It’s been a series of improbable nights.
Some have been spent in frigid high winds, completely alone in the cold as I snapped photographs of suddenly late sunsets on the nights Campbell McGrath contemplated: nights when the mind occupies a place “always elusive, always a city, and wonderful, and lost. All night I wander alone, searching in vain for the irretrievable.”
For a very long time, solitude has been the hallmark of my nights.
Gravel paths on hillsides amid moon-drawn vineyards,
click of pearls upon a polished nightstand
soft as rainwater, self-minded stars, oboe music
distant as the grinding of icebergs against the hull
of the self and the soul in the darkness. . . .
Deep is the water and long is the moonlight
inscribing addresses in quicksilver ink,
building the staircase a lover forever pauses upon.
Deep is the darkness and long is the night,
solid the water and liquid the light.
But last night, and the night before that, I wasn’t alone. I wandered among crowds on city streets and ventured into places I’ve never set foot before. I met people with wondrous hearts and stories: writers and stand-up comics, actors, radio gods and goddesses, mothers and fathers, people willing to tell their stories and people willing to listen.