No we like to swish, we like swinging, sliding! What about those colorful childish murals that paper the city and the many of us, so many of us lacking merry, searching out the glory of remembered gradeschool track meets, orange slices, the squirt of summer in our faces. Snow-sliding on bellies and winter hats–
Whimsy isn’t flimsy. It’s our strong stalk, our tipsy too-heady heads are weights, back forth, waving, nodding out. This whimsy is fingerpainting, putting our mouths in the air baby birds, expectant, nourishment is on the way. Keep going. Natalie Goldberg says keep writing, burn down to First Thoughts. Keep plowing, mole-Mary. Savior. Deep sea christ, fishing tentacled, and how could a giant octopus wrap its arms around a shark–i saw this on youtube–a fiercely determined shark, whip-smart instincts. The octopus grabbed and and started chomping on its still-moving back. What does a rattled shark fin look like. Taste like.
What about my own whimsical shark nature. What about hips carrying clown carts, juggling balls keep slipping out between the slats. Writing that is unaffected, that is true and play. Play with words–that’s what building blocks are for! Turn all these things into poems. Every spilled drink is a poem. Every flawed and ugly thing, a poem. Even teeth. Even the bare-knuckled growl of a white-bellied shark gone down in the arms of a lying-in-wait octopus.
Take heed: nothing is impervious. And even should I grow ill and well-behaved, my whimsy will wave about me, a bulletproof mantle, solid, redemptive.