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At 9:45pm on Monday, June 16th Boston Tom (Thomas Provost) was shot in the doorway of Shanty Town pub up on 6th and Main in Springfield.

I was there out in the back patio area with my friends Annie, Sarah, and Steven at the time of the shooting. We heard two quick ‘pops’ and initially thought it was just some fireworks out front. Someone said we should go check it out, to which I lightheartedly replied that it probably wasn’t the best idea to run towards possible gunfire.

Shortly after, Tex, the bartender ran out back saying, “Tom’s been shot” over and over again and while everyone pulled out their cell phones to call 911, I stood up and awkwardly walked around wondering if I should go inside, was there someone with a gun still in the bar and would they come out back?

At this time someone who had gone inside briefly came back out to the patio repeating “Don’t go in there!”. At first I thought he was saying that there was someone inside with a gun but on reflection believe he was not thinking straight and frightened by the sight of Tom who he must have presumed dead.

I went inside, nervously sipping (gulping) the wine I had bought from the seat next to Tom’s only minutes before the shooting. Believing I was about to see a dead body I was relieved to see Tom conscious. Sarah was scrambling for towels behind the bar while Annie and a kid I didn’t know named Phillip were putting pressure on the wounds. I leaned around from the speaker and tried in vain to think of something I could do. Too many cooks and all.

Tom kept saying that he couldn’t feel his legs and everyone tried to assure him that he was in shock and just needed to keep still. The paramedics got there in what seemed like a couple minutes but I believe was around seven minutes from the time of the shooting.

He was shot in the neck and the stomach a few inches to the left of his belly button if I remember correctly. Never being exposed to anything of this sort I was surprised by how little blood there was. Obviously no major artery was hit with the shot to his neck and there was little to no blood coming from the shot to his stomach when the EMT cut away his shirt.

Tom was in the doorway at the time, there were two people out front, one in the bathroom, and the rest of us were out back. The only physical description I heard was ‘a skinny black guy wearing a mask’. The people out front attempted to follow the shooter in their car but lost him. A group of kids from the bike shop behind Shanty Town had seen the shooter run down Main Street and then cut over back into the neighborhoods. This was all the information I believe the police had to track the guy down. I heard varying reports on the number of people involved but obviously two were arrested.

Everyone from the bar had to stay around for a couple hours while the police canvased the area. It was interesting to see how different people, including myself, react to such surreal situations; from Annie who was the first one to rush in to assist Tom, to the guy who came out telling others to not go inside.

Later that night I saw one of the detectives at the Pearl and asked if he knew Tom’s condition. He told me that he’d live but not have the same quality of life as before. From all indications, there was some spinal damage but I do not know the specifics.

Many people are commenting on the Jacksonville.com story, which has largely turned into an ugly debate about the safeness of the Springfield area.

Dug these up while looking through some old files… ahh I still like ‘em.

the space between

Christopher Olberding is a nation.
Christopher Olberding was Charles de Gaulle’s sails
on his way to Algeria,
And on the return to Paris, his cap.
Most will never see him,
Inferring his existence through his acts,
The martyrdom of Paul,
Europe giving way to the States.
I met him once,
shortly after Arend Lijphart and George Tsebelis
Got through with him.
They left him infinitely small
and composed only of theory and numbers,
a subset of everything and painfully boring.
Next year he’s thinking of taking up chess
Or music. He told me he’s giving up the business.
He’s tired of the dictatorship of the mind or the act.
He left me his card, printed on top was his name,
Below, his new address: the space between.

Camus’ Cigarettte

Accoutrement to your frown or smile,
Limply dangles in dejection, firmly hailing in assertion,
A Freudian fate for the early weaned,
doubles as baton if either creativity or crisis demand it
and aids in the prevention of undue post-coitus dally,
essential to both Mersault and Meursault,
convenient currency in certain circles or as a five-minute hourglass
stylishly accessorizing your meal, coffee and conversation,
the shaft allows proxy kisses with men, women, strangers and relatives,
the tip customizes furniture and upholstery;
this densely packed contrary whistle, flicked carelessly with thumb
or precisely with forefinger
is best in morning, worst when sick.

Microtheater

A brown man is the subject or speaker in
a dream I am not in.

Fog crowds in towards the shore
where the sand is graying with the tide.
Remember: this is not navigation but
dreaming; nothing changes.

The man approaches,
I ready the designers,
wet paint on fingernails,
the stagehands.

They watch as he steps
off the ship and I give the word.
The ropes are pulled, the brushes dance.

Colors supersaturate and illuminate
so that every shade and person are given new names:
stiline, deserant, bliss, Exene;
we take our bow against
the growing sea as he wakes.

Unfinished Shakespearean Sonnet

Be still, my love, let thee not fear consume,
Though ill wind’s rank hangs heavily stale.
The shadows and corners of these fouled rooms
Do best their nature, in failing excel.

In fairer fields, thy fairness bright would stay
And conquer Nature’s beauty as thy own.
Yet death and drought, still finds, holding no sway,
Speech in sweet words, born in love, said alone.

I woke up this morning reflecting on the fact that it was just about two years ago that I stopped pursuing a doctorate in political science at the University of Florida, packed up my bags, left Gainesville once and for all and moved back to Jacksonville. I had to count backwards in time, not believing that it had merely been two years, yet sure enough it was only August 2006 when I took my first job in the field of design and web and it was only a few months before that when I moved back. I intend to use this space to detail some of these reflections. Though I realize the personal nature of this is in conflict with the guideline I set for what is appropriate in this space, due to the fact that few will ever read this combined with a growing need for some cathartic outlet, I’m willing to make exceptions

Two Years Ago

Two years ago I was still in the doctorate program with maybe two classes to go until my coursework was completed. I would have taken my comprehensive exams the following year and began the 2- 4 year process of writing my dissertation. My focus and interests had shifted away from the traditional subjects and my own declared focuses of the European Union and Comparative Politics to more abstract subjects and computational methods such as computer simulations of voting behavior, agent-based models, and the idea that humans interacting in computer simulations could create massive databases that could be mined for precise and quantitative information on aspects of human behavior that is otherwise not easily measured. The faculty at UF lacked the skill set to assist me in these areas which made me feel very alone in my research.

Two years ago I was in a rut. Not long before then I had broke up with the girl I was living with. She moved out immediately and unexpectedly, leaving me with bills I could barely pay. It was not the time of the year in Gainesville that anyone needed a place. After a couple months I put out a classified ad and took the first person to respond. My new roommate was an ex-felon on work release who, never living in Gainesville, decided to settle in there because through work release he was working at a BBQ place in town. He was a large ignorant redneck who was maybe a little over 30 who used the apartment as a love nest for him and his barely legal black, preacher-daughter (not embellishment) girlfriend - it was awkward.

Around this time I got a six-week old kitty who I never properly named (Mister Kitty), my motor scooter got stolen, and I visited my parents in Jacksonville and found the environment much preferable to the one I was living in Gainesville.

The Last Two Years: Jacksonville

In the last two years I’ve driven more than I have in the 25 that preceded it, seen my parents more than I had since I left for college in 1998, and lost both my grandmothers.

I’ve rediscovered my love of water, the ocean in particular, switched from loving the cold and hating the heat to loving the heat and hating the cold, discovered that I like sweating in the summer heat, purchased a road bike, and rode to St. Augustine and back. I’ve been a health nut at times and I’ve been self-destructive at others.

I’ve lost so much knowledge - large bodies of knowledge: political theory, international relations, understanding of feudal and absolutist Europe - specific knowledge: history of Poland, France, details of the European Union, fluency with graduate level statistics. I’ve stopped creating new music but taken up learning new songs on the piano again.

I’ve also gained a lot of knowledge in the fields of graphic design, computer programming, and business. Also learned that that last comma is an Oxford comma because of the Vampire Weekend song. Out with the old, only so much storage space upstairs.

I’ve gotten my first real job, made my first real money, had to dress professionally on a regular basis and work normal business hours for the first time in my life. I’ve discovered that most business owners don’t understand their own business and owe their success more to salesmanship than competency and that most customers have a difficult go at discerning the two.

I’ve turned down a six-figure salary, managed employees and projects, developed and instituted processes in the companies where I’ve worked. I’ve conducted dozens of interviews and hired a handful of people, and brought people with me to new companies.

I’ve started my own business, experienced the terror of a paycheck that isn’t guaranteed and the elation of signing new business. I’ve learned and experienced more of sales than I’ve ever desired and discovered that I’m good at talking to clients and prospects.

I’ve experienced the joy of randomly coming across something I had designed and the pain of being unable to produce good work due to everything from lack of time, budget, bad clients, personal slumps, and inexperience. I’ve second-guessed my abilities as a designer constantly and from time to time been extraordinarily confident in those same abilities.

I’ve rediscovered Jacksonville. Growing up near the intercoastal with an eye east I never really experienced downtown, Riverside, San Marco, etc. I’ve gotten more involved in local organizations and more interested in the community a city is able to produce. I’ve attended more sporting events (Jaguars and Suns Games) than any other time in my life and I’ve learned to like college football and even Gator basketball. I’ve made a lot of new friends and made good friends of old acquaintances.

I’ve fallen in love twice. I’ve lived in an amazing loft apartment in downtown Jacksonville for a year and did so with a beautiful girl and my kitty for the better part of it. And I’ve been left twice by those same women. Two of my ex-girlfriends have had children and I attended the wedding of my high school girlfriend.

I’ve found my two-year old cat dead for no apparent reason and experienced the loneliness that can only be experienced by the contrast of a period of time when I was anything but alone. I’ve become much less open minded about religion but much more spiritual.

And I’ve felt older. I feel as though I’ve aged much more than merely two years since moving here. I’ve experienced long periods of malaise, depression, and loneliness spiked by incredible yet fleeting moments of joy and happiness.

And as a biography, there is no climax and no conclusion; nothing that I can wrap up and put in the appropriate cubby holes of my life, put behind me, and move on.