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Ghost boy, he tossed me a lucky coin
Night train to Providence. Does not have the same ring as Munich, but at least I don't have to deal with Rex Harrison charming his way to center stage through sheer force of conceit, changing shape just faster than the last one can wear out its welcome. (And it's not a night bus, but I still suspect Oscar Shapeley of being around here somewhere. Oscar Shapeley is always around somewhere. That's the trouble with him.) Concrete platforms like empty stages, LED streetlights flicking by in the dark. You can tell how close we are to the solstice because the horizon was still ember-apple green as I got on the Red Line at Porter Square. I am heading down to help friends pack out the last of the apartment I watched them move into, almost exactly ten years ago. Storage unit tomorrow, movers the day after that. Then I'll send them letters care of the American South. I have come to associate them with this city, with its ocean and its mythology and the quality of light in their front room. It will feel weird to visit it and know they are not somewhere in it, part of what makes the city itself. It is hard not to feel at all times that everything's over, nothing left but the ongoing process of loss; that is the rhetoric of the world right now and too much of the reality of it. I have to remind myself it is not absolute. They will make part of another city. Everything changes shape, not just Rex Harrison.
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I might have to stop in D.C. on the way down.
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