When I got into my car this morning to move it from the driveway and make space for Sophie's aide's car, I noticed immediately that the interior was trashed. Everything from the dash had been dumped in the front passenger seat, papers were everywhere, the box in-between the two front seats where I store CDs was also open and the contents strewed in the back. My little copy of Frank O'Hara's Lunch Poems that I keep in the compartment on my door was draped over the driver headrest. I don't feel like making metaphor of that. I've felt such unease of late, a sort of restless dread and tamped down anxiety. I could probably list the reasons for these vague feelings, but I won't because I'm also feeling over-exposed and loathe to reveal anything more. Even yesterday I witnessed a terrible breakdown of a Facebook friend that played out online and made me feel old and disconnected from what moves many people these days. When I went for a walk the other day, I stood at the bottom of this old, enormous tree and looked upward to where the branches spread out and laced the sky. I wanted to embrace it, lay my head on it, be absolved.
ANIMALS Have you forgotten what we were like then when we were still first rate and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth it's no use worrying about Time but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves and turned some sharp corners the whole pasture looked like our meal we didn't need speedometers we could manage cocktails out of ice and water I wouldn't want to be faster or greener than now if you were with me O you were the best of all my days Frank O'Hara (1950)