Friday, November 4, 2005

Has a Good Home

I went to Central Park today with the intention of reading the rest of Ginsberg's Kaddish, which I started last night, drunk on a cheap Bordeaux wine. I never even took the book out of my bag. I listened to the same Final Fantasy album over and over again for about four hours straight and walked around the park, absorbing all the colors, and only thinking from time to time about the parallels between death and autumn. I lied down in a pile of leaves while tourists were taking pictures of all the pretty fall colors. And I, for once, was not shy about taking pictures - because it is Central Park and everyone and their grandma was taking pictures of all the leaves, everyone saying this is beautiful, this is beautiful, the easiest, the best way so many of us know how. The only time my eyes watered was when I walked along this fenced off field and started to run my hand along the fence and kept it there as I was walking, pressing hard, not caring about getting my hand dirty because for that amount of time, I was a kid walking along a fence doing the same thing and I was not in Central Park then, I was on some ball field, probably at Bucknell in Northern Virginia just in love with the sensation of the fence's grating running underneath my fingertips.

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