February 23, 2004

• The Misadventures of Myself

  
  

  or, the Predestination of Wandering Annies

  
  

  Yesterday, I decided to go for a walk. Because I was lonely, and I had a feeling that if I left the house, something would find me.

  
  

  So I got on the subway, and kept going.  All the way into the city on the orange line, then switched at State St downtown, and the whole way out on the blue line to Revere Beach.  This is the opposite end of my little urban world. I was hankering for a frontier.

  
  

  Ten years ago, Revere was a stinking mire of greasy sand, washed-up fish carcasses, and polluted bilge. One hundred years ago it was a Coney Island-esque mecca sprawling up and down the waterfront, with carnivals and saltwater taffy shops and a grandstand with a band. Yesterday afternoon it was a raw, clear, empty stretch of lonely grey ocean and sleeping shopfronts. Not a soul was there, except for the seagulls. I found a shell, and the wind whipped my cheeks something fierce.  I think I left my loneliness there.

  
  

  

  
  

  I decided to explore Revere. It was cold, so I slunk along the seawall, crossed the empty parkway, and poked along the closed-up shopfronts looking for respite and something to contemplate. Instead i found Store 24. I bought some horrible coffee to keep my hands warm, and the impulse suddenly hit me that if that moment I bought a scratch ticket, i would most certainly win.

  
  

  And I did.

  
  

  Six dollars, to be exact. Yay, me.

  
  

  So with six bucks in my pocket and a sloshy sugary coffee in hand, I meandered back to the train station, and hunkered down to hope for the blue line’s swift arrival. 

  
  

  A man walked up to me, and said hello, and stood there while I stared him down. Usually i get persnickety when strangers bother me, because they generally either want to get in your pants, or get evangelistical on your ass, and me and my good luck and scalding hot coffee were at the ready and having none of it.  Instead he asked if I was an artist, and was polite, and curious, and I was feeling predestined, so I deigned to chat with him. All the way back along the blue line.

  
  

  David, his name is, and he came from Ghana nine years ago to read books, learn, and play chess. He was a marine for two years and was sent to the desert, and came back to live in a monastery. He told me about the history of his native country, and the Ashanti who believe in learning and teaching; and what colors we like. He recommended The Art of War and the Celestine Prophecies, and I found myself and my newfound non-lonliness sliding easily into his company. Lately I have been a vehemently determined loner, and generally I don’t like to talk to people, but sometimes people find you anyway.  Maybe he lucked out, and got me right at the perfect moment when I was fresh from the beach, and susceptible to thoughts and conversation.

  
  

  We parted ways at the orange line.  At Back Bay Station i decided I’d had enough of the subway, and stumbled up into Copley Plaza. I paced around for a bit, still feeling out where the day would lead me next, and found myself in a bookstore. I was hunting around for a copy of the Celestine Prophecies when the foreign language section caught my eye, and I left the bookshop with a copy of some italian lessons.

  
  

  Yes, I am going to learn to speak italian. In ten days, apparently! Prepare yourselves!

  
  

  But my adventures were not over yet, although it was already nighttime in the city.  I took the elevator up to the top of the Prudential building, and wandered around to get a view of the lights of boston. Because, sadly, I have never seen it before, although I’ve been here for seven years.

  
  

  

  
  

  So high up!

  
  

  And back down to earth again. I went looking for Bryon, kidnapped him from his studio, went home, to JP, ate some simosas and naan, and then to bed. Dreaming of frontiers.

  
  

  
  

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  Plexiglass, not photoshop:

  
  

  

  
  

   

  • 7:42 pm
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