Osler's Razor

This is where I lived my third year of law school-- 43 Sound View Ave. in Madison, Connecticut. It was probably the most beautiful house I will ever inhabit. We had about an acre of land right on Long Island Sound, with a little beach next door and those big rocks jutting out into the ocean. Every night I fell asleep to the sound of the ocean, and would walk on the beach at dusk.

On Friday nights, we often had big dinner parties, and would invite our friends out from New Haven. We'd dance. But that came long after the food (bluefish from the Sound, or duck, or once, lobster, always with salads and fresh bread) and the wine and the laughter.

The last weekend before graduation, about this time of year, we had the biggest party of all. People brought their thesis papers and we burned them in a bonfire near the beach and sang a thesis-burning song we made up. Everyone stayed very very late, and in those late hours we were listening to this song:


It was just the right song, at just the right time. We danced with our friends, not lovers, people we had shared something wonderful with-- thrown together, everyone feeling like the admission department's mistake, then left to read and to talk about important things and to learn from brilliant, eccentric men and women. We didn't have grades, really, but we worked hard because to not have an answer in class would show that someone did not belong, and might not fulfill their mission of fate in a world hungry for change and passion, a world that needed us (and needs you).

We would change partners every song. At this point, the woman I was dancing with (a willowy philosopher) said, "that's what this is-- this is Avalon." And she was right, of course. That song is marked by that beautiful place, that one perfect moment of celebration, and each time I hear it I go there.

So today, let's haiku about places and the songs that remind us of those places:

I hear that song, it's
Where the samba takes me
Avalon, the coast.

Now, you go...