Walking through Boston the other night I was reminded of the beauty of this city that I commute into and out of every day with sadly nary a venture from campus (unless my office mates convince me that I require a burrito). It was a rare, too-rare treat to enjoy the way the sun tilted against the glassy tall buildings and gothic churches. I passed by students clustered at the fountain, the hair on one girl’s head running from black to pink to blue and purple (it made me nostalgic for Emerson; both her hair and the fountain itself). Passed others: a boy in a yarmulke tying stilts to his feet, a girl wearing a satin corset over her blouse. Men, swaying in the late sun, poured mysterious liquid from a brown-bagged bottle onto the square: a benediction.

And how do I fit into this ever-moving tableau? Me: on the train, on the bus. So lost in Ray Bradbury (“What sort of noise does a balloon make, adrift?…it makes a sound like the stars turning over in your sleep.”) that I miss my stop, look up at my surroundings completely disoriented, my head too full of words. And always: the notebook tucked in my bag, beneath one book, maybe two. Always the pen waits through the long commute, the long day, ever hopeful.

Ever, ever hopeful. Aren’t we all?

something wicked this way comes book cover

Published in: on August 19, 2009 at 5:02 pm  Leave a Comment  

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