Tonight I found bits of words from my summer notebook I kept in my purse. Unlike my big journal, I toted this notebook everywhere. It was inconspicuous and blank–qualities thereby redering it perfect. I wrote the following passage while on my lunch break at the Highland Center in Crawford Notch. The bold August sun caused me to squint so I could see my writing through my eyes which took the shape of twin crescent moons.
I wrote: “I do not remember many sounds of the city. It is far, past towns with names like Bethlehem or Tamworth, Concord, or Keene. I think there are rumbling subways and people in my everywhere so that when I was there, the creases in my skin filled up with language and ideas about time and space and how we should use them. When I was in the city I must have craved the silence of the wilderness. But even in this quiet place, I cannot help but listen. A little girl yawns in the yard, chickadees talk in the pines, and an old man clicks the shutter of his camera to capture the mountains.”