Monday, March 16, 2009
There might not be enough nakedness. Or there might be just enough nakedness. There might not ever be a better time than right now to take off your clothes. Like a knitter you organize ideas into a pattern and then you throw it over the bed and get naked on that. Sometimes when you enter the room water bugs scare the crap out of you. They're so big. In a catalogue of furniture you found a certain curve of a lamp that resembled her jaw so you bought that lamp and now it sits next to you on the desk and you shave the edge of the lamp instead of your face. It's raining all the time or it's always sunny. They are shutting things down or opening them up. We want coffee and democracy and somewhere quiet to write things down as people say them in garbled voices. Nakedness will always drive us into the next room and remind us why we came here in the first place. Buy some trail mix and a trashy magazine in the airport. Make a poem from that. Write large enough in your notebook so the person sitting next to you on the plane doesn't have to strain to read: the person sitting next to me is reading this.