March Words

In my humble but firm opinion, Lana Del Rey’s “Love” requires a level of intimacy with the streets of Boston, MA. Like, in the way that Infinite Jest more explicitly demands—with its willows greening by the mare des canards and not yet true twilight blanketing Newton. There’s a feeling evoked, of hurt and greater hope commingled. And how can one listen or read, and get it, without knowing what it is to walk through Inman Square on a Sunday afternoon, or plant oneself by the Harvard Book Store remainders (piles on piles of Philip K. Dick), or stand beneath a sky that must have been a model for the Ludwig Instagram filter—because that’s what it is, save for a few summer days or weeks. And, to be young and in love. {question mark}

It’s March 6th, a Tuesday, and I am thinking of New Year’s Eve. Of driving past our old, first apartment in East Cambridge—warm and buzzed at four o’clock, listening to Lust for Life and beginning to remember-when. Remember when we went there, ate that, saw/heard/did that ridiculous thing, with those friends, alone. {question mark} Of, later, sitting in the bar of the Taj Hotel and looking out on the shadow of the Public Garden, drinking martinis and sort of weeping from too-much-vodka feeling. Of having dinner beside a jazz quartet and waking up the next day, January 1, with resolutions.

I am lying in bed before work, computer on a cloud duvet on my lap. The curtain—the only one we ever really touch—is pulled to the side, and there’s a cat on the dresser who’s staring out the window. Birdsong rises from the tulip tree, and light spills into the room, making everything amber-tinged. March, in other words. And now I set “Love” on low, and I’m driving/laughing/crying/hoping. Bass beating {there, here}, so happy.

There’s more to say or not say; but this morning, simply, for you: I love this song/husband/life, Boston, and I’ve been keeping resolutions.