Day 58/59, Maybe: Cambridge / Warm (and Cold) Fuzzies

Oh, it’s fall.  Fall, fall, fall!  Obviously it’s been fall, but only felt like it in occasional gusts of wind and rustling of falling leaves, but I wandered through Harvard and Central Square on Friday night, and through some hidden little path between Alewife and Davis in the morning, and oh, I never want to leave.

I love these places that feel like secret pathways, even if there’s constant traffic of joggers and strollers and random wanderers like me.  It’s like a little urban Narnia — complete with lampposts.

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And wet, leaf-covered corners, which are always so delightfully, eerily empty six months of the year.

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And I just like how leaves look in rainy puddles, no commentary here.

 

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And this, I suppose, just basically sums up my life:

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I love New England so much it aches.  I still can’t really wrap my head around the idea of settling anywhere permanently, but I’d imagine if I do it will be here, at least if it’s in the US.

And I finally got to see one of my best friends in the fucking world, Pete, who I’d only seen once since we lived together five goddamn years ago.  There was copious imbibing of alcohol (some at the bartending hands of another of my favorite people, at Trina’s Starlite Lounge in Cambridge), and then some very mature, low-key tabletop games of Bang!, as befits a group of adults…

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…Obviously.

(No actual guns were used in this game, as one would hope would go without saying.)

I woke up and was briefly confused as to why I actually felt comfortable and rested, and realized that that was the first time I’d slept in an actual bed — as in, not above/below/surrounded by 10-odd other people, nor with the box spring pressed into my spine below a tiny-ass hostel mattress — since, uh… Washington?  September something?

It was nice.  Beds are nice.  And I miss Pete.

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And then Saturday I wandered off to Davis Square, at which this was the first thing I encountered:

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So, y’know…

No, I got nothin’.

And then I met up with my old old friend Patrick that I’ve known since like fucking Vanilla WoW — yes, even though I don’t play anymore I still sometimes break up chronology in terms of WoW eras, because fuck you — but with whom I’d never actually hung out.  We nursed our shared hangovers — though mine, at least, was much better than I really deserved — and took the requisite selfies, and might I just say that I think I’m like three for three w/r/t cute selfies with old friends here.  Though it helps having cute friends.

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I’m known among my friends for my refusal to smile in pictures — I smile/laugh a lot in person, but I generally just dislike how I look in pictures when I smile — and people keep telling me, holy shit, you look happy — you sound happy, you seem happy.

My mother was against this whole bike tripping thing — not because she’s an asshole or anything, but just because she’s, you know, my mom — though the longer I’ve been doing it I think her panic-mode has ramped down to just everyday motherly concern.  But lately she’s conceded that I seem generally better — happier, more confident and sure of myself (which having survived like hundreds of miles of Highway 40 corn fields you’re fucking well right I’ve got a little more self-possession).  Like I said in my first post on this stupid blog, I know this trip won’t fix me, but I’m beginning to adjust to the idea that it’s possible to wake up without dreading every single fucking day, weekday or weekend.

And now I’m faced with the necessity of figuring out how to avoid getting sucked back into the spiral of a life where I don’t fit.

 

 

 

 

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