when i get depressed i try to take stock of the good things about being here. so:

the fact that i live here. i love cambridge for feeling like a college town, for being closer in feel to charlottesville than to manhattan, with the sense of being poised on the brink of city life, a little sheltered, self-possessed, intellectually vibrant, historical and gentile. only five t-stops away is the centre of boston, the beautiful public gardens, the commons, drapes of willows flung over the lake, the wild of tulips, and how can one not think of louis the swan in the bathtub of the ritz? i love boston, which has all of the conveniences of the big city, and, with the exception of a decent ballet company, all of the things that one calls civilisation. not teeming with life, all the world's astage, no, not that kind of city, but a city exuding quiet charm and manners, having seen and smiled graciously on all, the grand-dame of cities. i love garden street, and the lovely west cambridge neighbourhood it runs through, the sense of peace and beauty as i wander through the neighbourhood, content, lifted, and each house with their porches and gardens - yes the gardens - not the expensive manicured prentense of certain posh west coast suburbs, but resplendent in the spring in a haphazard but lush way. i like my proximity to the radcliffe gardens, and i like the fact that nabokov lived down my street. i have a lovely apartment and a room, now that i have decorated it just the way i want it, in greens and whites and woody tones, bamboo covered floors, sheer green curtains, zabutons, tall bookshelves, bamboo lamp. privacy, and long summer afternoons in 1940s-style slips, reading in bed, jasmine tea on the table beside, and vases and vases of flowers all around the room, and a stick of incense burning.