journal-11/04/99

11/04/99

Today I went into Boston. The whole reason why I moved here. I live 45 minutes outside the city. Believe me, I'd rather live in the city. I do enjoy the space, the stars, the green grass, the trees, the quiet...

but there's something about Boston that I just love.

Plain and simple.

I spent most of the day in Government Square area.
I saw an older couple,
the husband taking a picture of his smiling wife
while she stood in front of a large spread of flowers.

I approached and offered to take their picture.
They were thrilled.

I waited for passers by to realize what I was about to do
and get out of the way,
and two women nearly walked into the picture as I was about to
click,
and after I gave the disposable camera back to the man
one of the women who nearly interrupted their frame
asked if I would take their picture also.

I gladly obliged.

She admitted,
"What can I say, I'm a tourist!"
And I replied,
"No problem,
I used to be a tourist here too..."

*** ***** ***

Observations

Here I sit,
freezing my ass off
in the shade and the wind,
in a circle of benches,
one of which has a statue sitting on it--
a man,
some important man of Boston.

I am swallowed by the bustle of the city.

I just passed through the Holocaust memorial again,
sandwiched between
two very busy one-way streets.

School children on a field trip
play games,
scream for a taxi,
walking noisily down the sidewalk.
They're excited to be int he city,
no doubt.

Foreigners meander past me,
one carrying a camera--
tourists.

People stride past the markers,
glide across streets filled
with honking cars trying to
run them over,
on lunch breaks from work
or just running errands.

I fear my sunglasses
don't quite hide my absolute
wonder
about this city
that is called
Boston.

*** ***** ***

Just when i think the water might lap
high enough to wash me away,
the screech and rumble of the T hurries by
behind me,
and I am loudly reminded
I'm on land.

I could get lost here on a regular basis.

But then I probably wouldn't be lost anymore.

It's a secret where I stand,
on Longfellow Bridge
just off the Charles stop on the red line,
hidden by one of four old look-out towers,
gothic in design.

I'm restless and cold and I can't see
because the sun's gone down now.
No more writing for now, although
there are plenty of wonderous thoughts
roaming aimlessly around in my head.

Sometimes I wish I could just
hook up a scrambler
or tape recorder of some sort to my head
so I wouldn't always have to translate these
brainwaves onto paper.

But then, I wouldn't be
a writer,
simply a messenger--
a vessel for thoughts
to grow and flow through,
to be delivered to numerous
pairs of eyeballs,

scrutiny.