Pisces 13° (March 3)
I’m not going to lie to you: there are certain things about getting old that are just plain old fucking depressing. And things that were okay or used to be cute aren’t really that much any more. Not everything but certainly somethings. I don’t think the way we live is particularly cute at this point; then again, we make ever place we live beautiful and just have that natural magical vibe about us; but when you don’t prioritize material existence you tend not to have a lot of material trappings. And this is something else I’d like to see change right about now. I try not to be so blatantly honest in writing what should be pretty public material. That said, I don’t have much of a readership and, really, why should I. So like most things it’s all in my head. The fact of the matter is, though, I must say, somehow this time may feel different.
When I was a kid spending summers at the Jersey shore I can’t explain to you how desolate and beautiful Spring Lake was. All the giant mansions from the gilded era were there and yet they were like silent monuments, dormant gods looking on streets, each one a pantheon of architectural splendour. I could ride my bike endlessly through the town and just stare at all the buildings. Later, when I fell in with a year-round crowd there in high school and after I would visit some of these homes which were just unbelievable. But talk about a place in the past I’ve been passed out of. Jeez you’ve no idea. Now houses are five million. It’s so sad and so sick. There are enough boring people making boatloads of money who can afford to live like this. Back then all sorts of people, from various brackets, could still participate on some level, and all still go to the same public Manasquan high school. But no more.
There was an old movie theater in Spring Lake. I saw American Grafitti there when I was in, what?, fifth grade? Is that possible? The film came out in 1973, but maybe I saw it later? Gosh I dunno. It was definitely one of my favorite records. I think I saw it later, in the summer of 1975. Anway there were hardly any people in the cinema. And there were no people walking around Spring Lake. I think there was an ice cream shop near the cinema too. I can see wide slate sidewalks. The seventies were so beautiful and so anonymous. I loved the silent creepiness of it all. Faded grandeur. That’s what these former towns with their mansions were in the early seventies at the Jersey Shore, in Spring Lake, where still faces peeked through their Irish lace curtains as they silently slipped their martinis hiding from a world that would soon have nothing to do with them.
Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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