When I read and took notes on an article that I thought was new to me, only to find that I'd actually read it a month ago (though, to be somewhat fair to myself, in a different anthology), I decided that it was an especially good idea to spend the rest of the afternoon in one of my favorite places in Cambridge, taking pictures of its angles and rounds and objects. Unfortunately, the house is only open during the afternoon, making it impossible to spend an entire day just watching the light move through the place. "Is this your last visit?" the woman minding the house's door asked me today. "I hope not," I replied. Kettle's Yard is the kind of place some people fall deeply in love with; I am one of those people; people who love Kettle's Yard find ways to get back there, one way or another.
I have over-compressed my day: in between the discovery of my forgetfulness and my photographing odyssey through Kettle's Yard, there was a lovely interlude of hanging about with my favorite Lexingtonians, the smaller of whom held out her Frog Book so that I could read it to her transatlantically several times.