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?