This weekend all involved rushed off to Peaks Island near the coast of Maine for a quick vacation, much needed. Pennie pulled some strings with a distant relative to gain access to a beautiful little bayside cottage so we could look onto the Atlantic and act out New England cliches one after the other. Seafood, clam chowder, cable knit sweaters and brightly colored shorts, leisure, whiskey, contemplative gazing. It was a good time to escape, for on Sunday, Pennie and pretty baby Brian had to run back to Brandeis University to collect their masters degrees in cultural production and accept awards for saving the Rose Museum. Pennie holed herself away for a while at one point to draft a speech marking the occasion. It was beautiful and made me proud.
Maine represents a silvery mystery in the American psyche. It would take half a lifetime to determine or articulate exactly what that mystery entails, which I haven't lived yet, so I'll leave it to the future or I'll point to something like Marsden Hartley's late seascapes to reveal it for you. I thought maybe if I looked under my bed, I'd find a pentagram drawn in chalk on the floorboard. Its a strange place, steeped in local lore, populated by bizarre working people whose expressed demeanor are weathered similarly to surf-battled rock face. Cliche? yes. Hand me my LL Bean slicker.
cocktail hour
ahoy!
slept beneath slanted ceilings
a fort!
ferrying back to the continent
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