Settling in

I don't usually like to plug my other endeavors on the Dot Matrix, but as further proof that I am permanently relocated and committed, I have changed my role at examiner.com.  Instead of being Boston's Fringe Neighborhood Examiner, a title I never felt entirely comfortable with, I am now New Orleans' Parks and Open Spaces Examiner.  

As I commented on yesterday, I appreciate a smidge of structure in order to produce and I figured describing the many public parks and neutral grounds would be a nice track for me to follow.  I love to go out exploring and I am interested in the civic amenities New Orleans offers.  One of the first things I noticed about New Orleans' parks is that, unlike Boston, the mayor's name isn't plastered on every sign and umbrella and trash can.  Even much-maligned Mayor Nagin had more class and less hubris than Boston's Mayor Menino.  In Boston, you can't go anywhere without seeing Mayor Menino's name inscribed on some piece of infrastructure, no matter how humble.  I have yet to see newly installed Mayor Landrieu's name anywhere beyond the pages of the Times-Picayune.  I like that.  I like it a lot.

I could just write willy-nilly, whatever comes to mind, and that is often my modus operandi.  I've been known to think of the posts contained on the Matrix as jazz riffs; I rarely know where I am going to end after I start.  This whale-may-care attitude was compromised a bit when I took my motorcycle journey between Boston and New Orleans.  During the trip, I chronicled my impressions left over after ten hours of cross country motorcycling (first installment here).  That saga ended on May 7.  May 8 was my first fully fledged day in the Crescent City and it provided a leitmotif that I hope will stamp every following encounter between myself and the City Care Forgot.  

I feel remarkably carefree.  I am working part time in my field and doing some freelance work for pocket money.  I have little inclination to get into a daily grind, though I realize that is probably in the cards.   At the moment, I am content exploring my new surroundings.  My creative juices are churning, the sap is rising, the sky is the limit even when daily thunderheads rain on my personal parade.  The sun always comes out at storm's end and, while I get wet, I have yet to be dispirited.  

New Orleans is laid on fertile, alluvial soil.  It's climate encourages fecundity.  If am a seed, I will grow where planted.  I am from Connecticut and the Nutmeg State's official motto is "Qui Transtulit Sustinet."  Words to live by.  In English: "He Who Transplants Sustains."  I will be true to my roots in this new garden.  Louisiana's motto is: "Union, Justice, and Confidence."  I can live with that.  With Heaven's blessing, I hope to thrive.

And now, this essay has turned out not one bit as I originally intended.  Thank you for stopping by.   

What's in a name?

If you look at the top of this page, you'll see the name of this blog is the Dot Matrix.  This is because I've been headquartered the last three years in Dorchester, Mass., the biggest and best of Boston's neighborhoods.  Dorchester is affectionately referred to as Dot by those who live there.  It is a pleasant shorthand turn of name.

It took awhile for me to change the name of the blog to Dot Matrix.  This originally started with the eponymous title Whalehead King, which was fitting enough since articles tended to emphasize the author's exploits tooling around New London, Conn. on a motor scooter.  After a few months, the Dot Matrix title took hold since the focus had changed more to the tessallations of a wide ranging, interwoven sub-unit of a major city.

I find myself in another major city, one far different from the one I left.  I'm not against changing the blog's name once again but I'm not sure what it should be.  Dot Matrix still works fine for me in the idea that my viewpoint is a dot in a wider weave and weft and woof that is New Orleans.  It may take a while before I settle on a masthead.  Nothing is broken but I can't resist fiddling.  A person shouldn't mess with perfection, but this blog is far from perfect.  After a week in New Orleans permanently (today is Day Eight) I am still getting my bearings.  Fools change a name where angels keep conservative?

While I am toying with new names to indicate my new direction, I haven't settled on a compass point yet.  Stay tuned.  Soon enough, ye olde Whalehead King will hit his stride and begin reporting his world as he encounters it: fresh off the griddle.  Until then, I'm afraid these posts will be noodling, stumbling voyages in discovering my surroundings.  I haven't written any gold for a few weeks.

Apologies for the thin gruel and thanks for checking in.  We guarantee shiny nuggets of interesting prose will be forthcoming.  Until then: stay tuned and thanks for showing up.

With a handshake,
WK

89 degrees

My near neighbor hasn't turned on his heat yet. I turned it on a few days ago and set the thermostat to a luxurious 62 degrees. I didn't do it for myself. I''m happy to wear woolen undergarments and an overcoat and stomp my feet and watch my breath merge with the steam off a teacup cradled between my chillblained fingers. I don't live alone though, so, bowing to the change in seasons, we have added blankets to the bed clothes and turned on the heat. N*Star must be happy to be reading this.

My near neighbor wonders if native New Englanders have a secret on how to deal with the seasonal misery with aplomb. Brother, it's just started and I am dreading the coming months. It's nothing yet. This is just a taste. I'm not from Massachusetts; I'm a cranky Nutmeg Yankee. That means I'm from Connecticut, a few miles closer to the tropics. What's our secret? We're not called cranky Yankees for nothing. Unlike those nice folks in Minnesota, winter doesn't bring out our best. Winter is the hammer and tongs that make us the way we are: sour, remote, bland, uncaring, resigned, hating to see anyone else having any fun. If you enjoy something, it must not be good for you. New Englanders love winter as much as they hate it. It wouldn't be New England if you could go outside and play year round. Our secret: hunker down and enjoy the misery.

As I type this, I see that the temperature in New Orleans is 89 degrees. The temperature here in Boston, this fine mid-October evening, is a seasonable 41 degrees. They say that in New Orleans people celebrate the sabbath like Bostonians spend the 4th of July. They celebrate October 15th the way Bostonians do July 15th too. Boston has a lot of attributes to recommend it. Dorchester is one of them. Climate is not.

Between The Gutter and The Stars

New London sits between the gutter and the stars. When some people walk they jangle with their pockets full of spare change. Some people play by their own rules and shuffle and skylark about. Some people look as it pleases them, without a knot of consideration for what anyone thinks. New London sits squarely on the globe between the gutter and the stars.

Seen delineated on a surveyor’s map, New London balls itself into a fist downtown and punches a cheap, feeble uppercut into the soft gut of the State of Connecticut. Seen from a street map, New London is a bundle of nerves downtown trailing a spinal ganglion down to the ocean. Seen at eye level, walking about one’s internal map and tracing the tracks of muscle memory, New London is a dream.

Bottle rockets burst in New London’s atmosphere during Sailfest. Other, more intimate, still howling, explosions happen every New London night. This is a city built on lust and love and all the measures in between. Once the genie is out of its flask, she refuses to be put back in. New London is full of pretty women with light brown hair. On some weekends, you will find one or two who are strawberry blonde or blond streaked with gray.

Sometimes a relic is wrapped in a bejeweled reliquary. More often, talismans are found in the people we meet. We all have something in common. Some have more in common with our selves than others. All pigs are not created equal. I have found a pearl. I found her in New London.

If a person is good, New London will reward him or her with his or hers heart’s desire. New London is like that. It exists halfway between the gutter and the stars. People are halfway between Heaven and Hell. Better to meet an angel in Hell than a devil in Heaven. New London has provided many introductions over the years. All of them have been good.

Whalehead King has arm-wrestled many demons in New London and he has thumb-wrestled many angels between bouts. If Whalehead King is good, it is because New London taught him how to be.

Honey Plus

There is a man so sweet that when he writes a story, bees stop making honey. Some people can string words like pearls on a golden wire. Some people have a natural bent to take the dross of life and spin it into fools’ gold. There are some people who enjoy this kind of folderol. We haven’t met them yet, but they are out there.

Whalehead King is a man who hates drama and pat situations. He is a man who enjoys when things do not come together. He is a surrealist of the commonplace. He has been told more than once that his descriptions are like an acid trip in a supermarket produce aisle. If little happens in Mr. King’s stories, it is because little happens in his life. He enjoys his minor triumphs, and he takes his missteps in stride. He thinks literature should reflect what goes on around him. He doesn’t witness many murders or extortions or white collar crime or blue collar crime. He coasts through his days and he likes to escape into the crannies and confines of his routine.

Everything ends in the grave. Whalehead King is planning his mausoleum. It will be fit for Napoleon if it is ever erected. In the meantime, Whalehead King is busy making his life a work of art. Since Mr. King is a dandy rake, people often compare him to Oscar Wilde. Since Mr. King is the center of attention by making odd pronouncements and being different, he is sometimes compared to Andy Warhol. Like Mr. Warhol, Whalehead King is a social butterfly often seen, but rarely understood. Like Mr. Warhol, Whalehead King is a tastemaker, though few understand how far his influence reaches or why. Like Mr. Warhol, Whalehead King is bemused and bewildered by a world he has mastered.

A person’s life unfolds in convoluted, over-itself, patterns. There is rarely a discernable reason at the end. That is the beauty of living. The more you do, the more you see, the less sense the whole experience makes. It is wonderful and beautiful. Sometimes the cat doesn’t get out of the bag and the bag gets tossed in the river. Sometimes the tomcat escapes and cuts a swath though the garden, tossing litter all the way.
There is a man who enjoys life as much as he is able. He has a big heart. He slakes his thirst along the bank of Connecticut’s Thames River. He lives in New London, Conn. He shares his escapades with whoever has the patience to listen. He goes about his business like a monk on pilgrimage. He rarely leaves New London

Return of Whalehead King

Our intrepid reporter has been out of New London recently, hence the shortage of important news being posted for your edification. He has, however returned from the Sooner State and is back on the beat.

While Whalehead King was there on serious business, a funny thing happened in Oklahoma. It turns out that many people in Wewoka, the seat of Seminole County government, have never seen someone who looks or sounds like your correspondent outside of the movies or television. This caused some initial misapprehensions and misunderstandings, but everything was smoothed over and all business was finally conducted in with Yankee-quickness.

For everyone who has inundated Montauk Marketplace with inquiries as to Mr. King's whereabouts and health, not having seen him motorscootering about town for a week, he is back in New London, alive and kicking and on patrol. Keep your eyes peeled, he is sure to cut you off in traffic tomorrow.

A new sign is hanging over Carlos' restaurant picturing what the new "New York-style" condominium buildings will look like. Impressive indeed if the architect's vision comes to fruition. Remember, the Chelsea Groton Bank building is supposed to have an impressive dome that has yet to materialize. The Shaw's Landing buildings are supposed to add more visual interest than vinyl siding to Bank Street's sight lines. If the Carlos' developers' buildings turn out as imagined, bully for them. In a New London state of mind they will be Parthenons beside Columbus Square. To everyone else, they will be as attractive as anything that can be found in Oklahoma City except for the Skirvin Hotel, which is a jewel that belongs in Connecticut's Whaling City.

It is good to be home, where Whalehead King's heart is.

Kollision Results!

Well, it wasn't boring. Everything unfolded New London Perfect! The Berlin Pilgrim v. Whalehead King in a sparring match of poesy. Excitement was at a fever pitch. No one could wait for a warm-up act. The first line on the bill was reserved for these two gladiators of the spoken word. The combatants opened Open Mike Night with a bang.

On a stage improvised to look like a druid altar complete with evergreen and holly, Mr. King introduced the challenge. A murmur of anticipation swept through the crowd like the courtroom at a murder trial. A video camera was set up to record this moment for posterity. The Berlin Pilgrim took the floor while Mr. King sat back at a respectful distance. The verbal fireworks began.

To listen to the crowd gathered to watch this contest, you would have thought it was the Fourth of July if you didn't knnow it was January 17th. The cries of "ooooooo!" and "aaaaaaah!" sometimes drowned out the combatants as they read their work aloud. By the end of the tournament, both Spinelli and King were hoarse trying to be heard over the applause and the boos.

So who won? There is no definitive answer. The jury is out. We could watch the video and replay the highlights to make a decision, but remember: the night was New London Perfect. Someone left the lenscap on the camera. Some claim The Berlin Pilgrim upset Whalehead King during Round 2 and our hero never recovered. Others claim The Pilgrim never stood a chance and even if he made Whalehead King stumble, good ol' Whalehead remains the people's choice.

Niether competitor is happy with the outcome. Both have already agreed to a rematch in a month. Rest assured, during the next Kream Kollision someone is going to get a Komeuppance!!!

Who Is The Berlin Pilgrim??

The Berlin Pilgim is a Nutmegger at heart. He has spent his time in odd corners of the world unimaginable to his current acquaintances. The Berlin Pilgrim is a man of the world, but he is a Nutmeg Yankee at heart.

The Berlin Pilgrim is not cosmopolitan. His travels have taken him to out-of-the-way places. He understands many dialects, but has never lost his accent. He has never gone native. He knows his limitations better than anything else, but he hasn't learned how far he should reach. He has lived in jungles, dormitories, on the road, and under the stars. He has been marveled at for being different from his surroundings.

The Berlin Pilgrim moved to New London, Conn. It is not much different from his other destinations beyond being in the Constitution State. Why would a world-traveller choose New London? Why not? You grow where you are planted. That is written in Latin on The Pilgrim's driver's license.

The Berlin Pilgrim takes notes about his travels in his journals. He impresses by keeping mum. When he speaks softly, people listen. He carries a stick more flimsy than his convictions. The Berlin Pilgrim partakes as much as he gives. The part of a fortune cookie you remember is the message in the middle, not the flavor.

Who Is Whalehead King??

Even a minor genius who has succeeded beyond his wildest dreams has moments of self-doubt before a fresh challenge. Most emperors were stabbed or poisoned. What is hot today will be cold tomorrow. Plans sometimes pay off better than intuition.

Whalehead King hates to trust his luck, though it hasn't failed him thus far. He believes he is up to whatever lands in his lap, but when you lie down with dogs you can wake up with fleas. Mr. King believes with all his heart that he lives in a world-class city that can satisfy his needs. Others don't believe this and Mr. King fears he may catch thier cold.

Intimate with his subject, Whalehead King dashes off whatever is on his mind about what catches his momentary fancy in New London, Conn. If his essays are cheery, it is because New London is very good to him. Mr. King is well aware his adopted home is not equally generous with everyone. His deepest fear is that he will become disillusioned and disenchanted, that he will embrace the obverse side of the New London State of Mind.

Whalehead King writes and writes in the most general way. He is a character who dwells in the universal truths he encounters on his daily errands. Forever on patrol about New London, Conn., Mr King is looking for answers to why he is here. He does more than write. He lives enmeshed in New London's weave, a part of a great city sailing toward its destiny.

Celebrity Shrug Match

Besides local politicitans, which people are well-known in New London? We are obviously using the 'well-known' definition loosely. Besides local politicians, what citizens make a difference in Connecticut's Whaling City? Obviously this is another bar set low, since many people make more of a difference in this community than those employed in its government.

After landlords, New London's predominant caste is its artists. These two set the tone and the tenor of what develops downtown especically, but also farther afield, from Hodges Square to Neptune Park. These two cast the mold of how New London is seen in the world.

New London's personalities are more important than its elected leaders. People make a city, not a charter.

David Spinelli is a pilgrim from Berlin, Conn. who has landed on New London's shore. He has lived here a little less than a year. He is a quiet man who has insinuated himself into a number of the city's subcultures. He means no ill. He is more cure than contagion. He is a modern gentleman who brings a global sensibilitiy to his immediate surroundings.

Whalehead King is a man who has flourished where he has found himself transplanted. He has folded his soul into New London's spirit. His city is his self. No one knows New London like Whalehead King, who knows New London like the back of his eyelids.

Mr. Spinelli proposed to Mr. King that the two match wits and talent in a duel of poetry. Words are New London's favorite medium whether set to music or to coffee shop bustle. Would our man-about-town accept the stranger's challenge? Yes. Mr. Spinelli chose three themes and the two agreed to write three poems, read them in public, face to face, poem for poem, head to head, may the best man win. Length is limited to a half-page per subject so as not to try the audience's patience.

Mr. Spinelli is too unknown a quantity to predict. Mr. King's work is as parochial and folksy as an aristocrat of the gutter can muster. No one knows what the results will be. Odds favor Whalehead King, but the Spinellli Factor looms to upset rational predictions. When the night is done a new head may be crowned as New London's Bard.