I’m not sure why we even try, when no one in the world can write a prettier email than my friend Dennis.
Last evening, I ventured with my drunken friends into a place we’d never been, that was very reminiscent of a public radio dance party; pretty hipster kids in their skinny jeans and bizarre getups doing the hippy arm wiggle to an incomprehensible mix of surf music, delta blues, and trance, all under the glow of neon orange lights. I had on my jaunty straw hat, the rust-colored Chuck Taylors I purchased on Harvard Square, and felt very much like I needed to be with much cooler people who would drag me out to dance, much to my horror, to do the twist under the open air. Instead, I was with people who were shocked that these kids — children! — were listening to songs that they deemed retro, but which were part of my 40-year-old friends’ youth. I wanted them gone. […] Better clothes, I wanted better clothes, and to be 25 pounds lighter, so I could mix in. But, instead, I watched in my jaunty hat, drank a watery beer, and drove people home and returned to my museum to sleep alone.
All this is to say — I use that phrase to make it seem as though there is any coherence to this message, when clearly there is not — that your plans sound lovely. Move to Minneapolis. Go home again. Get Otis the corgi. Live with your sister. Do all of that to re-group, re-discover everything about yourself that you always loved, but put aside for whatever reason. But don’t move into a museum of the past, don’t make monuments of things lost.
The sun, setting under a bank of clouds, has just now turned the very tops of the maple trees and the big walnut the most brilliant shade of gold. Already, you can almost see through the leaves, just little pieces of colored glass, which will, sooner than you think, fall down and crumple. In the few short minutes that I’ve taken to write this, the light has gone from gold to pink, and soon to black. Make the most of Indian summer. It’s a wonderful time to be alive.