Tomorrow I am going to Concord, Massachusetts to attend a friend’s wedding (yes, the friend who alerted me, once and for all, to the sinfully boring institution of registries.) Concord was the home of Thoreau and Emerson and Louisa May Alcott’s March family, a locus of New England literary life.
I have serious delusions of isolationism, but none of them take place in New England (perhaps because I am weary of the familiar.) Got to give props to my man Thoreau, though, the original society-shunner.
Both place and time were changed, and I dwelt nearer to those parts of the universe and to those eras in history which had most attracted me. Where I lived was as far off as many a region viewed nightly by astronomers. We are wont to imagine rare and delectable places in some remote and more celestial corner of the system, behind the constellation of Cassiopeia’s Chair, far from noise and disturbance. I discovered that my house actually had its site in such a withdrawn, but forever new and unprofaned, part of the universe.
Now, of course, the name “Walden” has become a great selling point for a number of the areas local B&Bs. I myself will be staying at the Holiday Inn.
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