I live in a suburb of Boston ,
Massachusetts . I have lived in this area, minus a short
stint in upstate NY, my entire life. I
have seen a lot change in thirty plus years.
Most of the changes are grand.
Our museums got bigger and better.
We lost our ugly over street highway in favor of a tunnel system and
more parks. Even Fenway
Park has made steps towards
modernization. Still, sometimes, I
realize I miss some feature of the city that’s long been gone. When that happens, and I remember to write it
up, you’ll get a story about it under this heading.*
* Yes, I know that phrase is cribbed from one of the
interludes in Stephen King’s IT.
It’s one of my favorite works of his.
Miscellany
In
the shadow of the Statehouse, there’s an odd building, on the corner of Park
and Beacon Streets. It’s the home of a
local news team’s morning show now. In the
late nineties, it was an awesome independent coffee shop called the Curious
Liquids Café. It was my haven for
years. It had everything a young
would-be writer could want: great espresso and drip drinks, quirky décor,
sympathetic and agreeable wait staff, the occasional live show, and a basement
seating level that made you forget where you were and where the city mutually
forgot about you. If ever there was a
perfect place to scribble in a college ruled composition notebook, this was
it.
I
wrote my first in your face piece of writing there. Its effectiveness surprised even me
then. Every once in a while, I read that
letter again. The words practically melt
off the page. The achievement wasn’t a
technical one, but one of spiritual distillation. I took a huge hurt from my heart, threw a net
over it, captured it in type, and delivered it to the person responsible. It was the kind of thing only a young
self-involved moron would try. I think
not knowing I knew nothing made success possible. I don’t know any mature adult who would be
that comfortable confronting either their hurt or those responsible. Either people learn more ways to cope as they
grow, or are just affected less by the world.
That’s a puzzle for another time.
I
miss the CLC because writing felt exciting and easy there. It was as if the very walls whispered ideas
and encouragement into my head. I had no
concept of quit or failure there.
Everyone was young, trying their best, and foolishly optimistic about
their secure futures. And there seemed
plenty of time to try whatever it was you wanted to try. Time flows differently now. There’s a clock to punch, and obligations to
meet. I forget to relax and just try to
put words on a page far too often.
Somehow I think I would write more if the CLC or places like it were
closer than my backwards looking heart.
Miscellany
- So this is my first post since March. I apologize to either of my readers for the long delay. Getting married and then redefining what normal life is after that took more time than I thought.
- This post was written using my Warren Zevon station on Pandora, I used my Moto X phone to listen to it. It gets by that awful vibrating laptop sensation I can't stand when I type.
- Readers are welcome to comment by e-mail or twitter. My twitter handle is @TheSagest and my writer e-mail is thesagest77@gmail.com. If you want more posts like this, holler back.
Kevin,
ReplyDeleteYou nailed it.
We sat like kings in old high back thrones looking up at the statehouse or down out over the common, with state reps and senators lining up out the door as our subjects. The hot drinks were thick, delicious and of the highest quality but there was no pretense anywhere in the place. The servers were calm and content. The sandwiches hit the spot. A trip to the bathrooms was descent into the catacombs filled with kids talking, smoking, playing games. A world away from the politicians coming and going upstairs. The kids i assumed were from suffolk and maybe Emerson. But all good things get snuffed out by rising real estate values. The foresight that set aside the boston common, and boston garden did not extend to setting aside some indoor spaces where the best of places would be guaranteed a home. Too bad. Glad to hold the memory with you of a unique place and experience. It is a nice memory. Thank you. Mike Lewitt