Why 239 Capitol Street?
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By any objective measure, it was the worst of the places I've called "home". I am drawn back to it like a moth to flame, though it hasn't existed for over forty years. When I returned from Korea in the Spring of 1964 and stood in my hot green wool uniform on the raw ground where the Capitol Apartments had been for all the days of my life, I thought my heart would stop.
I can't ever know this, but I believe my life changed course on that day. Whoever (or whatever) I was to become when I left home in October of 1962 was just a wisp of smoke in the still air. For awhile, I could see it, or sense it, hanging semitransparent in the air, but becoming more disorganized and distant by the day.
Life has taken me into the path of many interesting events, some quite spectacular and seemingly momentous. But that May day in 1964 was the nexus for me; all the eighteen years of my life seemed buried in the dirt at my feet, along with the old, crumbling bricks of the Capitol Apartments. That was my Day in the Yellow Wood.
Perhaps, somewhere in the varied halls of the universe, the Capitol Apartments yet stands guard on Electric Alley, and raucous Saturday night music from the open doors of the KoKoMo Club and the El Borracho still drifts through the summer night and into the second-floor casement window of a thirteen-year-old boy, lying awake in bed, wondering about tomorrow, the world, and his place in it. Perhaps that boy is me. Oh, I hope so.
I am 58 years of age, the lifelong mate of a sweet woman I would never have aspired to, had I been a seriously thoughtful person. I am the father of a beautiful and intelligent daughter. I have also, with my mate, favored the world with three bright, funny, and loving sons. I have grandchildren out there...my daughter made them and pampers them and grows them. I hardly know them. New York may as well be Antarctica, for all the likelihood that I will go there. All in all, I am a happy person. I may die before I write here again, so I can't leave this unsaid: It's a Wonderful Life.
It's therapeutic, making these scatchings, and disconcerting at the same time, not knowing if or when they will fall upon someone, or whether they will land like stones or like snowflakes if they do.
By any objective measure, it was the worst of the places I've called "home". I am drawn back to it like a moth to flame, though it hasn't existed for over forty years. When I returned from Korea in the Spring of 1964 and stood in my hot green wool uniform on the raw ground where the Capitol Apartments had been for all the days of my life, I thought my heart would stop.
I can't ever know this, but I believe my life changed course on that day. Whoever (or whatever) I was to become when I left home in October of 1962 was just a wisp of smoke in the still air. For awhile, I could see it, or sense it, hanging semitransparent in the air, but becoming more disorganized and distant by the day.
Life has taken me into the path of many interesting events, some quite spectacular and seemingly momentous. But that May day in 1964 was the nexus for me; all the eighteen years of my life seemed buried in the dirt at my feet, along with the old, crumbling bricks of the Capitol Apartments. That was my Day in the Yellow Wood.
Perhaps, somewhere in the varied halls of the universe, the Capitol Apartments yet stands guard on Electric Alley, and raucous Saturday night music from the open doors of the KoKoMo Club and the El Borracho still drifts through the summer night and into the second-floor casement window of a thirteen-year-old boy, lying awake in bed, wondering about tomorrow, the world, and his place in it. Perhaps that boy is me. Oh, I hope so.
I am 58 years of age, the lifelong mate of a sweet woman I would never have aspired to, had I been a seriously thoughtful person. I am the father of a beautiful and intelligent daughter. I have also, with my mate, favored the world with three bright, funny, and loving sons. I have grandchildren out there...my daughter made them and pampers them and grows them. I hardly know them. New York may as well be Antarctica, for all the likelihood that I will go there. All in all, I am a happy person. I may die before I write here again, so I can't leave this unsaid: It's a Wonderful Life.
It's therapeutic, making these scatchings, and disconcerting at the same time, not knowing if or when they will fall upon someone, or whether they will land like stones or like snowflakes if they do.
posted by Mike St James at 7:09 PM
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