go long periods of time without seeing each other, but still write letters or at least emails letting one another know what we’ve been up to. And this is where the body comes back in, this longing. With pain comes memory. And with pain comes realization. Sometimes what feels best in life is to want someone, to feel you can be satisfied in this desire. Does it fade over time? This wanting to want? I suppose so. But does it ever go away? If I know nothing else, I know that I don’t want it to.

Whenever I see a body now, any body, instead of thinking about all the pain it’s experienced, I try to think about the pleasure. How sometimes you can just read it on someone’s face. A smile, or the way a woman brushes her hair off her forehead, or a man lights up when he sees a friend. I could go on and on, but this is a short poem so I won’t. I’m just sitting here in my body thinking about other people, about how I’d like to spend time with them, go for a nice hike or spend the day at a lake and I can’t help but think about their bodies. How I used to be one of those people that we would say “I’m not my body, this thing here is just a vessel, and you’re not your body either.” I really wanted to believe that, but I can’t, not now and certainly not because I can see the differences between the bodies we’re in.

I do think it’s important for you to remember that I want this to be about pleasure, that this is a poem about pleasure, or this is a monologue about pleasure. Someone is smiling, happy to be here. I want to tell you about a movie, I want to ask did you see that one about…waking up on a ship in space not sure what year it is, not sure if it’s even you that went to sleep. It’s like a metaphor for the body too, how sometimes you don’t even know how time works, you just wake up and bam, here you are. And I want to think about another movie I’ve seen recently that I can tell you about, or a book, but…well, it seems they all have to do with the body, or at least someone’s body. Even a book about a lake is a story about the body, about a living organism, I mean just think about the Dead Sea for a minute.
And so when I see a room now, I think about the body in it too. It was built by bodies for bodies to be in, to be sheltered, to be at ease, to be in love, to experience pleasure. Look at the couch, what an invention! It’s like a bed, but for sitting on with someone else, comfortably.




by Christopher Ashby

music by Maxwell Harvey-Sampson

​In Motion Monologue

I can’t remember for the life of me, the last time I stayed put. By the time I was 10, I’d lived
in 5 different homes. Seemingly nomad-like, I grew accustomed to a life of being on the
move. Laying foundations one moment then uprooting the next.

By the time I was 15, I’d become agitated if we’d been in one place for more than 2 years.
Like an allergic reaction, I’d itch and get anxious and feel the walls closing in on me. It also
didn’t help when Mum and Dad were racing up and down the stairs hollering at each other.

Hollering? I put that lightly. More like full on screaming matches followed by objects
hurtling through the air. I became so numb to it like background noise – a soundtrack to life
per say. As long as I wasn’t directly involved, it wasn’t my problem. Having said that, it was
inevitable that I’d become a direct target of my mother’s accusations and abuse especially
when Dad had enough and crashed at my uncle’s place for 6 months straight before getting
his own place.

To say that period in life was a dark time is an understatement. It was perpetual, agonizing
and plain confusing. Brainwashing is no joke and once you’ve reached the point where high
school feels like the best 8 hour escape of your life per week, you really start to lose grip of
what true joy is and start to question if you really are worthy of happiness.

Fast forward 10 years, I’d somehow managed to climb up with hands on work experience,
sorted myself a decent job with good pay, rented out a great apartment and had not spoken
or seen my mother in 8 years by this point. I remember having nightmares and being
flooded with guilt about not being able to withstand the physical beatings. I often told
myself I’d chickened out.

It just hurt too much both mentally and externally. There’s so much battering and bruising
your psyche can take. You naturally burst and have enough. So, I left…just like that.
I can say I’ve tasted momentary freedom a couple times to say the least. While naturally
fleeting, there’s always a crash. Without guidance, the concept of freedom transcends into
repression. Suddenly, you look around and see solid communities and friend’s families
looking at you funny because you’re used to serving yourself first and putting others second.
You are the only thing that matters to yourself – to keep surviving.

Out of the rotating partners, fair weather friendships and hazy nights under the influence,
the one thing I couldn’t shake off was not being able to stay put. I knew once the agitation
and itching set in, it meant having to uproot yet again. I’ll never know where I’m heading in
those moments but one thing I know for sure is to keep moving.

​
By: Karina Curlewis

performed by Ashley Wilson

Hi, Aaron.

    I’m sitting in our tent right now, camped outside of Devil’s Backbone Brewery in Virginia. They let hikers set up in the woods near their...well, I guess it’s a campus really. They have this huge brewpub and an outdoor stage with outdoor bars, small stone bonfires, and cornhole and horseshoe sets. There’s a “Royal Flush” pinball machine like the one you used to play at Mountain Fire Pizza, before they got rid of it..

After the past few days of hiking it was such a huge relief to hitchhike down here. There’s no shower, but I did give myself a towel bath in one of their outdoor bathrooms. The beer was great and I’ve never eaten fries so fast in my life. Some of my trail friends are camped around me. We wandered back here with our headlamps, fairly drunk (or at least tipsy), and crawled into our tents. One of them, See-More, just sleeps under his rain fly--he doesn’t even use the tent itself. I couldn’t do that. The thought of ants and frogs and stuff crawling on me at night gives me the creeps.
I was long overdue in writing this. To tell you the truth, I have been so busy hiking North that I’ve rarely thought about you. That’s one of two things I hoped might happen with this trip; I would either obsess over you, or I would “forget” you. Of course I can’t forget you. It’s been over a year. There was a long time where I cried myself to sleep every night in our apartment. I don’t really know when that stopped. Months. Judy and Amos finally talked me into seeing a therapist. I know you aren’t haunting me, but I have been haunting myself. I felt like a ghost in our apartment. Around our friends. Around town. I clinged onto every scrap of you that remained. I miss your dark hair and how you would smile more with your eyes than your mouth. I always wanted to know what you were thinking--what was going on behind that hint of a smirk.
    I did leave my customer service job. That’s good, right? You hated how much I hated that job. I’ve been making ends meet by substitute teaching, dog walking/sitting, and a lot of freelance work. None of it pays particularly well by itself, but together it’s not a bad living and I rarely have time to be bored. What am I saying; “have?” Had. I guess I got ahead of myself. I’m on the Appalachian Trail right now! It just felt like the right time to do it, you know? We always wanted to go and I’m not chained down to my work, so. I thanked the landlord and broke the lease. Used our, well, mostly my at this point, savings to buy gear. Did the research. Talked to Cara about it. Your sister has been so supportive in general. She gave me her maps, loaned me her stove, and some other things that didn’t get trashed during her hike. I haven’t really used the maps because everybody out here uses this phone app called Guthook’s, but I still carry them anyway. I like to pretend they’re a protective totem or juju or something.

    Every single day out here is beautiful. Hard, but beautiful. Each step feels like a small triumph, in a way, and it seems like the most successful hikers (or, at least, the ones most likely to complete the trail) have the mantra that; “There’s one way out of this, and that’s to finish. One foot in front of the other, keep walking north.” I’ve relied on that, and them, a lot. We all have trail names at this point, if we’re going to. There’s See-More, of course, which is a play on his name (Seymore) and the fact that he frequently struts through camp in his underwear. I have become pretty close friends with Way. She carries a copy of the Tao Te Ching and talks about this trail being her Way, and “infinite mysteries this” and “unknowing that.” You would have gotten a kick out of her, if her woo-woo talk didn’t annoy you too much. Camped across from me are Ted and Young Ted. They’re brothers. The older one’s name is Ted, and I don’t actually know Young Ted’s name but somebody called him that and it stuck. I cheated and gave myself a trail name. It’s not really a big deal if you give yourself one, but I didn’t like a lot of the names people were suggesting for me. I thought a lot about it through the Smoky Mountains and decided it should be Hummingbird. I hum, you liked when they’d migrate through our backyard, I don’t know. It works. And there hasn’t been another Hummingbird this year yet, so people know it’s me (if they know me). My gear is too drab to really stand out. You know at least half the guys hiking out here wear girl’s shorts in the most ridiculous colors? I’m talking hot pink booty shorts. Nobody really cares. It’s obvious who the hikers are, and when I go into town it’s impossible to blend in even after a shower and stowing my pack somewhere.
I had been so focused on my own physical pain and struggle as I hiked through the cold southern states that I didn’t think about much. I either tried to push the thoughts out, or think about my next week of hiking and plan it out in my head. I’ve been snowed on three times, thought for certain I would freeze to death one night, and though I haven’t had any bear encounters yet, I have nearly stepped on two huge rattlesnakes since entering Virginia. The weather is hot now, and the trail is full of flowers and shady green leaves. The past couple days were really intense though. I came down off a mountain into a two-story shelter next to a waterfall. Spent the night there with Way and a few other fast hikers we had caught up with. Then, I had the long trek up The Priest, a mountain I’d been hearing about for weeks. The first 4k footer for a long time! When I got near the summit there was a shelter (also called The Priest shelter) where hikers confessed their “sins” to the mountain in the trail log. Some were funny, some were sarcastic, some were heartfelt and sad. A lot of confessions were about not burying poop properly or hanging bear bags right.
I picked up the pen to write something funny, but I just...started writing. I wrote an entire page of all my regrets, all my anger that you left me alone. My frustration of being unable to move on, and my disinterest in seeing other people while our friends would hint at; “how long it’s been,” in their loving but tone-deaf way. I wrote about how I just want you, and our future, back; and how I don’t want a new future without you. It came out very real, and very sudden. I lost myself in my writing.
    Way hiked into the site and set her backpack down next to me on the picnic table. I realized I was crying and I tried to hide my face so she wouldn’t see; regardless, she could definitely see that my hand was trembling over the page. When I had finished writing, I moved to rip the page out. She placed her hand down on the log so I couldn’t lift it. “I had no idea,” she said. She had been reading over my shoulder. I hadn’t told anybody on the trail about you. I’d avoided talking too much about myself anyway, but I didn’t want to invite your ghost to follow me. You left for work one morning and there was a snowstorm and you never made it home. I was alone.
    “It’s nothing,” I told Way. She nodded.
    “Everything is Nothing,” she replied. Her matter-of-fact nature combined with the absurdity of everything she says is probably my favorite thing about her. She gently took the shelter log and pen from me to write her own confession. I sat there and ate a flavorless granola bar. The oats rolled around on my tongue and felt like lumps going down my throat. The more I thought about Nothing, the more hollow I felt inside. I wanted to shred that page up; not to prevent others from reading it, but to somehow get rid of all of those feelings that were tormenting me. Way’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Would you hike to Devil’s Backbone Brewery with me?”
“You know I hike slower than you.”
“That’s fine. The beer will wait for us and I’d like the company.”
So here we are. The hike down here was silent until we got to the road and hitched in with a friendly, local trail maintainer. We met up with the Teds and a few other members of our extended trail families, drank our beer, and ate fried foods and fresh salads. Everybody acted the same toward me because, of course, only Way knew now--but I felt different. That entry in the hiker log had been the first time I had opened up about my feelings. I hadn’t even done that with my therapist, really. I felt quiet and exhausted. Laying down in this tent--our tent--and writing this by headlamp has been the catharsis I’ve needed since you died. I’ve thought a lot about you, and why I’m hiking this trail, and what will come next for me.  I think a part of you is all over this trail, but in that, “we are all made of starstuff,” way. I don’t think there’s life after death. Your brain stopped working, and “you” are gone, and you couldn’t possibly care about me or if I date again or move across the country or anything like that. If I go back to Gorham, I’ll just be haunting it as a surrogate for you. Maybe I can crash with my cousin out in Oregon for a while. I need a new start, something to let me get over this monumental sadness that I carry everywhere. I know, intellectually, it’s not what you would want for me. We had a great life together but it’s gone. Now, I hike every day, sometimes in excess of twenty miles, and eat noodles mixed with instant potatoes, and dig holes to poop in the woods. I hike like it’s my job, but I hike because it’s my life, and that’s enough for now. I think the only way forward, for me, is one footstep at a time. Ever northward. Katahdin awaits! After that, I’ll see what comes.

It felt good to get this all out. Maybe it’s the exhaustion or the booze or something else. Maybe I’m just ready to finally start talking about this. I feel like I should burn this letter, somehow, in some special place. Maybe when I hike through NH. I’ll stop by our old apartment, swing by the fire pit in the backyard, and light this on fire to send it to you. Everything is Nothing. I’ll say one last goodbye to our apartment, our town, and our life. Then, I’ll keep hiking.

I loved you, I still love you, and I will always love you. But you knew that.  

                                                    Happy trails,
                                Chris (“Hummingbird”)

by Joe Noel

installation, trail journal, and trail snacks at the event by Jenny Wittmaack