Last night it was warm enough to keep my bedroom window open. I could hear wind, far away traffic, and for a short time- the sprinkle of rain. There was something solid inside of me. A strength. A kind of peace. An identity. In my old house, I was able to hear the train at night. It was several miles away, but I could hear its low rumble winding through the night still. A calming low rumble like blood flowing through a vein. The sound would reverberate through the Deerfield sky. I think trains are one of the few industrial-era archetypes. If I knew what they symbolized in certain and concrete terms, I’m sure some of the romance would disappear, like when the lights go on in an intimate bar. When I think of trains, I’m left not with a definition, but rather a list of words and pictures… a kind of recipe for a familiar taste that cannot be named. slow… steady… powerful… mass… motion… progress…
Digging in the Dirt
It’s been a helluva few years. I had a string of manic episodes, got divorced, lost my apartment of 25 years, and was diagnosed with
August 3, 2023
