Whitman was obviously a stoner. Walking home stoned with the moon full, I thought of so many things, the things that seem big now, and the big things, that made those now things seem so silly, seem as they are. Things are so good, or not good, but at the least are. And everything seemed to make sense this evening. Today was an amazing day. There have been lots of them recently and there will be so many more to come.
I biked into the city around noon and it was a gorgeous ride over the bridge, through city traffic, and down small streets. I worked out, the pleasures of which I for too long belittled without every understanding what they could be, the feeling of exhaustion and of pushing your body further in its endurance, enorphins and other things flowing. I ate a picnic on the Christopher Street Piers that I had stolen earlier from the grocery store. I laid in the sun shirtless surrounded by lots of really attractive gay men in barely anything. Did this for an hour, watched clouds pass, peeked out of the corner of my eye at this one particular boy, and thought about how fucking great this was and this city was and this life and my being in all of it, even if just for a while. A walk toward work, during which a young boy stops me to hit on me. A cup of my favorite coffee. Arriving at work right on time. Listening to my iPod the whole time to amazing music (namely Neil Young). This itself was a sign that the day was amazing, as this parictular piece of electronics had been broken for a while, the wheel refusing to work at all. Today, in deference to its amazingness, this machine decided to work.
After work, I had a couple of beers at a gay bar by myself and felt totally at ease, did not mind being alone in a bar, did not check my cell phone every two minutes out of social anxiety. I was there to kill time before I saw Patrick Wolf do an in-store performance at Virgin. At Virgin, the security guard wouldn't let me in, but minutes later I snuck past him and elbowed my way to the front of the crowd. I found Patrick afterward, waiting alone by the elevator. I talked to him briefly, like a crazy person (of course), and told me he should come to the Cock. He said he had been there a few times and didn't say no, he was not going, and so, of course, I went to the Cock, hoping he would come, went there after a stop at a noodle shop with Joe and after a Coors Light and a honey bun on the street. And, no, I'll save you the anticipation - he did not show up, and so no, we did not have wild, passionate sex. However, I had an amazing time. Smoked a joint in the bathroom, got completely bonkers, danced a lot, felt weird, and then left and thought about prophecy, this world, what anything means, and Whitman.
I ate a burrito and today was full of joy, effortless. How great it can be and how easy that can come, how it takes nothing but an acceptance and an openness, wow oh wow. If I only could hold on to these things, how great things could be.