Dimeless
If found … please report the find to this author
… black diary & sketch book
A Zoetic Message, “My Last American Dime” left the hiker hitching rides, dimeless, having just crossed over the Rainbow Bridge from Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada to Niagara Falls, New York, USA. The part of a prophetic epic poem was quoted in that message. However, the destination described in the message was not yet attained. The journey resumed, carrying the knapsack over the shoulder, the few possessions were secure inside, including the small black diary & sketch book.
… momentarily.
The destination was a university town in Southeast Ohio. To get home required picking up rides in three states, NY, PA and OH.
Again, the rides that kind drivers provided, remain a blur decades later. Some evidence of who and when those people that gave transit may still exist. However, as you will read, the noted evidence is not in possession of the author this minute. The reason will be provided momentarily.
… right around the corner
I-90 leaves leaves Buffalo near Lake Erie, quite a bit inland. Traveling south the interstate passes through a small portion of the State of Pennsylvania once leaving New York. It also shadows the shoreline on the same lake. Then, back to the home state, Ohio, hours away, no longer ‘days’, from the destination. A stop was made on Copley Road. A short visit with the friend, longed missed, was embraced. Hours later, days after leaving Matane in Quebec province in Canada, arrival to Athens was completed. Reuniting with brother Paul, and other housemates, proved invigorating, the trek ended. Thousands of miles of travel left an exhilarating sense of euphoric joy. Moseyed uptown to celebrate and share summer stories that evening with others.
Walking home alone later, towards the top of the hill on Lancaster Street, attention was directed to a person with a large Army issued duffel bag, strung over his shoulder, and guitar strapped over the other. As our paths intertwined, a conversation was struck.
“Where are you headed?”, was the query to the lone traveler.
He was on the road, moving to the edge of town, to camp out under the summer sky stars. Feeling otherworldly, from three months of traversing continents, an invitation was extended to come over and sleep on our couch, if he the duffel bag traveler, liked. The little Victorian style residence was right around the corner.
… an autumn angst
Introductions were made that night with Jeremiah Quinn, wandering from Laguna Beach, California. He too was a hitchhiker. Recollection is not clear if Quinn stayed two days or three days. His stay was enjoyable and to have his company as a whiz on his guitar, playing a very unique style on the strings, was a delight. The fingers would travel up and down the neck of the guitar and the sound echoed and reverberated with a pleasant rhythm and melody. He shared stories about Vietnam, and his injuries, and his plans to go to Woodstock, New York. He knew Robert Allen Zimmerman personally, he said. Not everyone in the house shared the enthusiasm of our traveling road guest, or that was the talk after he departed. Now the summer seventh heaven was about to become an autumn angst.
… Opel was gone.
Getting up early in the morning, walking down the stairs, outside, to the Opel to retrieve an item or two, a surprise awaited. The Opel, a small German car, quite reliable and useful for trips out of town, was parked up the drive just feet from the back door. The car keys always remained in the ignition. When one leave keys in the ignition slot there is no need to bungle around wasting time as to where they were placed inside the house. The surprise encountered once outside, was the copper colored Opel was gone.
… participant for the message.
After everyone in the house was briefed and we found what was missing, a police station trip to file a claim for theft of a vehicle was executed. One cannot look up the actual claim today, as it predates online access to such information.
There was one handy piece of data left behind by Quinn that was used for trying to track his whereabouts. During his stay in our town he left a calling card for the ‘Jerry Moore Work Band’ Stúdió in Woodstock, New York. Jerry Moore was a musician and according to his obituary, had a one on one contact with the other side of the veil of life, which greatly impacted his own.
If you follow his link below, please remember to return to this zoetic message. You are an important participant for the zoetic message. Obituary, Jerry Moore.
At some point not long after the fact, a call was made to the Stúdió. Yes, they knew Jeremiah and yes they had seen him. A little late in the detective game, the opportunity to catch up with him and the stolen vehicle had been missed. Among the missing items that had turned up gone from the house was that black diary and sketchbook of one’s summer schooling and travel and European architecture. Pilgrimages had occurred to go to Villa Savoye, Marseilles block Habitat Unite, and chapel of Notre Dame du Haut, all designed by Le Corbusier.
If this book had remained in the author’s possession details of the summer would most likely have embellished this story.
What a life, eh?
From the highest of natural highs, brought about by study of a few of Europe’s grandest city designs and magnificent architecture, to the low of unexpected violation, in any human’s manuscript, a swing so hard it turns one 360°.
Presenting one’s analysis on urban design scheme to a contemporary critic at the top of his game, Colin Rowe, professor and author, explaining to him nervously, the analysis happened. Then, a couple months later, suddenly telling a whole different story to the local police department, is a personal history one can never forget, nor should.
One recalls the presentation to the master critic and others, like it was yesterday.
The design analysis of the Parisian urban fabric has an urbane ‘drill’ with a medealvalist cord plugged in at the Place de la Bastille, drilling occurs, a colonnade forms along the Rue de Rivoli. Thus, cutting out it’s poché (a portion of an architecturally dense plan) either side of the promenade is made. The urban plan zips along the wide boulevards, twisting slightly at Place de la Concorde, boring a hole through the Arc de Triomphe, continuing along the Avenue of Grand Armee, skirting Boıs de Boulogne and finally throwing out the contemporary confusion at La Defense, the modernist high-rises saw dust of Paris.
This is what had happened. Life blows saw dust into the living. Ecstasy cultivated, spun a web of naive reality. Quinn took away comfort, trust, mobility, empathy and sympathy. Stolen were possessions of the occupants of a simple house, thereby disregarding their needs, wants, dreams and lives. Foremost was the the small black diary & sketch book. A summer’s worth of notes and primary drawings recollecting a journey of the body, mentally and emotionally charged, anchored to unworldly searching, gone and dismissed by Quinn’s selfish act. What a life, eh?
Do you know an online sleuth ?
The world being a little bit different of a place than back in the late 70’s, it was not really feasible to try and track the whereabouts of Jeremiah Quinn. Although he had come and gone from Woodstock, New York, and that was confirmed, the trail went blank and black and nothing.
The returned hitch-hiker could get along without a vehicle in town. Walking a lot, shared rides to work out of town we’re had, and more than the loss of a stolen bicycle, which had been a primary form of transportation until it’s loss, was inconvenient, though led to no depression. Pushing on to new days and new friends, life continued. One day out of the blue a phone call on the landline was received. There were no cell phones. For that matter they were no computers that could be hand held or even a desktop version to access successfully. The almighty omnipotent database had not yet arrived to the zoetic tree of human existence.
The voice on the phone was speaking from the Scranton police department in Pennsylvania. The attending person asked if a report of a stolen car had been submitted to the Ohio detectives. It was confirmed in the affirmative that an individual had stolen the car, headed to New York and then disappeared. It was recommended by the Scranton police to come pick the car up, or it would be towed to impoundment and eventually lost to a material world. There’s no record of travel to Scranton. $50 for gas and tolls on the way back to OH was put in the pocket. Off again, on the road to retrieve the Opel.
Well yes, the car started with a jump, some articles lost, were found in the car, including a map scribbled on by the marauder, shown here. It is with hope the author writes the following words. Today is a different day than the time frame when that little black book disappeared, as it may still exist somewhere intact with graphical memories of a young man’s journey. A world of instant communication abounds. Lost treasures are searched and found daily. Social media sleuthing allows interested individuals to organize to uncover motives, movements, and artifacts of unscrupulous entities. Do you know an online sleuth ?
One might consider this a cold case put to bed for decades, no search and capture of the thief materialized. That said, this is a zoetic message. It is a plea, If found … please report the find of the black diary and sketchbook to this author!
Thank you for reading A Zoetic Message!
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