Who cares if the sun doesn’t shine all the time? Look at this! Hundreds of years of domestic architecture in a tiny city block. While my beloved toils on a movie in Boston, I get to enjoy myself and be an unabashed tourist. What movie? I must tell you now,…
Category: Fiction
*** Walking around Boston I hear a multitude of voices every day, different accents; young, old, and in-between. Every era has its quirks, last year’s vocal fry will give way to something else, perhaps digital drawl or robot resonance? And while people can get very persnickety about cadence and intonation,…
Just came home from an urban garden in Boston, where I was reading “The Master” — a book about Henry James (written by Colm Tóibín) — when I saw this marvelous essay of his in The Guardian on “a book that changed me.” . Mr. Tóibin, in reference to the…
It was inevitable. I miss the light. The bold, constant, dazzling light. I understand now to the core of my being why Cecil B. and my ancestors made the move, and why there’s no place like it to make movies — anywhere you turn, all you have to do is…