I’m sailing on an ocean of outstretched hands, apologizing dearly for when one of my oars smashes through someone’s arteries and I have to watch them bleed out in my rear view, or when my rudder splits someone in half from the neck up. The sky is once black then, after coma, blue again. The sky is bruised.
Truthfully, I’m crowd-surfing. They are grabbing at my pockets for change and tearing the shirt so kindly off of my back. Here let me hang that up for you.
(I douse the comforting music. Unable to allow distraction).
Still dreary from a night of strange sleep, dreams in all directions, sadly corresponding to the waking reality of my derision and mockery, the passive aggressive love and feeling of community.
Even if I never meet the characters in the books I’ve read, the quick-witted, intelligent, artistic types with minds on fire, in person, I’ll be able to create them. I can create a battalion of imaginary friends and try to convince you, in a couple thousand words, that they are real, real, real. They are right on top of you, a ghost trailing your sensibilities.
Truth is, I may never find a group of people that I can simultaneously keep my dignity and get along with famously.
The Beat Generation. Paris in the 1920’s. Vietnam War Protesters.
The present elsewhere is what I seek.