SAGOLCAVILLE

The elbow. The knee, the neck, the crook of the foot. The wave, the save, what she gave to you and your brothers—riveted by your every nuanced response to and reach for the Wild beach.

Sagolcaville is where you go to know—you are safe enough to grow.

Naive, you believe. What you receive is more than you will ever achieve.

Sagolcaville is a place where you, like Darwin himself, identify hundreds of new species of joy—where you brave the (seemingly) gigantic wave which chases but neither encases nor overcomes nor enslaves nor erases.

Sagolcaville is where you feel the full relief of belief in being YOURSELF.

I glance at the night journal I keep next to my head at my bed while I sleep. I see block letters:

S A G O L C A V I L L E.

Each letter self-sufficient—seated carefully with the uneasy yet vital trust I remember from when I used to ride the T from Alewife to Hynes Station on the Green Line. When I realize that they form a pronounceable word, I start to remember: Jolted bolt upright in the middle of the night in a rare moment of REM, I had been commanded to hand-copy each of these letters, independently, from a printing press of the dream time.

Sagolcaville will always be a place we can visit—together, or independent of each other. I will come here often. I invite you to join me.