Friday, January 18, 2013
Broken Windows Theory
But I am a writer, so...
I think about moving all the time, which has as much to do with me as it does with New London. Every time I've moved before (including both times I moved to New London) it's been a spontaneous decision. Now I find myself looking at maps and trying to be logical, reasonable, to find the place where my lists of wants and deal-breakers overlap. 169 towns, and not one that fits my ostensibly simple needs.
And thus...New London. A city overwhelmed, sometimes paralyzed, by its own potential. A city of empty storefronts and train whistles and seemingly unscheduled nuclear emergency siren tests and sand that leaves the beaches and ends up deposited, no matter how often I shake it out, in all my shoes. A city that turns its back on its river - its raison d'être - and marches uphill looking for something it never finds. A city that fights itself in its narrow streets and crumbling ornate buildings, while high above a litany of frustration and affection is recited daily by a chorus of enormous seagulls.
It's a place one might give up on, or get tired of, but one doesn't want to betray. If you think that sounds silly, you've never lived in New London.