Today had the flair of Indian Summer, a mildness that set aside all the woodsmoke, cider, carved pumpkin associations that were starting to assert themselves with those heavier skies and colder mornings of October. It was a day for parading, hard to stay indoors. Everything conspired to wrench even inveterate misanthropes from their melancholic dispositions. Wander out the last days of the long summer, the sun said, go. "And I'll start back at the world's end" -- the final line on Bobby D's latest -- echoed with the beguiling possibility of no reason to tarry, no stay to the trek.
nostos -- in Hollander, the prosaicness -- of Amsterdam and Broadway, of Central Park, of the Palisades, all in the time of the poet's boyhood -- rose perhaps too magisterially in over-extended comparison to other real places made fabled by long association (Cézanne's Mont St.-Victoire for instance), but evoked so nostalgically the sense of the seen forever though never to be seen again that I was thoroughly convinced by, for once then, something.
As Buck said of Kinch: the loveliest mummer of them all.