I was reading the poem “Thoughts” by Walt Whitman aloud, sitting alone on my bed with its red blanket, and the rain blurring down outside, and songs by Joanna Newsom with her harp all over the purple walls, and I wept a little.
Old Walt pierces the veil, brings the mystery into relief, illuminates. And it’s so simple.
Everyone running around with jobs and mortgages, insurances. How does one get into the business of distribution? Or the making of neon signs? Or become a health inspector? Or a dental hygienist? This is such a strange place, all these jobs. Manufacturing, which begets Waste Management.
Who are we? Americans? Human beings? Tattoo artists? A company that makes brooms, or toothpicks. It is 12:50 pm and plenty of people are walking around on the rain-wettened sidewalks. Here we all are, down under the overhanging towers of granite and glass, all the structures that give the illusion of unbreakability. And underneath it all is the real truth–the livingness. The interchangeability of all of us, all the parts and pieces, like the letters in that game Bananagrams. We can break and make new words, anytime.
I want the exquisiteness of afternoons like this one. I want to continue to cry from poems. I even want this nagging headache and burning mouth, all from dehydration, because I spent the night wetting my lips against my new lover’s lips, and the morning drinking hot cups of black coffee. I feel all the surfaces and textures of my aliveness buzzing and open and moving out to meet the world.
The day is grey and rain and I am in love with it all, all of it.