Carrot Sticks at 44

I sat on the steps in front of 44 Joy St today. I was taking the red line home from work since my car is poo and decided to make a detour to there, the Common and lunch (veggie burger at UFood in dtc).

I was sitting there watching lots of college whippersnappers sweating bullets in the desperate heat of Sept 1 move-in day in Boston's college-ridden Back Bay. I was eating carrot sticks and observing things and thinking about stuff.

A man passed me and said, "You look way too peaceful. You must be up to no good. Shouldn't you be moving something or unpacking something?" I said, "I don't need to be doing anything but eating my carrot sticks." How did he know I was an intruder to the neighborhood? But he was just being jovial. (Kinda creepy, but I'm the one stalking a dead poet, so who's to say what's creepy, right?)

Then I went to the Common, sat on a shady park bench, looked the fountain which was down the hill and across a green patch. I listened to the wading children and frustrated moms behind me in the wading pool. I wrote some stuff in my journal. Then I left and walked to get some water and some lunch.

I thought about lots of things, most of which I prefer to keep just to myself and ephemerally so, not even writing any of it down. But I will say I did think a lot about le poete maudit. Especially versus the poet with an agent. The one published by Random House. Eieiei. Do you HAVE to be so fragile and destitute to be very good? Am I really asking that question or am I asking it with tongue in cheek?

I feel funny lately. Lighter but duller. The sun's still shining but it's not the same. For lots of reasons. But I'm ready for the next thing finally. I don't know. We'll see. That's why I got off the train and sat on the granite stoop for a bit. It helps as much as the poems, sometimes.