Reentry, Revisit

Back in Boston, back to work.  Tucking all the dreams and predictable disappointments of the last few weeks away with the winter sweaters.  (Why did I think this time would be different?) Looks like I’m here to stay for a while. Drunken BU students shouting f-words at each other at 3 am. (I hate BU.) Girls squealing. Boys blustering. Trash on the streets. Vandalized car mirrors. Louche Asian kids hanging out on the corner of Brighton and Harvard with edgy haircuts and dangling cigarettes and 5 inch heels (the girls and/or girl wannabes) sipping bubble tea. Me waiting and waiting and waiting for the 66 bus.

I am committed to this work. And while I seemed destined not to be supported in it, well that’s OK.  Lots of us haven’t been. Bartok died penniless and alone on W. 59th Street when it wasn’t such a schnazzy neighborhood.  And people remember him more or less fondly. The main thing is to get things done. 

It has been a joy to revisit my work. To remind myself of it.  To go with it. Be selfish and even sybaritic about it.  All writers are, after all.  When they’re men, or have independent resources, it’s seen as a good thing, the sort of obsession that words require. The fact that it’s not seen as a good thing in my case, well, it’s simply something to get past on my part.  I’ll figure it out. I always do.