Philly Prepares for a Wild June
The State of the Paper
May succeeded in being my worst month for writing this year. I got about 100 words into my novel which is far short of the 6-8K benchmark that I was hoping to hit. There were times this month that shook me out of the rhythm I had established for myself this year. It felt like there was always something that popped up to drive away my focus and desire to write or to create. You have to fight, sometimes, to hold on to that drive, to establish yourself back into that zone. This past month I didn’t have that fight. It’s what makes us human at the end of the day, that we fail, that we suffer, that we struggle. It makes the sunlight special, the good days great, and the success meaningful. Not that you have to create points of conflict for yourself so that you can feel those good points. Life is hard enough being on this planet that getting through the week, through the day makes it worth it when you see the beauty that life and the community around you holds.
Apologies for the rant on the human condition. It pays to not only think about these things but to also write them down.
On to the meat of the matter. This month’s edition looks at World Cup preparations happening in Philly. A quick piece on the wild parts of Philly. The Claude-by-Cheese adventure continues in vol. 3 and Ruth rounds us out with a short but impactful novel by Claire Keegan. Thank you as always for reading. Oh and check out the new website I have. I will be putting the monthly editions there as well. It’s a work in progress still but it was high time I made one.
-Niall
World Cup Preparation
With the first world cup match only days away, the city is in full swing with preparation mode. The Fan Fest at Lemon Hill is getting thrown up with all the haste of a last minute homework assignment. Trash and recycling cans are being placed on almost every possible corner, making the years of bemoaning their absence seem a mere ripple in the ocean that is FIFA’s clout. Last, but certainly not least, we have the creme da la creme with exorbitant prices.
In June of 2022 it was announced Philly would host a few World Cup games. My lifelong friend and neighbor growing up, Brett, sent me the announcement to which I excitedly texted back that we should go to a game. Even if it was the most random of teams on the most random of days, it would be pretty cool to see a game in your own city. Fast forward four years and neither of us bought a ticket. Not our fault entirely, it turns out both of us like our arms and legs too much to trade them away. As I write this now, the prices of a single ticket are just shy of $1,000. As much as I love Brett and a matchup between Ecuador and the Ivory Coast, financial responsibility outweighs them both when I would have to drop a grand on tickets. These tickets are well out of the price range of the majority of Philly residents. Which is a terrible shame, because the next generation of athletes that could see the world’s best playing right in front of them won’t have that opportunity.
With all the bemoaning of the impact this World Cup will have at least FIFA is giving a legacy gift of 1 Million dollars to Philadelphia to foster youth soccer in the city.
Oh wait Philadelphia hasn’t received that money yet?
Only one of the eleven host cities have received the Legacy Gift?!
Well that’s very cool FIFA, just like the Americanized halftime show featuring Madonna, Shakira, and BTS is going to be. I think my first tattoo will be I <3 FIFA.
This is a Wild Sity
A large white shape is painted with black lettering that reads “A BIT OF WiLD IN THE SITY. It sits on the crook of two trees watching over a scattering of plants on the sidewalk of Spring Garden. I have been charmed by this little art project/statement. Throughout Philly I have been able to observe some bit of wild creeping into this historic city. Even the people embody it. Just the other day I crossed the street with a man shouldering a long purple flower like he was a character straight from the pages of One Piece. There are the squirrels chomping on chicken bones staring from our fence that bring the wild to our backyard. This all to say lets keep Philly a little wild.
Claude-by-Cheese Vol. 3
The door slammed shut, Reg disappearing in a flash leaving me holding the warning by myself in the alley. Like any sensible mouse, I hightailed it out of there. Back in the safe confines of my apartment, I started working on the rhyme. In my adrenaline-filled flight away from the alley and Olde-Town, my brain went into over time. The child’s rhyme was the only thing I could focus on, which tickled some feeling that there was something more to it.
As my heart rate returned to normal levels behind a locked and bolted door, I placed both the warning and the rhyme side by side on my desk. I took a seat with pen and ink at my disposal to uncover what secrets it may hold. After looking through the rhyme again I was convinced there were directions hidden there. I highlighted the following lines as important.
We will look to the quarter wheel
Don’t miss the brown bear’s meal
Never waver the heading is real
And when you least expect a bee
The sting reveals our town on keel
From the old mouse’s tale of finding Claude-by-Cheese by way of boat and the mention of keel in the rhyme, I knew I would have to find a ship and captain to shepherd me on my quest. Before that could happen I would need to figure out some more concrete directions for the ship to go by. The problem was, I had no idea what those directions could be.
I passed hours straining my eyes at the lines, rewriting them in hopes of finding a clue. Nothing came of it and I was forced to take a break, night having already fallen and my hopes with them too. My small apartment had a little balcony attached to it, there was barely enough space on it to squeeze myself onto it. Despite the size it was my favorite thing about the whole place. A view of my street hustling and bustling even this late into the evening filled me with this sense of realness. It was invigorating to be there looking down and feeling the sway and pulse of the city in my veins.
When I stepped out onto my balcony I did not look down as I usually did, but I found myself looking up. There, shining bright, above was the moon; the tail end of its waning gibbous light bathing my fur in white on this clear night.
“Almost ready to enter the quarter stage aren’t ya.”
I said mostly to myself, but also to the moon. As the words left my mouth, the line from the rhyme sounded in my head.
“We will look to the quarter wheel, that means the moon! The quarter moon is the quarter wheel!”
I all but shouted my discovery into the night. Despite the balcony’s best efforts I was still able to dance out a little jig on it in celebration. It seemed the hunt was back on. In that moment of exhilaration something in me made me look down to the street. There in the glow of the street lamp a pack of four dark clothed shapes bunched around the entrance to my building. I peered over the railing at them and almost called down to them but as I went to do so, I caught the glint of gun metal as each one of them drew a weapon forth. A chill shot up my spine and before I could blink the group wrenched open the doors to my apartment building and rushed inside.
I had a sinking feeling that I knew exactly what door they were headed to. My own.
Ruth’s Book Corner
Clair Keegan, an Irish writer who coincidentally studied at Loyola University, New Orleans, the sister school to the boss man’s own alma mater, is probably best known for her 2021 book Small Things Like These. While I have read Small Things Like These, today’s review centers on what according to Good Reads metrics is her more well-liked book, Foster. Sitting just shy of a 100 pages at 92, Foster, like much of Keegan’s work, is short. This is never an impediment for the talented author. Keegan manages to weave a compelling and satisfying story within her pages, leaving room for interpretation while not straying far from her central thesis. What is that thesis you might ask? Well it’s how a child in a not-so-ideal home situation can grow when given the room. It tells of the bonds we forge with parental figures in our lives whether they be of blood or not.
Underlying this all is the deep bones of Ireland. It wraps the sentences and peppers the scenes. It wrenches at your heart in this soul scraping manner that makes you yearn for a bright day in the midst of cloudy gray. Maybe because my foremice hailed from the Emerald Isle do I feel this mindful and masterful story move me against the white tufted surf that froths with the unanswerable question of what it means to be alive. We all need parents in some way, someone to look out for us, to care for us. Foster is such a tale, and impressively executed to say the least.
-Ruth