Ryan and I went out for a walk yesterday afternoon after a nice work day, and I took a rather postcardy shot of the Common. I continue charmed by every vista, lured by every alley, looking into the eyes of strangers.
I think I’m finally caught up with my email! If you’re waiting to hear back from me on something, best let me know again. I got buried this past weekend when many were moved to correspond.
This is a real city. So everything that can be in a city will be in this city, somewhere. That is simply true, and if there are exceptions they are ephemeral, accidents of spacetime. Like the David Bowie exhibit, on tour from the Victoria and Albert. It isn’t coming here.
It’s going to one place and one place only in the US, and that lucky place is Chicago. It’s just a fluke. And a huge Hell Yes to Chicago, city of my heart. People sometimes forget about Chicago, and to land the Bowie there is a stroke of genius.
Anyway, Bowie-deprived as I am likely to be, I dive into Boston alleys and doorways, I look forward to exploring alone, exploring with friends. Doriot arrives in a week!
Will you LOOK at that excellent turret-cap, the one that looks like water flowing? It strikes me as easy to make a great turret-cap out of an ordinary one, but I suppose if every turret-cap was exciting it would simply be too much for people.
I haven’t posted any photos of our astounding summer flat in the South End because I feel tender toward the privacy of my host.I’ve taken it furnished, down to the books and paintings, and it is her sanctuary, a space of her heart, and I sense that she is a sensitive person who is trusting me. But it is beautiful. And I am intensely grateful.
We’re a good bit closer to figuring out our Fall housing. I think we’ve settled on a nice place in Cambridge, up by Harvard Square. Hopefully, it will sort itself today into a pattern that looks beautiful and is nicely resolved.
It seems that we will be able to provide what is most needed; a Cambridge address for the lads, an easy commute to school for all boys, and a space that’s big enough to have guests, a porch to sit on, a huge kitchen to fill with love and friends and bottles of WINE. Feeling grateful.
our likely Cambridge kitchen
Michael Pope came over last night, late, and the four of us sat around until 3 in the morning, Evan doing his own thing, Ryan and I mindmelding with Pope. We talked about everything, but we just licked the surface of course. Michael told me the story that I have always wanted to hear, the story that I always try to live.
The idea is that one can experience a soulshaking moment and absorb it whole, but that there is no obligation in that experience to then take a sledgehammer to carefully built structures, lost in the fever dream that entirely new, better, shinier lives can be built around the churches of those moments.
I think that it takes some experience with soulshaking moments to be practical about them; most people do not have them frequently enough to recognize them as, if not common, then at least commonly available to those who are willing to have them.
It’s understandable to me that people ruin their lives for one of those moments if one is all they have ever ever known. In that heady, terrifying, exhilarating circumstance, one moment might seem (and in fact might very well be) a tiny porthole to a heaven as yet only dreamt of, a train that once past, is gone forever.
Last night, Ryan and I locked ourselves out on the balcony outside my bedroom for the second time, and had to call to Evan to let us in.
Evan just raised one eyebrow, like Spock, and opened the door.