(portable desk: winter driving gloves, a box of incense, gas receipts and an e.e. cummings poem)
Now I understand the need for frontier towns back in the old days. Settlers in the country needed a place to play. The city is a bubble of boutiques, books, coffee chops, furniture, restaurants. There’s Trader Joe’s and IKEA. Plays going up, music going down. Whose heart doesn’t beat faster in the city? A woman crosses a Cambridge intersection carrying a Coop bag and a bouquet. Where is she going? Anonymity thrills. In the country, you are known. In the country, there’s work to be done (Nature’s “Inbox”). The city has become my respite, despite its stresses and needs.
Today, with a full tank of gas, the a/c blowing cool on my legs, cold drinks, a bag of Trader Joe pecans, classical radio, my GPS, and a seatful of CDs–Joni and Toni and Pema and Natalie and the lectures of a Professor Brooks in Texas on prose sentence style, I am ready to do battle.
To go home.
Toadlets are dispersing. Squid fungus erupting. And the hummingbirds continue their pollinating dart and shiver.