It is less than an hour before midnight. We are cruising down I-95 at a tame 70 mph. The combination of a clear, not-quite summer sky and a tenacious Saab convertible from the 1980’s adds up to some amazin’ stargazin’.
There is something distinctively American about a nighttime drive; a terror only experienced by entrusting one’s life to a machine that has proven to be fallible, generation after generation.
I am packing up my room in Somerville. It is a slow process, fettered mostly by my own lack of gusto.
In the last four years alone I've filled and emptied countless pocket-sized spaces in three different cities on three separate continents. So far I've lost 60% of my material possessions and my sense of self.
This is the first time I've been able to look a city in the eye and say Goodbye. For Real.
So, goodbye Boston. I'll miss you, probably more than I am expecting to. But if I don't start leaving places I'm afraid that I won't ever find out where I can return home to.
I enjoy the concept of isolation. I like thinking about quiet places, being alone and infinite spaces.
In reality, I conjure up voices to fill my head when confronted with silence. I have agoraphobic fits. I fall in love.
I fear the conclusive and the epic. My pictures are sedate, my sentences short.