historicism

The occasional sleeping in mornings are always welcome even as I'll work late tonight. I've been so stressed and barely able to do much except function on a very basic level. I stopped by my roommate's work with falafel and hung out with some nursing home residents, pouring punch, taking photos, and pushing wheelchairs while a guy played "Margaritaville" on steel drums for the "Mother's Day Luau." It felt good to get outside my funk in a way that I didn't expect.

Woke up early, cleaned the house, made soup out of my leftover sweet potatoes and coconut milk,
rode my bike around the neighborhood, stopped by St. John's to get a closer look. There was an
Underground Railroad station here back in the day, known as "Station Hope." I've heard that the church closed for lack of members, but I'd love to find a (legal) way to get inside, and get some more history on the place.



I know there's more history up here than what I know, but I feel like so much of it was erased by the time I was born, and is continually obliterated even as I'm now conscious of it. There were tribes here once, and people who settled here, and factories that no longer turn buildings black. Those of us who stayed are comfortable with rust and have a special affection for old bridges and abandoned buildings, dirty beaches, things that are old, that remind us of times that existed before us, when things were not better, but definitely different.