Tag Archives: Mary Washington College

Throwback Thursday: Mary Washington College’s “Campus … Drive?” (1981)

The photo below ought to give pause to anyone who went to Mary Washington College when I did in the early 1990’s.  That is indeed Campus Walk back when it was Campus Drive, a legitimate roadway for the Town of Fredericksburg.

I have no idea when it was closed to automobile traffic and the walkway was created.  The photo dates from 1981.  (I am using it here with permission from UMW Special Collections; it comes from the Simpson Library’s Centennial photo database.)

It’s weird though.  Campus Walk was a focal point of college life, especially its social aspects.  It was where you said hello to a lot of your friends and exchanged news and plans, in the days before the internet and cell phones.  And it gave the small campus an isolated feel that was kind of cool.

I’d heard about it being a road when I was a student, though.  I worked at The Rising Sun Tavern museum downtown, and a couple of the other tour guides were women who had graduated from Mary Wash in the 1980’s.  They had some vivid memories of young men from town (and Marines from Quantico) hollering at them as they drove through.  I can see how that might have occasionally gotten awkward.

 

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Publication Notice: “school shooter” to appear in the Peeking Cat Anthology 2018.

I’m quite happy to share here today that a poem of mine will be featured in the Peeking Cat Anthology 2018.  Its title is “school shooter,” and it appeared here at the blog back in May.  This will be the fifth time my creative work has been published in an anthology.

Thank you, Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine Editor Sam Rose, for selecting the piece for inclusion.  The Peeking Cat Anthologies are always beautifully put together, and I’m honored to see my work appear alongside so many talented contributors from around the world.

The anthology is scheduled for release in October.  I’ll post ordering information when it becomes available.

I hope you all are enjoying a wonderful holiday weekend!

 

 

 

“Graybeard the Pirate”

I have to say I think it’s weird
there’s salt and pepper in my beard.

And so today I’d like to scold
my melanin for getting old.

 

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Quick site update.

Hey, gang.  This site’s web address is now “ericrobertnolan.com.”

I’m not sure if this will affect anyone who might have the old address bookmarked, so I thought I would let you know.  (I know you can’t bear to go without my unique brand of online nerdery.)  😉

 

 

My annual summer mountain poem.

I’m not terribly happy with this reading — I had a cold at the time, and it certainly sounds like I rushed through it a bit.  I still have fun with the poem, though.

That moon still sails past my window every night.

*****

“Roanoke Summer Midnight”

Its midnight moon is newly minted coin —
a white-hot silver obol
forged in burning phosphorus.
The crisping clouds around it blacken.
Its silhouetted mountains
are great blue gods at slumber
the faded-haze azure horizon’s
giants in the dim.

Those slopes have known a billion bones of hares
that raced upon them other midnights, then,
pausing, one by one,
drawing up their downy legs at last to final sleep.

Where the Shenandoahs’ driving
beryl falls to black,
aquamarine to onyx,
lay legions of hares — generations resting.
There are the hills where ivory
rabbits sleep among gods.

Ahead and under moonlight
the curving rural road obscures its end.
At right, an intersecting well-lit modern block
confuses the curling topography.
The fresh and symmetrical asphalt’s angle
mars the winding thoroughfare with order:
a ninety-degree anachronism.

That new and perfect subdivision
affronts the corner’s antebellum chimney,
broken down to stones and overrun in lavender
— its lilac colors driven plum by sunset.
That last century’s smokestack
was itself effrontery once
to the formless places where natives stayed
their only edifice the stars,
their only currency the blinding coin of moon.

Eyeing, then, the summits’ crowning cobalt
driving down in royal blue to coal,
I hope to one day take my rest
there, in the darkening indigo,
alongside giants,
among white rabbits in myriad easy stillness,

to pause myself at last and sleep beneath
what meadows stretch in cerulean dark,
where hares will race like moon-kissed silver,
or comets of darting pearl.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2017

 

Mill Mountain in Roanoke, Virginia, July 2018 (3)

More mountain madness with the Mary Washington College kids.

I DO realize that those blurry car shots are weird.  I just find them trippy and dreamlike!  I’ll probably never stop posting them.  (And that third really blurry shot makes me think of Richard Connell’s “The Most Dangerous Game.”  The bright, laterally-racing greens just give it a sense of urgency.)

 

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Care to hear some superb and haunting poetry? (Audio selections from Dennis Villelmi’s “Fretensis”)

I am honored today to share with you three recordings of me reading from Dennis Villelmi’s Fretensis: In the Image of a Blind God.  The Bees Are Dead has graciously published the readings over at its website; you can find them right here.

Thank you, Dennis, for allowing me to interpret your outstanding poetic work.

 

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Paul Anka is coming to Mary Washington College.

That means the ladies and gentleman of 90’s-era New Hall need to return to Dodd Auditorium for at least one of his performances and discreetly riff him afterward — in the same manner as the MST3K episode, “Girls Town.”   It’s a moral imperative.

I’m surprised I haven’t mentioned “Girls Town” here at the blog before.  It’s one of the show’s best.

“I did it my way.”

 

Washington, D.C., June 2018

Here are a few more pictures of Washington, D.C. — you’ll notice the befuddling inclusion of a shot of a service station on Wisconsin Avenue.  It was that location that clued me into the fact that I was near my old friend Nick’s neighborhood.

He’s a Mary Wash alum, and I met up with him and some other alums a few years after we graduated.  It would have been … 1998?  1999?  Anyway, I had an air conditioning unit in the trunk of my Ford Taurus, because I’d recently changed apartments myself, and I’d forgotten to take it out.  For reasons I’ve never been able to determine, my friends found that uproariously hilarious.  People called me “Air Conditioner Guy.”  They asked about it in e-mails and calls.  (“Is it still in there?”)  They brought it up at parties.

To this day, I feel certain there is an element to the joke that I am unaware of.

 

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Guerrilla poetry at Tenleytown, Washington, D.C.

This is Tenleytown, in Washington, D.C.’s Northwest, just a couple of blocks from a campus of American University — where I almost went to school, instead of Mary Washington College in Virginia.  I even (somewhat hilariously) received “honors admission” there.  (I was never actually a true “honor student,” even in high school, because my grades in math and science were fair at best — and anyone who knew me at age 18 could tell you that I was not exactly the brightest bulb in the socket.)

I remember being pretty excited as a high school senior at that admission letter.  American U. was my first choice; I was only seduced away to small-town Virginia by a generous financial aid package from the good people at Mary Washington.  (Yes, young people, Fredericksburg was indeed a small town in 1990, even if it now looks like downtown frikkin’ Fairfax.)

It was freaky sipping coffee in Tenleytown and pondering some other parallel-universe me who lived and studied and partied there as a kid.  (Where would I have bought my comic books?)  Most people don’t think about string theory when they travel, but I am both a science fiction fan and a really weird guy with a lot of time on his hands.  (Where is that other Eric right now?  Is he married?  Is he writing?  Is he equally irritated by Star Wars obsessives, the religious right, Orwellian language, people who push “healthy snacks,” the dumbing down of America, “fun-sized” candy, and the gradual decline of “The Walking Dead?”)

Anyway, Tenleytown a pleasant neighborhood with a brisk, college-town vibe to it.  DC consistently surprises me by how friendly its people can be.

I left some poetry mini-books beside some news-stands on Albemarle Street, a cross-street with Wisconsin Avenue.  The stands alternately inform readers in Greek, Spanish, Chinese and English about how DC’s most deplorable resident has most recently embarrassed our country.  (I admire the Spanish-language papers’ predictable special antipathy for the president.)  No matter how sad the news is, this town will not let you hide behind a language barrier.

Am I nuts, or does that Best Buy look like it was designed with the Watergate in mind?  I keep wondering if that is someone’s idea of an obscure joke.

 

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