Preamble… yes, I know this post is out of order (this was written mostly on day 2 of my recent vacation) but I finally got all my notes together and transcribed, if you want to read up on Cape May (GO HERE), but in short let me just say, this is a place I have been coming to my entire life, it is an old shore resort town, full of history, hundreds of years old in parts… that said.. here goes….

new towns or cities just do not have the between your fingers feel, the weight, the very taste of history itself spinning slowly in the fog in the air, apparitions in plain sight, hollow sounds floating on the voice of the wind and the ever present, sometimes distant, but ever sounding crash of the waves off in the darkness, even on a night like this, dreary, drizzle hanging over or hitting your face depending on which way you turn, even on a night like this, some might shy miserable, yet, I feel drawn to walk the town, there is both something equally eerie and calming in a nearly deserted resort town, as if the buildings are exhaling from all the commotion of the summer season, homes and buildings that have literally seen and been witness to hundreds of such seasons, taking in the winter to rest their old bones, throw on some new clothes of paint, perhaps replace a beam or two, to encounter again the coming crowds and blazing sun, but that is all rear mirror now, the sun falls short in the day and never quite reaches room temperature or above, just enough light to inform and know you are awake, but in the night, the buildings can sigh, a collective hum across these old streets, this time of year is far creepier than true winter, every scrape of leaf means you are being followed, you look, and see a leaf, but are convinced otherwise, so I understand the phrase now better than I had previously, “the dead of winter”, yes, winter is more desolate, the leaves are all gone, the moon light invades and penetrates around within every inch, guardians, the trees, bare, but not tonight, a slight breeze bends the light, conjuring shadows and forms, unpredictable sights, sounds like shallow words breathed upon your neck, spirits nipping up at your legs, a cold bone finger reaches gently glances against your ear lobe, just out of your periphery but somehow felt, in these moments, strolling through this old town, as the town observes me when I think I am the observer and not just the interloper, I am unsure if I wish to find a ghostly anomaly, some proof of haunting, of life understood as after or in some other dimension, so sure would be belief if I perceived such a thing, or would the fright be more than I could bear, or the disbelief as logic might kick in and overwhelm the sense sold of my eyes, all of these things boil up inside my cauldron mind, the curiosity makes possibility lurk around every corner, surely if there were lost souls they would be here, here in this old shore town, shipwrecks, lover’s jilted, homicide guilted, accidental dispatch, all captured within the memories of these victorian walls, somewhere in a window, I am sure, I would see a form, or a passing glance, a glow, an orb, would I trust my sober nature or lay favor to my rampaging imagination, for I do not know, for I never found out, this evening, as all the creeping I perceive is the autumn playing out final tricks, before the time of the dead of has conspired, to slow down life to the point, of silence, except for the ever dull roar of the ocean waves, just over the dunes, just out of sight.

Music: Cream – As You Said