Bio Submission

EDITORS NOTE: Jerome Page Tobias recounts his personal quest with feelings of determination and soulful purpose. He recounts his experience moving from New York City to a small rural community on the St. Lawrence Seaway. Shifting his social community, he now is a farmer and writer documenting his observations on his secluded historically rich farmstead. His forthcoming book of short stories titled Quarter Acre Lifestyle, shares soulful observations reported as a seemingly distant story-teller.

To look upon ones life in reflection and complete observance of all my experience is cause for alarm and concern. In writing this bibliography with perception and anticipation of my first sponsored novellum I take notice that my words are now in preparation to be scrutinized by my publishers. My writings consistently reflect the necessity of observation. It is the way I see things and process my daily interactions with people around me. To ease publishing skeptics, I will lend credence to my authority and experience.

This fledgling process of development started two years ago. I had just turned thirty-three. Two magical numbers set side by side, the beginning thread leading to something indivisible by anything other than its self and one. My obsession in abstract math accounted for the shift that accompanied turning thirty-three. Twenty-one was another life year that mathematically called for a shift in thought, this to be left for a post-humous retrospective.

My story starts as a documentation of a decisive decision to leave my current life besides me. Jump rails so to speak. I was not running away, just going another way. I worked in a popular and responsive New York City restaurant as a Maître d’. My service skills were well rewarded and appreciated by the upwardly social club that patronized my restaurant. I served everyone from movie stars, musicians, poets, ex vice-presidents, socially conscience stay at home mothers, and sensitive business men with their Tuesday-Thursdays. It got to the point that I could not be within the city limits without running into a regular patron at any point under every circumstance. I was consistently being referred to and questioned as, “aren’t you that guy from…”

On no particular day, it just struck me that I had the ability to leave. No note, no phone calls. I didn’t even call my mother to announce my plans. I made a very quick and decisive choice to liquidate everything. Very quickly I had arranged everything to be taken care of, with no physical or legal responsibilities to connect me to this place any longer.

My departure from this style of living was the desire to be largely anonymous in my everyday routine. I had grown weary to all the inconsequential relationships and meaningless interactions. Small bits and pieces of acquaintances, of which I did not remotely care to know outside this singular social identity. I longed for action, movement, and the unknown future. I desired a place, a true place, with the ability to call it my refuge. The moment all my material collections were gone, acquired by someone else, I felt a sense of calm, and ironically began to feel the notion of place and space that I had been searching. I should make a correction. Not all of my possessions felt distant and removed. Items that still moved me were books I still desired to read, artwork collected and traded with friends and colleagues, and family artifacts that connected generations. These things I still cherished and kept. These things would go on a journey as well.

Using all my spatial manipulation talent, I packed my 1984 Volvo wagon and set out on my one-way road trip. I planned to stagger my route Northward through up-sate New York. Touring the Adirondack Mountain Range my final destination would be Sackets Harbor, on the St Lawrence Seaway near Watertown New York. I promised myself I would only follow county roads and rural highways. This journey was about the path as well as a final destination. I gave myself nine days and nine nights. This guaranteed my arrival would fall in the early morning hours. The idea of awaking at my destination after arriving in the darkness would refresh my eyes and all the senses.

I acquired a mid-sized plot of land consisting of thirty-three acres that had been abandoned thirteen years ago. A significant time had passed before my arrival to this place, of which I have been dreaming of for so very many years. I acquired this farm towards the end of last summer for the very low cost of one thousand dollars an acre. My quest for the last five years has been to establish a CSA (Community Sponsored Agriculture) farm. I will be able to provide a different service for my neighbors that consists of nourishment and connection to the rewards of the land.

The land is rich with resting soil. Economic hardships, rural blight, and the dwindling tradition of small independent farming methods allowed this land to rest. Large subsidiary farms, consisting of thousands of manipulated acres deemed this land undesirable.

Through the summer and early fall I have regimented my time to accommodate writing in the early morning from eight to eleven-thirty. I then break for tea and lunch. At precisely twelve-thirty, against better judgment working in the heat of the afternoon sun, I dedicate my time to the chores and farm work associated with resurrection and rehabilitation of this property. I consider myself a small man, akin to a pack mule. Able to get the work done alone in isolation I carry the weight of this farm, on my back from one end to the other. {Un}content until the work is finished, each task completed before the next is to begin.

All thirty-three acres of land and conditional out buildings upon it need sever work. My first task was to rehabilitate the hundred-fifty year old farmhouse built in 1862. My Realtor, after completion of sale, offered the services of a friend of a friend who offered to burn the house and start anew for two hundred dollars. This was unacceptable. I have often times worked daily to reinforce my earlier decision. Each day I confront demolition and destructive dreams over backbreaking reconstruction. The mere idea of burning this house to its literal foundation would have destroyed and broken the life and soul from this land. The memories of this house permeate the land—through the orchard, across the overgrown thistle infested pastures, down to the slightly askew and canted barn. The future garden soil has a permeated lingering memory, akin to fertilizer, that includes the memories of this place. The outbuildings are scattered like uninterested children, each on their own quest of a life of their own, fulfilling their destiny and purpose.

I identify with every aspect of this place, which captured my heart, encouraging the idea of place and identity. At the end of each day, I ‘stop pause’ in the majestically upper hayloft of the barn. I climb the dry rot ladder imagining monumental marble steps approaching cathedrals. Light breaks through ‘stained glass’ twisted wooden pine planks, scatters and refocuses as beams piercing congested dust filled air. I stand in awe and quiet peace and reverence for this space. This temple like reverence continues until sunset, the true and biblical beginning of each day. I prepare dinner, a small squab I shot in the silo. I build a fire to warm my soul. I also prepare the water for the needed and ceremoniously sacred cleansing evening bath beneath the stars. The bathtub is half buried above its claw foot legs nestled in the ground in the middle of the yard outside. Open to the sky whether in darkness or full daylight. Each night I start the fire beneath, using small kindling gathered from the day’s chores. The fire creates rising smoke, billowing out from the galvanized chimney tube just behind the tub. The hidden flames heat the cast iron enameled tub so that I often feel like a simmering soup stock prepared with bits of evergreen and cedar chips. The aroma therapy often encourages deep relaxation. The warm water quenches soar and spent muscles from the strenuous labor of the day. Soaking everything in, I lay back and ponder words not yet joined. I question words placed precariously earlier in the day and justify the need to write them at all. In my exhausted sate, a vision, a quest flashes. Amber lights flicker and glow quickly to blaze like furry. Consciousness awakens the dream to brilliant sparks and flames, which have escaped their cave below me. Burning brightly, heat energy consuming my worn spent clothing. The wick-like towel darkened from end to end, consumed in murky smoke and flashing amber. Awakened I am amidst a blaze. The night sky seemingly blackened by the bright light before me. Unlike a dream or heavenly light approaching the closeness to g–d, its a twisted call for life. I am not ready to burn my farm, nor be consumed by an over grown chimney fire. With purposeful agitation I flail like spawning salmon extending their life quest. I splash and spasm churning waters to douse the flames.

As the dark night approaches again, coming forth from the cedar trees, descending from the star filled sky. I see steam and ash caressing the charred ground all around me. This milk white half buried cocoon almost my death-bed. I am exhausted for what I have gone through. I gather strength to arise from the shallow water, step through the ashes and charred land around me. I claim this moment and embrace this absurd test. A mistake, a mishap, an unintentional lapse in judgment with a bit of physical vertigo mixed in. Tempered from the heat I am stronger in my quest to settle here. This point realized with a single moment with the slight potential of death. The point of divergence is now.

Quarter Acre Lifestyle
Jerome Page Tobias

Jerome tackles ideas of persona
such as Doubles, Doppelganers,
and Other Surrogate Selves