River Notes

I am sitting in a Super 8 hotel in Gallipolis, Ohio drinking strong coffee and listening to John Hartford. Today is Monday. I had to look the date up. Last night as I came back from the Mexican restaurant with my crew, I had a thought. I got here by Steamboat, not by road. I know we are slightly down river from the Kanawha River and tied up at the Shipyard, but that is about as far as I left knowing exactly where I am.

For a week, I fired a one hundred and six year old steamboat up the Ohio River. I fancy the idea of an escape. The thought of just leaving everything behind, all that stuff following your bliss, do whatchalike and all that jazz. I am doing that. I just did it. Crossed the threshold! I did not get out of the boat. To render just a lil’ bit more from that good old quote from a river journey movie dot, dot,dot … just as Kurtz, I split from the whole fucking program a long time ago, and so it goes, and so on, I digress often.

I have a story to tell. A river story. My idear is to write a book titled, Drift. Maybe the tale of two rivers. Maybe a tale about me, John Paul, down at Rough River, Central Kentucky hiding away during the beginning of Covid. Maybe my next book will be like Kurt Vonnegut said of Slapstick …

“This is the closest I will ever come to writing an autobiography.”

So, stick with me here. Follow this page, like. subscribe or, whatever. Some new material is coming soon. When I go back to my home port, I plan on organizing all this drift wood that I have collected over these 50 some odd years and make heads or tails out of this that and the other. Y’all come. Y’all come …

See ya on the boat …

JP Wright

Fireman, Str. Belle of Louisville

Ohio River Mile 604

Review of my book – Sabbatical of the Belle

A possible chapter one? **draft**

It’s a picturesque nice fall day in October. Rich yellows and reds are reflecting off the Ohio River creating a sunset glare that makes it hard to see out my car windows. My name is John. I am a father, a son and a rail-yard ghost. I am starting a new career at a riverboat casino. The place called simply the boat by the locals, is a massive riverboat that does not go anywhere. Seriously, I have been hired to be a deckhand on a boat that has only one function. To render. Render what is Caesar’s has been going through my head as I walk the long hallways that lead from the hotel parking area to the almost a half mile away casino area. Ceasers was the previous name of this place. Now it is called the Horseshoe.

Last summer I decided to get a job on a steamboat as a deckhand. That almost killed me. Sixteen years before jumping ship, I was a locomotive engineer. I sat on my butt and pulled a throttle, then after a few years on the job, I was replaced by a computer. After years of manually running trains it slowly became my job to blow the horn and babysit a computer while it did what I had so painstakingly learned how to do. Demoralizing to say the least. And I could go on and on, telling railroad stories. Killing people with trains, hitting cows and dogs. Long nights, cold steel rails. All that stuff of lonesome blues Americana.

Many times this week as I walked from the training room to the bathroom, I caught myself speaking in a low tone asking, “what the hell have I got myself into?” Just today while washing my hands, I looked into the mirror and said, “Oh God, I look like my mother!”

Last night was my first shift at the boat. As I walked into the deckhand locker room, coffee was brewing. The locker room reminded me of the many 1950’s style railroad shanties that i had reported to work when I worked them cold steel rails. Old men, lockers, union stickers and newspapers. The size of this vessel is insane. The hardest part of last night was remembering where you were in belly of the whale.
And that metaphor, be it the biblical reference that it is, is epically applied. Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s. And that rendering was happening all night into the wee early morning hours. Money. This new experience is going to be a trip somewhat liken to a trip into the hearts of darkness. “Never get outta the boat,” was the lesson from the old vietnam era movie Apocalypse Now.
Flashing lights, bells, sounds, people walking around tipsy like zombies. Regular old folks and their working class conversations in the card dealer break areas. In the belly of the whale. If I was a religious man, this whole place exists for sin. If money is at the root of all evil, then this place is certainly a lesson in “whatever floats your boat.” It is what it is.

– The idea that the passage of the magical threshold is a transit into a sphere of rebirth is symbolized in the worldwide womb image of the belly of the whale. The hero, instead of conquering or conciliating the power of the threshold, is swallowed into the unknown, and would appear to have died –

That passage comes from a book by Joseph Campbell titled, The Hero with a Thousand Faces and explains perfectly what I am hoping will happen over this cold third shift winter experience. I am approaching fifty years on this planet. This job is another bullet point, another journey on a resume that is very hard to explain.
The work is mindless, repetitive and to some would be considered demoralizing. We take out the trash. What I hope to gather from this new employment is time. Time looking out over the vastness of the river south of the Falls of the Ohio. Time driving out a river road that I used to travel everyday some twenty two years ago. I am going to fantasy that the native people, whos artifacts this place is built on, will also be in the belly of the whale with me, protecting me on this moored excursion.

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