You feel sophisticated here just sitting on the train. It is huge, clean, heavy. It spreads apart the air along buttered tracks. The lines of snow on green fields repeat. Like musical beats. They massage a vision as music moves imagination so that nothing else exists but the frame, and the soundtrack, and times when silent, distant cars line up with the window. For a little while ...
Time's pristinely kept here. You can time your life down to the second. Here you can so easily lose your life to the concept of time. You look at your watch and before the next time you do you die. It’s important for me to obey time only within reasonable measure. We are animals. There is a wisdom in the wilderness that sits beneath the pavement. I am happy to let it govern my reality again—after the past year of travel without constraints.
Now, however, I’d like to take my time and sing a song to myself—a huge, open hymn of apology and celebration—to my bones, to my blood, to the bottoms of my feet.
My head doesn’t pound. It just sits like a receiver.
I look here and type. I’d like to sing a song to myself about the weather and tell myself to stop singing about something that is better observed, better felt, better forgotten as soon as it's appreciated.
So many people right now are suffering and laughing and giving birth. An orgasm is close at hand. If you think about it, you can almost hear it.
I’d like to sing a song to myself about this great nation. Long ago it wasn’t a nation at all but more a place where nomads stopped, picked berries, taught their young to forage, make weapons and cut flexible flesh from wild bones. They got really good at making camp fires and making clothes out of what they didn't eat.
Today these things are fodder for campaigns.
It’s a great nation. Which one? Pick one.
It’s a terrible nation. Where? Anywhere.
I’d like to sing a song to myself about this planet. Sometimes it looks very small—but we rarely hear about that. It’s usually very big. How do we know the opposite? The universe. Dad says it can take care of itself and that our silly, negligent ways will be swallowed by the great mother’s gullet … I imagine a massive volcano or the planet spinning out of orbit—we all go into a deep freeze.
But her timing is not so obvious. Neither is cancer’s.
I'd like to sing a song to myself. And never stop.