I heard the rumors about the snow tomorrow, to cover up the ice in the grass and the footsteps that spell CHOCO. Dad said mixed with rain, so the walk to the train station should be nice. I'm bringing home the gifts I bought, I'll stop at the bookstore to pick up chels' other book. the man there knows all about diana gabaldon and giftwraps my books in non-denominational paper while we talk about the new shipment coming in. I love reading louise rennison, he confides, my wife thinks it's lewd. I love to go home and tell her someone bought another copy of full-frontal snogging, he laughs from behind the stacks.
(I promise I'll take a picture tomorrow, you can't imagine how many books there are, how high they go, how he knows where everything is. and the actual books. the death-row cookbook. how to paint trout. the big book of lesbian horse stories. oh my. and I didn't even get to the back of the store yet.)

three days later, and my fingertips are still pink from crowley's hair. tomorrow is our last day of movement, history. mike rose, the black death. all in a day's work. I've already packed, prepared myself for inclement weather and the inevitable procrastination. my sweaters and borrowed knitting needles. I told mom I'm coming home with lyndsay, but I'll enjoy the time to myself.

maybe the tunnels between trains will flood again, pooled by the men with wool hats selling batteries. remember the last time we were on the train with snow? "our Boston is different than what it is, I think, it's art and theatre and coffee interrupted by squirrels and soup-mongers, peddling statistics. we ride trains vivaciously, pretending musicals and watching peoples' expressions, in the window reflections. sometimes we sing and get mugged or have to run in the rain, but sometimes it snows and we eat free croissants, sign petitions and lie about our age. "


I read this morning's herald over a dollar cup of hot chocolate. krispy kreme donuts closing MA stores, faulty business plans. catholics fighting Plan B and adoption to gay couples. after all that, a half-page devoted to John Lennon, twenty-five years today. they interviewed teenagers who called him a visionary, an inspiration. a photospread of a girl with straight brown hair looking at a poster in newbury comics, young musicians influnced by him. Cait, I thought of your dad, his hat and his guitar. playing Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, and Sleeping with Women who Snore.



another year over, a new one just begun

ash @ 10:35 PM