Dear Commercial Street,
I’ve been back home for two months now, and I still think of our last encounter. I said see you next year like a do every summer. It seems as though the years get longer and longer, summer’s hotter, winter’s colder. I’d take you in the snow, even with streets too small to plow by truck. I’d scoop it for you. Do you remember that morning? I smelled bacon when I walked on you, saw the artist’s brushes and palette sitting out on the deck above you. The barista saying “Good Morning” at Joes. I walked to the point and sipped my coffee while reading dedications of all those that loved P-town on stone.
It seems like it was just last year that the huge fishing boat washed up on the bay. It felt prehistoric, it made me think of that book I bought in Nantucket. What was it called? Something with a knot. I just wish we could have one more morning walk, and afternoon walk, and evening walk. I KNOW that was Ani Difranco strutting down on you a few years ago. I used to think I was like her and didn’t need to be rescued, but you could pick me up, punk. I could pretend to be a maiden fare. I didn’t even see John Waters this year. What are the happenings now? That movie that filmed last year comes out in a couple of weeks. I’ll get to see you in Hollywood lights. Tell me of all the things?
I don’t know if you can tell, but I’ve started writing. Not seriously just randomly. When we spoke last, I started to tell you about projection. It still feels limiting and I am not growing mostly because I don’t want to pursue automation. I’m just so under read it’s embarrassing. But, I like coming up with prompts for myself. Writing to you is one of them. Concrete, brick, mortar. Lobster, you.
Thinking of you always,
Morgen