4.26.00

The war drags on. Body vs. the brawling gut and mind. How about pushing carnality to a point of mental incomprehension? Witness the walking lifestyle: Woman with her office in the black bag in the one hand, her gym bag in the other; and on her back the food she eats, the music she needs, the calendar that guides her, and the phone that rings less. Myriad other items to fill out the house, like pens, fingernail clippers, etc. Leaving the office at 7pm for the gym. It's daylight at this hour now. Daylight (bicyclist coming around the corner - oh) and things are blooming for blue. Don't know it yet but the legs are swollen from sitting at the will of a mind, which is temporarily victorious. No one is out this hour. Where are the fabled computer workers working late? Working late? Well, no difference to me as I like the emptiness (I used to walk here) and the chatter of a mind that's ruminated over others' words all these hours. The power of the mind extends (the same old fantasy) to draw upon the conscripted tissues beneath and around it; and when the mind needs fuel it bites the hand that feeds it: I don't want to move, but I'm moving effortlessly and smoothly like I'm on wheels and not on this awkward bipedal arrangement. What is this in my mind? At the gym, it is the hour of the loner. In quiet geometries we move amongst each other. I'm on the machine facing the window, which is now a deepening mirror (what is this face to another). House music pounds on the high school station to well-oiled limbs gliding without effort. Yes, legs moving round and round, themselves rounder or more elliptical than before. That dimple winking in the shoulder disproves the null hypothesis: focus on it (the slender neck and jaw line, unexpectedly delicate in my palm). When it's time for the weights they are lighter. Muscles carry them now, not the skeleton. And the joints that bore the V unload the pressure onto the bow in the middle. I told you before that I know where this energy comes from. But tonight it's not coming from that place: it's ready because I built it. And there is no other place to be and there is no person to wake up to (not with me) and what? (you can be at tea by ten) Legs like a wise thoroughbred. Look at that shape that moves in curves that are sensual and youthful (still say it). It's OK (it's not). Sean puts his hand to my elbow as I stand at him breathing and sweating. He is like a high school gym coach nudging encouragement by flexing his chin and asking how I am. I say fine (back in this world there are others I do not know) and walk to the showers. The walk to the bus is far in the dark and the lifestyle strains tired muscles. Streets are quieter now and lightly glistened. I have this feeling that we are in brownian motion to each other and I'm not seeing anybody on the streets though I know that behind the walls are groups (you could be near and I would never know) dressed in blacks drinking and eating in ways I don't know, have never known, to tell the truth. (don't think about what you aren't that isn't getting you what you want everything you are you are) Thou art. (it's not you it's not - try to imagine unknown joys) I like the dark empty streets and really the weight of all these things carried does not feel burdensome. Instead, I am comfortable and heavy in these shoes (I own shoes) and this coat with the hole from that crash and this scarf that I bought outside of Gate 19. It doesn't matter that I know none of these faces. They are more unreal to me than the pictures of my thoughts (the most beautiful image before me of suns setting on distant planets that were wistful eyes I want to see me) and these faces, the people connected to them, are more of a comfort in their anonymity. The thing is (how will this age appear to me when I am no longer who I've been), I am anyone to them and I am on my way home to read to bed to wake up again to be at tea by ten.

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