From Rob Faunce's "Quoi d'ever?, Fall '95 From Rob Faunce's "Quoi d'ever?, Fall '95I have been trying to find the river. Ever since I can remember being grown up enough to comprehend his mumblings, I have wondered what Michael Stipe's mythic river is? Where is it? Is it a place for me? And what if the river is not a river?? Okay, that's getting a bit too philosophical?back to the rivers at hand. I spent this past Thanksgiving week in Jacksonville with an old nondescript lover, trying to allow myself to be pampered by the luxuruies that only older men can provide. I sat on a dock, silently watching sunset, and let my feet caress the stream of the St. Johns river. An unorthodox river, it flows north like the Nile and is virtually untainted by pollution or manmade horror. I closed my eyes and recalled the warm brown muck that is the Schuylkill. Such a muddy sight for tired eyes in a city of brotherly love. I spent my week in Jacksonville fixated on rivers, vacillating between the many rivers I have seen and felt in this lifetime. The big arms of the Hudson, the rocky waters of the Merrimack, the hot soothing touch of the Rio Grande. I sat with my nondescript former lover outside a bar, on the river, on a hazy Saturday night. Invisible loudspeakers blared classic ballads of Christmas lore, and I sat and waited. When the fireworks started, I stared in wonder. Beautiful shades of red, pink, green and gold exploded above me, and I was drawn to them -- drawn to the river. I darted shoeless to the riverbank and sat right down, freezing the red blood cells right out of my feet. I sat there and ignored the horrific Michael Bolton Christmas crap. I tuned out my ex-beau's apathetic warnings about the cold water. I watched the colors, and felt the cold shivers up my spine, and immersed myself in the sounds of exploding blues and silvers in the night sky above me. This is where I am supposed to say something about the amazing symbiosis of finally finding my river and internal peace, et cetera. Instead, I have a tale of woe about numb feet. I can tell you about having firework debris strewn upon me like a chimneysweep in Mary Poppins. I can tell you about drinking what is called Red Rooster to warm my silly toes while watching a river covered in soot and glitter, mixed into a hazardous glow like nuclear disaster as staged in Vegas. So my river looked toxic. But I was drunk and contented. Perhaps that is what the river is. It is a great big stream of German beer spilling forth to create a new nation. And is everyone searching for the same river? Will we need a river of Mexican beer, and different flavors and colors of beer? Probably. Everyone has their own river to find. Some people never bother to look. Other people aren't quite so literal about it. In a few weeks, I am going to check the Thames, the Tagus, the Rhine, Rhone, Rain, Iran-Contra -- heck, I'll check the Volga if the border's open. If it seems silly to randomly look at rivers, it is. If it seems perfect to randomly look at rivers, it is. There are so many rivers running through this world, and we all keep missing our boats. Okay, the analogy is dead. I am actually going to Europe to drink German beer. (And I bet you'll never listen to REM the same way again?)
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