On the road again

Boston... I don't know what the nickname of this city is, like Philly being the city of brotherly love, but I'd like to think of it as long vowels and chowder. Made it in, but didn't make it out. Well let me back up... Morning started well enough. I arrived to the airport and hopped on my plane. I had a window seat. A gent sat down in the aisle seat on my row and said "I've a treat for you, I bought the middle seat. Its so cheap to fly Jetblue I like the extra room, makes the flight more pleasant, so enjoy." I thanked him profusrely for his random act of kindness. I heard that there was a strong wind coming in from the west, perfect I thought, a tail wind. Captain came on and said that our time to Boston was going to be under five hours! Magnificent! I pulled out a paper and began to grade it. Time went by and I realized we were long overdue to leave, yet we were still at the gate. Our advantage and lead time was dissapearing and with it my hopes of making my connection to Montreal. Finally, an hour after the plane was supposed to depart we finally taxied onto the runway and left the ground.

The flight was unneventful, fast and turbulence free. We arrived, I had about 30 minutes from the time we touched down. The captain's voice came on the loudspeaker once more, this time I knew the news was bad as the pane had come to a standstill just a few meters from turning left into the gate: "There's a plane at our gate that's running behind schedule so we'll just sit here for a bit until it leaves." When the doors finally openned and the 13 rows ahead of me filed out, I broke out down the gangway and began a fruitless dash to the Air Canada counter. I arrived with aout 7 minutes left and was told what I had known before I began my mad dash: "your SOL."

Its now 1 in the morning and I can't sleep. Still on PST and I have to be up in 3 hours to catch my connection to Montreal. This trip has been a quiet disaster. My partner has the flu and left a message on my mobile while I was in the air saying he wasn't going to make it to the conference. I dropped my bags at the hotel, made some calls, some arrangements and then caught the train into downtown. I arrived at the state street station and found the Union Oyster House, a true colonial restaurant, owned by Hancock at one time if I remember correctly. Next door is the Green Dragon, one of the planning spots of the revolution. Dinner at the oyster house was fabo, yeah, I can't complain. Lobster and chowder, I mean I'm here, I might as well indulge a bit. It was pricey but I didn't regret it.

After dinner I mosied back to the hotel laughing all the while that the outbound destination of the train is "WONDERLAND" all kinds of connotations there. I like the feel of the cobblestones under my feet, walking through the brick walled alleys. The taverns are fabulous, I peaked inside: all wood panelled and bursting with history. I like this town already and I've only seen a fraction. I'm looking forward to seeing it on the way back and experiencing a bit of the history during the daylight hours. Sleep would be nice, but its not coming any time soon, which really sucks for me and being conscious during tomorrow's conference. I have a feeling drinking and fraternizing will have to wait until wednesday night and I'll just get to bed early, or so I hope.

I scribled some stuff for NOT US tonight. I'm being workshopped next week when I get back. Last thursday Duncan McNaughton read with Lews McAdams and as Duncan said "its a gas." I lifted one off his lines, its burried in this poem... like everything else written before, its burried and steeped in something that came before and in perfect reverse harmony is a manefistation of what was once written, writing it again anew.




XCIV

to d.m. (maybe) as l.z.


Calling down
the downs
drown out
the rounds
which must’ve
left the hounds
nothing quite
like nature
for hellfire
quickly appeasing
luck being
a weirdo tonight
old jig and song
not yours
are your dead
counted (2x)
where it stands
where it stood
fore gone to sea
enough clay
bones to shore
foundation’s drilling
into soils
it’s a rotten thing
when you can’t
depend on the dead
to hold up living
omits the light
where the moon
wears a human
ambiguous face
seems as young
as some might’ve
seemed to have
been happening
to understood
what’s come.