Melt down

I know I keep saying that I’m going to update this blog more frequently and, believe me, I really mean to.  But life gets in the way of all sorts of things I’d like to do.

I find that now, between the escalation of awful news under current political circumstances, the search for a permanent job between stints of mindless temp work and unsuccessful interviews, the need to uphold a semblance of a social life, and a number of other unnameable factors, the last thing I want to do at the end of the day is sit down and write.  And I never know what to write about these days either, so this, in effect, is an entry about nothing at all.

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Brunch at Cafeteria on Newbury with some friends after a long night of dancing

Other things impede me. The larger part of my father’s family, from which I am more or less estranged (by mutual choice), is in Puerto Rico.  My father has been trying to get a flight out there for weeks, a dozen boxes of supplies behind him, but he’s been rescheduled twice and increasingly anxious.

The hurricanes, the wildfires, the mass shootings.  My father, who grew up Pentecostal, can’t hep but lick them up into his ideas of apocalypse, which the Pentecostals are so fond of.  “See,” he says. “Back to back. All these tragedies, like the end times.” Okay, dad. Sure. Maybe Eric wasn’t so wrong after all?

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After brunch, at the large protest in Boston Common, August 19, 2017

And all this seems silly, I know. Because to feel things outside of oneself is silly in a way. To feel them too much and too deeply that they form at once a tidal wave of ambition and a straitjacket of angst. Reducing you to nothing; not a spectator or a man of action, just limp and purgatorial.

Mostly these days I’ve been therapy cooking. Lots of late summer salads since the weather has been warm. If the cold ever arrives in Boston I’ll be able to get back to my baking.  Spiced cakes, coffee cakes, rum tarts. And hot toddies, lots of them.  Spiked tea punches and apple pies and Indian pudding. I can’t wait.  People often the lament the beginning of the cold seasons, especially here in New England where they take up the bulk of the year, but, as I think I’ve mentioned before, I become myself in these months.  With them they bring me clarity. Resolve.

Picco
Dinner with friends at Picco. Fun fact: I made my friends go here because I wanted to see a boy that works as a server. He has a the most amazing smile and scar on his face that looks like a Cy Twombly rose. Alas, he has a boyfriend.

And speaking of transformation, a while ago I went on a date with a guy I met on tinder. He was nice but it didn’t go anywhere.  However, he was into making jewelry and took me to a studio where they take old metal objects and evaluate them for content, hoping to melt them down into raw materials for something else. All over were dusty old and broken bits, furniture hardware and costume jewelry, fire pokers and cymbals, hammered brass, brushed brass, and copper nothings.  Ugly and unwanted things hoping to be melted down and turned into something new. Something beautiful.

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At a friend’s birthday dinner just a few weeks ago, at Gaslight in the South End.

 

 

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