That’s The Way To Travel
by Jan Heller Levi
He was in deep shit is the first line.
The adventurer is writing his 7th novel.
There’s a protagonist who uses a wheelchair,
and a murder, and flights of stairs that the protagonist
can’t get up or down. Or does he get up and down?
Does he have mysterious powers
which will eventually be revealed? Possibly.
Few murders have been solved
by a person in a wheelchair.
There was a detective on an old tv series,
but you never saw Ironside stopped outside a door
because his wheelchair was too wide.
It would be good for the reading public
to get to know a character who frequently
can’t get into a room, or a store,
or his or her doctor’s office. The adventurer’s novel
could help change laws, or, at least, attitudes, especially
in the adventurer’s native land, where they treat cows
better than cripples. Rimbaud called the bourgeoisie
“the seated.” The adventurer is always seated. And like
the bourgeoisie he acquires lots of possessions. His include:
electric wheelchair, 30-pound battery, battery re-charger,
adapter plug, surge protector, inflatable cushion,
air pump, spare footrests, spare tires, portable
commode chair, and transfer board. There’s also a small,
flexible, plastic-mouthed balloon-like device called a uri-bag.
Lately, the adventurer has been scooting around town,
thinking up ideas for his novel. He gets whomped by sidewalk
potholes, stranded on corners where there isn’t a curb-cut,
leapt over and leapt around by pedestrians
who think he’s a car. He keeps smiling, so he doesn’t
look like one of those bitter cripples. Invariably,
someone passing will nod at him – well, not really at him –
but at his wheelchair, grin and say that’s the way to travel.
Last night the adventurer and I were talking some non-
bourgeois talk about nomads and gypsies. When
the Europeans tried to destroy Romani culture, they burned
the wheels of the gypsies’ wagons. They moved them into concrete
housing projects – running water, electricity. But the gypsies
couldn’t stand it. They chopped holes in the roofs so they could
still sleep under the sky. They can cut off our wheels, they said,
but they can’t make us choose ceilings over stars.
by Jan Heller Levi
He was in deep shit is the first line.
The adventurer is writing his 7th novel.
There’s a protagonist who uses a wheelchair,
and a murder, and flights of stairs that the protagonist
can’t get up or down. Or does he get up and down?
Does he have mysterious powers
which will eventually be revealed? Possibly.
Few murders have been solved
by a person in a wheelchair.
There was a detective on an old tv series,
but you never saw Ironside stopped outside a door
because his wheelchair was too wide.
It would be good for the reading public
to get to know a character who frequently
can’t get into a room, or a store,
or his or her doctor’s office. The adventurer’s novel
could help change laws, or, at least, attitudes, especially
in the adventurer’s native land, where they treat cows
better than cripples. Rimbaud called the bourgeoisie
“the seated.” The adventurer is always seated. And like
the bourgeoisie he acquires lots of possessions. His include:
electric wheelchair, 30-pound battery, battery re-charger,
adapter plug, surge protector, inflatable cushion,
air pump, spare footrests, spare tires, portable
commode chair, and transfer board. There’s also a small,
flexible, plastic-mouthed balloon-like device called a uri-bag.
Lately, the adventurer has been scooting around town,
thinking up ideas for his novel. He gets whomped by sidewalk
potholes, stranded on corners where there isn’t a curb-cut,
leapt over and leapt around by pedestrians
who think he’s a car. He keeps smiling, so he doesn’t
look like one of those bitter cripples. Invariably,
someone passing will nod at him – well, not really at him –
but at his wheelchair, grin and say that’s the way to travel.
Last night the adventurer and I were talking some non-
bourgeois talk about nomads and gypsies. When
the Europeans tried to destroy Romani culture, they burned
the wheels of the gypsies’ wagons. They moved them into concrete
housing projects – running water, electricity. But the gypsies
couldn’t stand it. They chopped holes in the roofs so they could
still sleep under the sky. They can cut off our wheels, they said,
but they can’t make us choose ceilings over stars.
Jan Heller Levi, ORPHAN, poems, Alice James, January 2014.