Ether
This place is foreign to me. I’m here, we’re here; we’re making a home. But I’m not at home. I’ve the sense that I’m trying to slide myself into this history, to proceed along with it, but keep slipping out again into a kind of timeless ether.
It’s an odd thing to pull oneself out of a place where you’ve put down roots to gamble on this new place resonating with something in you, perhaps finding a part of you that’s been ignored or supressed. I’m not a Mainer, or even a New Englander, but I am, perhaps, someone who needs the long pull of beach and turbulent sea as a kind of emotional expansion. Maybe I even need the strangeness of this place. I’m out of joint with time, yes, but to feel more tethered was always only an illusion. For some reason, I’ve sought this out at this time of my life, when most of my friends are settling deeper into their homes, wrapping their families around themselves.
Kennebec River, Bath Irons Works in the distance