Memories of Maine

Maine is all memories now. Now that we are in a quiet whirlwind of moving on. We have made Haymarket Cafe in Northampton, Mass. a new workspace. It's warm and dimly lit with orangey hues and endlessly satisfying music. The smells tempt me up the stairs to the case of cookies and cakes, to the delicious hot chocolate and cardamom-heavy chai. Today I made my way through a melting chocolate banana oatmeal mound and the whipped-cream topped, wide mug of cocoa. I am listening, disjointedly, to the music of other cafe-goers, shared on their iTunes. The tables are fraught with laptops in this college-surrounded town. Adam is happy to see so many macs, not in the least part because bought Apple stock recently.

Our first night here we met new friends Emily and Bucky, burners who have shared their parking lot and kitchen and bathroom and outlet and lives with us for the past few days. We danced to psytrance at Tully O'Reilly's. We ate yet another of our thai curries, this one with kabocha squash and a strange consistency we attributed to our coconut milk's stint in the freezing weather. We played Stoner Fluxx, a card game that had us exchanging confused looks at every turn. We met their friends. We toured the store/yoga/massage studio center they're busily preparing to open. We were entertained by their two black cats, about as frisky as they come. We got transportation and cafe advice. We have marveled at the ease and comfort of finding community with strangers.

Though enjoying the new digs, I am missing my friends whose lives we shared for 5 weeks in the quiet of the northeasternmost part of this giant country. The size of the states here make me realize that California is much more like its own country than a mere state. I would rather be the governor of a smaller state like Maine or Massachusetts. Not that I have gubernatorial plans, just theoretically. The sheer variety of landscapes across the continent boggles my mind repeatedly.

I am remembering the brilliant white moon and stars, how I gazed up at them on my way to bed in K&K's front yard. The chill air brightened those nightly points of light and it never ceased to call me starward when the clouds were away. I remember seeing earth's unmistakable neighboring red planet slung below the full belly of the moon.

I remember how the hill across Lake Chickawaukie turned from maddening green to canary to bronze to brown. I remember running hard and fast up and down the car-less Pheasant Street, my breath visible in the impending dusk, seeing the bare trees on the hills beyond as if they were permanent mist coursing slowly among the last of the autumn colors.

I remember endless wheelbarrow loads of firewood, during hardly thought, but instead heard endless repeats of ridiculous versions of familiar songs--like Frosty the Snowman was a strange and dapper man...or something like that--until I pushed the needle to a new song on the vinyl of my memory.

I remember so many galleries and antique shops that they all became a blur of places I stopped seeing. I remember a rain jacket yellow house and an old red car parked in front, the kind you might picture James Dean riding in, cigarette in the corner of his tilted smile, forever announcing his iconic coolness. A "For Sale" sign hung in the window.

I remember smiling at the first bite of a molasses glazed donut, from Willow Street Bakery, thinking, "Well, here it is. The real donut I've been searching for." I remember being amazed at how short this long-awaited thrill lasted, and how long my hunger for such an odd choice for an obsession remained.

I remember laughing in the living room, the four of us, entertained at the end of the day by nearly anything. Jasmine's dreamed chicken-chase, or Kevin's sugar-infused non sequiturs, or my unintended innuendos, or Adam's dependable puns, or Kelly's latest thoughts on a name for the nutkin (and extended absurdity thereon).

I remember Adam saying, "You got to ride it!" incredulous as I dismounted from the tow truck's lift, having steered trogdor to its safe transport spot atop a flatbed in downtown Camden. I remember thinking perhaps we were cursed in our quest to get to Acadia when the same wire that kept us from going that first time disconnected yet again after a mediocre meal at the Chocolate Grill in a town midway to the famed island. I remember feeling vindicated as we persevered and a quick fix had us on our way.

I remember scrambling up Nurembega Mountain and feeling so small and large at once as I crested the top, gazing down at the fjord and towns spread out wide below me.

I remember the moon laying a jagged pool of white light down on the lawn in the quiet, wee hours of the morning, as I walked to the house for a drink of water. I remember seeing the big dipper through the small frame of the bathroom window, the house quiet and the sky filling the space around me.

I remember too many Raelin quotes to record or count or remember:

"Adam, I want you to laugh at the fire!"

"I JUST want to get a diaper, Juli." (while shrugging shoulders)

"You can't look at me."

"You can't put your [arm, face, hand] on my chair."

"I need to go to the co-op and the post office."

I remember smelling sweet potato chips as I walked down the street alone in the hard rain. I remember being filled with amazement as we sat in the packed Strand Theater, watching Evelyn Glennie bust out a heartfelt rhythm on plates and cups on the ground, on a snare drum in the middle of Grand Central, wild hair obscuring her vision, percussing with a Taiko group, in a huge warehouse on pipes and bannisters and walls. I remember the rapid gathering of pieces in my understanding of what she means by touching sound.

I remember lots of delicious meals and lots of laughter and lots of dishes and dog hair and hugs and heart-melting Raelin moments. I remember friendship and comfort and not wanting to say goodbye.