Cambridge?
One hour. One hour to scribble furiously and dash out this update, for which I know you all have been so eagerly awaiting but which I, the neglectful guardian, have distastefully put off. I’m sorry, dear readers. I’m sorry dear friends.
I find myself once again in the liminal space between occupations. I had a job lined up (three actually) for when I returned to Cambridge but they all fell through. I did not have a plan for where I would live, but somehow it worked out. (Thank you dearly to my patrons aayush and vivek for giving me warm and light, birthing me from my blooming buzzing confusion. unfortunately I am still in confusion but did I tell you I have a job lined up?).
On the other hand, Cambridge has been a wonderful dear mistress. Less like an ex that I shamefully slink to than the high school first love that I needed to miss to know was right all along. Oh Cambridge. Of all the places, you feel like home right now. There are enough of my dear friends about for me to feel recognized but more crucially there is the nectar of thought in the air. Berlin was fashionable but Cambridge you have people talking about entering the fifth jhana in the coworking spaces and debates about whether a closed form solution to navier-stokes is possible (amid the dreary discussions of careerist work — though the careerists tend not to stay so long in Cambridge). You have the Lilypad where wednesday nights an old man putting on a German accent will tell unintentionally creepy parables about a factory machine that needed oiling. You have a giant teddy bear head playing the keytar in central square. Cambridge I love you. Cambridge I do love you.
So that’s it. The two work gigs I had lined up which were ostensible justification for being here are in question. I have no obligation to be here. But I am deciding here and now that Cambridge is where I will be (mostly) for the next year. Dear all, if you seek me, you know where to find me, and if you are reading this, know that you will have a soft surface for slumber and a warm mug of oatmilk and nutmeg if you are ever nearby.
I should mention that the guard at Berklee’s Seully music hall does not take kindly to vagrants who enter and wander wantonly around the building, drawn to and fro by the wafts of Paganini violin duets. Wally’s is much more inviting, and a man calling himself ‘Lenny the 25th’ (“I’ve been coming here for 64 years”) beams and kindly holding your arm will introduce you to the musicians.
Thank you dearly for following my global adventures. I may write occasionally poiesis on this newsletter here but also I continue to write about qi and the question concerning technology and the battle of Luzon. (mainly cross posts from my blog).
