I had an appointment out in Concord yesterday. It was raining and it was cold and yet I couldn't help but make a detour on my way home and go to Walden. Every day that it's nice enough in the summer I swim here; the water of the famous kettle hole is Caribbean blue due to its depth, and if you go in the late afternoon the sun is at the right angle so that it bounces off the water and blinds you with the most glorious flashes of light when you turn my head to breathe between each stroke. When you swim across and get to the other side of the pond you can hear the train go by from Boston, the same route that it's run since Thoreau and Louisa May walked its shores.
While lying on the stones beside the water in the summer heat is close to heaven, the rainy, cold, deserted beach yesterday was no worse, if a bit less conducive to tanning. I was alone among the ducks, although it turns out I wasn't the only one with the idea of making a soggy pilgrimage. My dad called me at night after seeing an Instagram I put up. I picked up the phone and he said, "When were you at Walden today?!" I told him I'd stopped by around 1:45 and he told me he'd been at 1. I guess that's what happens when you live close to home. And when the apple doesn't fall far.
These remind me of a Wes Anderson movie (if I may be so bold as to compare my iPhone photos to his masterpieces).
Listening to: Vampire Weekend, Modern Vampires of the City
(Not new and very famous, but it felt right on the drive out).
