Let it

Old friends. A breath of life. A walk along city streets on a mild September night. A knowing glance from the bus stop bench. Recognition. Conversation with a stranger. An understanding. The driver driving home tonight is not the same as the driver driving to work this morning.

All that he surveys

Brighton, Beacon Hill, Brookline...I'm walking again. The Franciscans abandoned, or were driven out of, their fortress and it's been converted to or torn down to make way for luxury condos. The former cathedral is the showroom and sales office for the development. Young wealthy people are living there now. They walk dogs alone talking uninhibitedly on invisible phones airing their grievances. They wheel their trash out to the curb. What do they do that earns such money? Five wild turkeys walk in single file along the sidewalk at dusk. I give way to them and nod. There are way too many Audis in Beacon Hill. Have you ever noticed when someone makes what could be called a "dick move" in congested rush hour traffic, that person is frequently driving an Audi? I have. I've made a study of it. I eat Spanish tapas for dinner. Tonight feels pretty good to me. As it gets dark, I look for an unattended garage to sleep in. 

Stranger tonight

After work, I found myself in the midst of one of the first cool and blustery evenings and so I took a walk through Brighton and Alston and down Commonwealth Ave past foreign students in winter coats and Aerosmith's old apartment where they lived together in the 1970's and down to Boston University. Wild times, I'd guess, for the lads of Aerosmith. Sex, Drugs and Rock 'n Roll before any real money rolled in. There are kids trying to live there now paying rents upwards of $2,000 a month and seemingly having a lot less fun. I noticed some of the women walking too. Sex and all that, it's just a passing phase after all, I think. Enjoy it while you can and then let it go. Phasing it out and walking along here, a stranger. 

Eric in The Evening

I don't know what he looked like but he had just about the perfect voice for radio. He could be found down there at the low end of the dial (WGBH 89.7 fm), where a lot of mysterious good things were revealed to me in my teen years. He hosted a jazz show for many years. I was not an avid listener, but he was a fixture. Spinning the dial or pushing the buttons, I'd stop when I recognized his voice to listen to what he had to say, or to play. He was a reassurance. A certainty. A late night ally to my spirit.

One night in something like 1990, I tuned him in on my clock radio while reading late at night for a college class. I heard sadness in his voice. He said that his show had been cancelled and that this was his last one. 

I called the station impulsively. It was after 1 A.M. Eric answered the phone. I tried to tell him what his show, no - his voice, no - his presence had meant to me. He thanked me, I don't remember what we said to each other, but we stayed on the phone for a couple of minutes together. I could tell he was crying. And I was feeling like we were all about to lose something real from late in the night that shouldn't ever be lost. 

I don't know what happened, but his show was somehow saved. And he remained out there in the wee hours, tending a small warm light in the vast darkness, until last night. I heard today that Eric Jackson passed away, and I'm feeling like we lost something real from late in the night that shouldn't ever be lost. 

September changes some things but not everything

This kind of morning is among the best. Cool enough to require blankets but not cold enough to allow for snow. Better still is to have the time not just to linger here but to stay. I'd make toast, spread with maple butter, and coffee and bring them to you here. We'd talk and laugh and love and sleep again, and my only worry would be knowing there was an end to it. Still, after all this time, there is no one else I want to be here with.

How come?

Well, because I'm up at 4:30 and in bed by 9 after a long day of full engagement and turnpike driving. Just don't feel like it lately, I guess. I'll get back to it at some point.

Yeah, I'm up

It's good to see him taking an interest, taking initiative, caring about something. It's hard to be in the world. It's hard to face what we must. It's sad to see these changes happening so rapidly. It's good to be alive. To stand in the raw wind. To feel something acutely.

Fire

The West, through its selfless incineration, has been so gracious as to bless us in the East with a glorious sunset and moonrise this evening. A slowly sinking orange-glowing-fire-globe surrounded by varying shades of pink stretching the length of the horizon. Another globe, similar in color but much colder, ascends silently. They are visible in the sky at the same time. Something's going on alright.

Kin

It was pretty quiet in there. 

I'll sit at the bar and have an early dinner, I thought. Before I could order though, the male portion of the older couple at the bar starts talking in that amplified voice people seem to feel obligated to use when talking to strangers in a public place. He's asking the two men who just sat down between us what kind of dog they have. Small talk of the most generic variety ensues. 

I think people resort to this to establish commonality with each other. It's nonthreatening to them. Reassuring even. To me, it's a knitting needle in the eardrum. Please, say something weird. Go berserk. Snarl. Cough up a blood clot. Burst into tears. Anything but more of this. 

I grimace and turn on my negative vibe machine. After a few minutes, the chatter wanes and the couple leave. I take credit for it silently. 

It's purgatory to me. It's an indeterminate sentence on death row. I look around for something or someone I can relate to. There's a young guy in a Slipknot shirt singing acoustic numbers. He's no help. I choke down my  food and leave. 

As I'm driving out of there, I see a lone car in a parking lot with its headlights left on. Thank you.

4:30 A.M.

She advised that I view the situation with excitement, like a freshman on his first day at a new school. I woke up before the alarm at 4:30 AM. It's very quiet. 

Bjork told me that if we don't grow outwards towards love, we grow inwards towards destruction. I feel that.

Job

An hour-and-a-half in each direction on the Massachusetts Turnpike. Not so bad. There's good radio for at least half the trip. Boston College's WZBC almost always does me right. I find the early morning programming especially gratifying most of the time. The job itself is what it always is: trying to support people who do difficult work without enough resources or thank yous while at the same time trying to ensure that the work is done well. The work is actually vulnerable people in very tough situations. 

If that makes sense

The witch reaffirms the nagging voice inside that's been telling me to take care of some fundamental things. She is confident that the direction I've taken is the right one. This news is good. It's hot where she is, hotter than usual, and bone dry. The earth, she says. Revere her.

Years have passed but still sometimes when I lay down on my side to sleep I remember what it felt like to have you sleeping here close beside me. How perfect. Holy.

Sunday morning

In my dreams, things worked themselves out. I manufactured a satisfactory ending. Free to move on unencumbered now. I'd like to drive West.

Trust the DJ in your head

 

Just a box and the check. Thanks.

The Fed Ex driver was head-banging while driving straight into the setting sun. 

I took my self out to lunch today in the town where I work and marveled at how uncomfortable and out of place I felt. I repeated the process, fifty miles away, when it was time for dinner, in the town in which I live, and got the same results only more intense. There's a common denominator here. 

You'd think, after living in silence a good part of the time, that the human voice and what people have to say might sound inviting and intriguing. It doesn't.