Not That the Differences Matter

By David Fitzsimmons

How to live in a world with a T.S. Eliot and George Eliot? A world with a Wallace Stevens and a Wallace Stegner, a Yeats and Keats, Kingsley and Martin Amis, Dickens and Dickinson, Tennessee Williams and William Carlos Williams, not to mention Thomas Wolfe and Tom Wolfe?

Not that the differences matter, really.

The Uruguayan National Soccer Team is practicing on the athletic field around which I run. Some of them are no bigger than me, though they are all dark and handsome. The goaltenders wear green shirts and the rest of the team wears red shirts. They are sponsored by Corona, among others. They run like one long caterpillar over or around cones set up in close proximity to another, high stepping.

Lepidoptera Futbola.

It is 5,237 miles from Washington, DC to Montevideo, Uruguay, the capital of that country, and yet there they were, performing their drills as if they were on their home field. They did not regard me, or any of the other gringos on the track. Maybe they are a well-traveled team, having fought the powerful Germans, or the Spaniards – I should give them more credit. After all, I know nothing of soccer, nothing of Uruguay, except that they eat plantains there. I think.

Did you know that Holland and The Netherlands describe the same place? That the sequential comma ought to be used according to the Chicago Manual of Style, but should be omitted according to the AP Manual of Style?

The Chicago style guide, The AP style guide, and the MLA style guide are confusing.

The Chicago style guide, The AP style guide and the MLA style guide are confusing.

Eliot’s a genius, wouldn’t you say, darling? An innovator. Prescient, really, if one thinks about it.

To make matters worse, on certain days and for no discernable reason, I will arrive to find some joggers running counter-clockwise and some jogging clockwise. Who is correct in this situation? Who am I to follow?

The looser you string a tennis racquet, the faster a ball will come off its strings. It’s true. The string bed is like a trampoline, so you can imagine how much more velocity one might achieve bouncing off a trampoline versus bouncing off the pavement. Though, I wouldn’t recommend bouncing off the pavement. It’s a mistake to string one’s racquet tightly in the hope of hitting a faster, harder shot.

I was recently told by a real estate agent that often a client will ask her to find a nice married couple to rent to – nice married couples suggesting stability, quietude, fewer hassles for the owner.

You don’t want that, the real estate agent explained, for if the married couple splits, it’s hard to find another spouse. If the pair you are renting to, though, are just dating, say, and they split, it’s easy to find a new roommate. In real estate, spouses are a headache but lovers come and go.

One shouldn’t feel ashamed for all that he does not know. The world is a confusing place. It’s difficult to feel grounded. You marry one person, she leaves, you date another, she leaves, you go for a jog, you burn some fat, you envy Uruguayans for their modulation and mellow green eyes; you go home, you pick up Wolfe, you put down Wolfe, pick up the other Wolfe, put it down. Pick up Tobias Wolff, put it down, pick up Naomi Wolf, put it down quickly, pick up Leonard Woolf, put it down - sleep, sleep, dream of fried plantains, a favorite among Uruguayans.

John Huggins, Flag #1 Chippewa Falls, 2007, Sears Peyton Gallery, New York