It has been a rollicking 6 weeks since Cathline and I packed up our home in Brooklyn and “lit out for the territory” Huck Finn–style, full of prospect for me especially, as I had never intended to stay in NYC, other than to resettle my daughter Jordan there after her divorce. I kept my 4-wheel–drive Suzuki for 8 years, my skis, my ice skates, thinking I’d be back to the forest and fields of Vermont lickety split.
Thirteen years older now, “lickety split” feels like some cruel anachronism in my vocabulary, but just as one needs a dedicated spirit of youthfulness to emigrate to Gotham, one needs the quickness in mind, body and soul of Mercury if one wishes to meet the magical once–upon–a–time inland whaling port of Hudson on its own enchanted terms. Daily, with my dear brother Phillip almost always at my side, I have fallen deeply in love with this place that in just a couple of hours will turn out in its red–white–and–blue finest for the altogether anachronistic celebration of Flag Day.
I will spare you any brief discourse on this holiday, but use the occasion to say hello to Masquerade readers old and new from our new perch here above Mahicantuk, the Long Water that continues to transport its denizens inwardly if not outwardly.
And yet there is that possibility as well, as a little posse of us experienced on Memorial Day Monday, courtesy of Captain Sam and the sweet little Haendel, for a circumnavigation of the Middle Ground – the midchannel sand and mud bar off our western shore. One serendipitous splash from our river cruise was that we seeded the river’s muddy bottom with a pulsing blue Mermaid’s egg, along with seeding each other with song, laughter, and story.
Song, laughter, story are three good things I have tasted in cornucopious abundance since alighting here, and they are at the heart of my own wild goals for how I can wed my heart to Hudson, even as I plot to transform its name from an honorific to a doomed and troubled Master of the Half–Moon to some more Sophianic sobriquet – Fyffon, perhaps.
Having but thirty minutes to pen this post before dashing off to Warren Street, to ride Kaspar, my Celeste–hued wheel in advance of the Flag Day parade, I cannot tarry to explain that magical onomatopoeic epithet, nor speak in plain words my gratitude for all the blessings that have in such short order rained down upon us in these short weeks (even the Smokeapocalypse brought pronounced blessing along with its coughing curse) since we settled on Partition Street/Alley in the brilliantly converted livery stable of one of the Nantucket Proprietors’ who staked their destiny here in 1783.
Out of some crazy commitment to the perspective of the newcomer, before this place could take hold of me, I vowed to write a novel within six weeks of touching down here; yesterday I picked up from the printer just the opening scenes of the fairy tale that I am hoping to enact. The precious Russian Madonna & Child icon above, the Powers Spring that frames her and Phillip’s hands, and St. Winifred, at whose feet today’s parade will gather, even as no one takes note of her sad demeanor or the poison ivy creeping up to cover her slippers, are all part of the tale, which I offer you all as invitation to turn Flag Day inside out.
Here is the chapbook fairy tale that I had hoped – but for a microscopic misprint! – to give away like Tootsie Rolls or miniature flags to those assembled along Warren Street this afternoon. I thank you for taking an idle hour or so to read it, as a gift to Winifred, to Mary, and to this mysterious Sailortown poised to do great things with sacred springs, icons, and bicycles. . .
Hello Kevin! I’d love to sojourn to Hudson sometime. In the meantime, I’ll check out Shallow Brown and other sea shanties.
Huzzah!!! Such a joy to read about your new life in Hudson, which already seems to be pretty idyllic. Looking forward to reading more posts!