Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Not going to your temp job because you are temporarily flush with money (and possibly going blind (another story)) is certainly not a good idea, will certainly not seem like a good idea a couple weeks from now when I want them to place me in a job, but those are things to be worried about then, and the reason is in these photos. It is in salad on the gay piers shared with a new friend surrounded by lots of attractive homos in tight swimsuits, homos who only become more beautiful as more and more Coors Light is covertly drank from out of styrofoam cups. And there is sunshine and water and all the good things this earth is capable of offering to you, to us.

Sunday, May 27, 2007

He was beautiful in his sleeveless shirt, nice arms, ones I wanted to touch me in some manner, for me to touch, exposed, and my eyes, hungry things they, could not get enough, and though I like him, his person and company, I feel a bit stunted in his presence, feel as I did a few years ago when I looked and never knew what to say, lacked what they and I sometimes call game. And though this was one person not interested, there were others who were so, but it was this person that held so much of my imagination a couple nights ago. Even after blowing a go-go boy in the basement, still his arms, the sight of them, made me, my confidence, crumble, pretty little things I wanted to touch, to be able to.

This weekend has been an almost unreasonably lovely and fun thing, so much so that it seems as if disaster, something to even the scales, must be around the corner. Until that moment arrives though, I am going to keep on living like these are end times, being in that sun, being on my bike, being here and there, being with friends. I lied on the Christopher Street Piers yesterday with friends, and to be surrounded by hot gay men, perhaps cheesy, but nice to look at still, is such a pleasant feeling, so is the wind that occasionally comes off of the Hudson and cools your skin, tickles the beads of sweat coming out of your body, resting there, as still and immobile as your own heat-drunk body, nearly passed out in the sun and feeling so great, talking about silly things, hands shielding your eyes from the sun, bright warm thing, and there was a water mister at the end of the pier to occasionally step in, cool moisture your skin drinks up so gratefully.

And drunk on whiskey, there was a field trip to the hustler bar, Townhouse, uptown, and it was funny and totally unsuccessful, but yet successful in so many other ways, in the absurdity of the thing and the fun had. A man on piano singing showtunes and people surrounding the piano, resting their drinks on the instrument, and singing, sometimes well, to these songs, doing so happy, seemingly, to me at least, because of the feeling gotten from being part of a chorus of voices, not alone in this world, sharing, by singing, a feeling that there are others, same things as you, singing the same things as you, a chorus of voices to temporarily alleviate, for the song at least, the feeling that you are alone in this large world. I talked to old men, geriatrics, nice though, who thought I was just into older men and were disappointed when the subject of me working came up. I did meet one man and am supposedly going out to dinner this week and having sex with him, and so perhaps not a total failed trip to this bar. The night neared its end, certain lights were turned on, people moved toward the front of the bar, and I watched Nathan and this man make out, made out with them briefly, but kept pulling away to stand there and watch this thing, two pairs of lips moving, doing something simple, pre-historic seeming, with these things on their face, obtaining pleasure by doing so, and you could see it in the closed eyelids, could know that behind those lids were eyes in pleasure.

And this heat wave makes me smell and I love it, and I am going to take this body that produces these odors, so familiar, so old, so part of this earth, and will go in this sun with a book I may or may not read, depending of course on how distracted my mind gets by this life, the sunshine, and of course the sight of people in little clothing.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

when you play with fire...

I pulled out and came on his chest. The smell of shit was overwhelming, all I could smell. I laid my head on his chest, playing with his nipples, hoping that he would orgasm fast so that I could get away from this scene, this smell. He finally came, shooting all over his chest, and I went into his bathroom to rinse off. I turned on the hot water in his sink, looked down at my dick and realized what it was I had just done. The shit on my dick was pretty clear evidence, a sobering slap to the face, to the visual senses and also the olfactory ones, of what stupidity I had just engaged in, that I had engaged in this bit of recklessness even though some friends have HIV, even though I know all about how risky unprotected sex is, and even though earlier in the day I had just gotten tested for HIV and while waiting for my results, which came back negative, thought about how sad I would have been had the results been positive. All of this and yet still not enough to stop me from fucking this person bareback, this person who I barely know and picked up on the street the night beforehand.

And thinking about all of this, how stupid I had just been, I rinsed off my penis in his sink, washing off the fecal matter, the smell too overwhelming still. I started to gag and tears started to stream from my eyes, from both the gagging and probably also from my own disappointment in myself. I couldn't deal with having to do this in his sink; I needed to be totally soaked, totally washed clean, to have my nose covered in the hot stream of water coming from his shower head, and so I stood in that hot shower and rinsed and rinsed my foreskin clean, trying to rinse away the scent that told me what I just did.

This, my first time fucking somebody, the joy of that act, mitigated, almost canceled out, by the guilt of doing so unsafe. There had been a safe attempt earlier on, though my dick wasn't hard enough once I had put the condom on to enter his asshole. And so then there was just playing around in his bed - dirty things with feet, blowjobs, kissing - and then I started playing with his ass with his encouragement and soon had my penis in his ass. And you could blame horniness, alcohol, or poppers for this, but that would be stupid and not totally truthful. Once inside him, there was terrible logic that took place inside my head, thinking that I was already in him, already had made risky contact with him, and might as well keep going as he wanted me to do rather than pulling out. And so I did, and it was a pretty amazing feeling, amazing enough to throw aside all common sense I sometimes normally have (all right, the slight bit of it I normally have).

And there are these amazing feelings you can have, the physical sensation of sex, and then stemming from that same act, thinking it over in retrospect, no longer under the spell of the physical sensation, there are terrible feelings that you can have, that I had last evening, trying to get rid of this brown film on my penis and thinking that something that made me this dirty could not be the fun thing it seemed to be minutes earlier.

After showering, we drank some wine on his couch and I talked to him about how stupid I felt, how reckless and foolish I just was, and asked him about his status and how safe he normally is. He gave me some reassuring answers, though I am quite aware that they are the answers of a stranger who did have unprotected sex with a stranger, and so I am taking them with a grain of salt. We talked about other things, books, photography, and me possibly going to Cape Cod with him this weekend. I got dressed to go and gave him a goodbye kiss, which turned into making out, which turned into dick sucking, which turned into me fucking him again, again unprotected, me rationalizing it with the fact that I had already done it once that evening.

Again, I took a shower, again overwhelmed with disgust at the smell then emanating from my genitals. I rinsed and rinsed, soaped up a couple of times. There is that, the aftereffects, and there is the other thing, that moment of sex, the source of those aftereffects, of those feelings of terror and shame. That the pleasure and grief both branch off from the same tree is something terrible and yet also lovely in its own way.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

The man taking blood from my arm today talked about the weather, how amazing it was, and he was the second person today to comment to me about how lovely the weather was and to do so in a totally non-just-for-the-sake-of-conversation manner. Both seemed totally moved by how nice a day it was. Though this man was obviously a bit distracted, perhaps by the weather, and soon afterward starting making weird pleasurable noises when discussing how nice my veins were, and then told me he had stuck the needle in to far and that's why blood wasn't coming out. There was a time when his jocular manner about making a mistake concerning a needle in my arm would have terrified me, but I shrugged it off and laughed with him.

I am taking things as they come, saying yes.

Last night, I went to this book reading with Bruce and it was interesting to hear all these different voices, especially John Weir, who read "Neorealism at the Infiniplex," which was a beautiful story and affected me very much so, so much so that I went to Barnes and Noble's today to sit there and read the thing, re-experience it. I met some really nice editors and writers and got more than a little tipsy off the vodka being served. Afterward, I walked with Bruce back over to the East Village and parted ways with him so I could go to Eastern Bloc. A block after parting from Bruce, before even making it to the bar, I said hello to this man that was crusing me outrageously. Two, maybe three, sentences were exchanged and we were in a cab going to his place. Taking things as they come, saying yes.

I am going to see him again tonight and it will be dirty and fun and new and pure.

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

I am lucky in so many ways, ways I have found myself being grateful for more and more lately, but there are even things like this view from my bedroom window, these ginkgo trees and their full green leaves, bright, holding in the sunshine, making my room glow with their glow. And that, the view, those leaves, seems evidence of whatever it is people claim there is, divinity, love, beauty - that when people talk about such things, it is here when I look close at these leaves, when I wake up these days and the sun is shining bright and the sky is so blue and the leaves are so green and it is there staring me in the face.

The other day, Ben's birthday, there was this part where everyone told why they liked/loved Ben and I was toward the end of this circle. Meaning there was more time for me to fret about what it could be that I would say, how I could say something sincere and true and somehow convey my happiness in his friendship, and trying to think of something to say about my friendship with him led me into thinking about the topic of friendship in more broad terms, and why exactly is was I loved Ben, why it is that I love anybody, what exactly the distinct qualities are (if there are even any) in what it is I seek in a friend, and what is the thing that they see that lets that desired friendship be returned. I am not sure I am any closer to answers to those questions, but I do know that certain people and being in their company has the ability to make me feel at ease and happy and that there are several of these people right now in my life, and seemingly new ones each week or so.

There is my deliberate lack of a job and that is also a major source of happiness these days. When I was in Florida, I was talking to my cousin about my life and she asked me about where I was working and I told her that I was trying to work as little as possible this summer, just enough to get by, that this was going to be a summer of fun for me. And she, correctly, pointed out in her often snide manner that I wasn't in school anymore, that I no longer got summer vacations. And it is true that there is nothing I am taking a vacation from but I love the idea I have had ever since elementary school that there should be something free and full of adventure about summertime, bike rides to friends' houses, going to the pool, walking through the creek, and with the sun shining so bright every morning, I could not fathom having to spend every one of those sunny days, or at the least five out of seven of them, indoors, in an office, stuck. There is that classic rock song, a bit hair metal, with the chorus, "School's out for summer, school's out forever!" And that sentiment, though, yes, I am no longer in school, still holds sway in my mind.

Yesterday, in this spirit, I biked to the West Village to use the gym and a beautiful bike ride it was. In the showers afterward, I saw these two really beautiful looking men take their sweet time soaping themselves up and I got pretty turned on. I then got some coffee and fruit and went and laid out on the Christopher Street Piers, sunbathed with all the other homos in their underwear, and read from The New Yorker. And the ability to do that, to have such amazingly lovely days outside, is what I want to be able to continue to do all summer. The day culminated with watching the sun set with a friend over the East River, eating dinner at my house, and falling asleep to Old Joy. And today, I am going to a reading Bruce is participating in, which should be lovely and interesting and then there is a friend's birthday at a gay bar, and these days are one after the next, the fun neverending.

There is a lot going on. There are good things and bad things. A friend has cancer. Adele is moving out. Coco might possibly move in. I am going to Miami for the second week of June. I am brainstorming when I can go to other places I really want to go to, London and the Bay Area.

It might be because I am listening to the Beatles right now circa Sgt. Pepper's that I am feeling so full of love and joy, that everything seems to contain beauty and love. It could be because of that, or it could be because of the weather, or rather than trying to justify these thoughts, to seek causation where none is needed, it could just be because that is true, correct, that the world is so lovely and things are so beautiful.

Saturday, May 19, 2007

ft. myers and back

Florida was lovely in so many ways. There was the afternoon rain, brief, always brief. Lots of food. Publix subs. Crabcakes. Burgers. Lots of beer. Car rides here, then there. Sunshine so overwhelming sunglasses were essential. Thrift stores with amazing old Florida lady shirts. My family. Getting stoned with high schoolers who were playing beer pong, going on a beer run for them stoned right before the two am cutoff. Lying on the beach, getting burnt. All of this, all so lovely in very particular ways, and still though through the drizzling rain underneath a gray sky, looking at it from a cramped bus riding back from Newark, the skyline of New York evoked so many feelings of homecoming, joy, and nostalgia in myself, a happiness that I was so close, that those tall buildings were where I was heading, home.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

I am so in love with New York and my life these days, outrageously so. The past couple of weeks have been so good, so filled with fun and easily made money and nice times with close friends and recently met people. Today, I saw a man who paid me three hundred dollars just to go out to dinner with him. Sex was going to happen and I was going to get paid even more but all the hotels were booked. Um, three hundred dollars for my company at dinner! I love New York and my life and these opportunities. Last night, I met some man that wanted to throw money at me also. And, man, oh man, oh man. There is that and it is nice and makes me not have to fret about bills, rent, and what I should do about my lack of a job.

After dinner with this man, I then went to a fancy hotel's pool with friends and got drunk and played in the water and then walked around Times Square in my towel and showed my penis to a couple of groups of tourists who took pictures of us. And I am waking up in two and a half hours to fly to Florida to visit my family for a couple of days and there is so much more to say (isn't there always?), but my desire to not be totally cracked out of my mind and busted looking tomorrow when I meet my family is going to prevent me from exploring things any further. All I will say is that I love this town and how there is so much fun for the having.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

my allergies make me feel stoned

Not that the past week hasn't been also, but the past two days have been crazy, not so much as the previous week has for having things happen that are great news or are really interesting, but because I have been a bit sick and have been in a daze, occasionally feeling such outrageous moments of insight. My skin is pallid and clammy looking and it always looks like this when I am sick and it is beautiful looking to me, as are my glassy eyes, watery and drugged by all the pollen in the air. Perhaps it's the pollen that can be blamed, but I also have been so horny and have pretty much been masturbating all day long today except for the couple of hours spent lying in McCarren Park today.

Last night, I was taking a shower and looked down at my feet and thought, "Holy shit! Those are my feet I am looking at! I am alive! What the fuck?" And that quote there of what went through my head, perhaps which I even uttered aloud, is surely not enough to convey the terror and wonder that I felt when I realized in a way that I normally don't that I am alive and what exactly that means.

This past week, I have been hanging out with Bruce every day, working for him, helping him get his apartment in order, and talking with him. He's going to Miami for the next three months, but is going to have me down for a week soon, and that entire situation is a little mind boggingly in how quickly I became friends with him and how nice he is and just generally everything about it.

Aside from these allergies that have kicked into high gear, making me feel totally crazy, life is going so outrageously well and I am excited about the future, am not worried about next month's rent, am excited about things to come, and feel pretty confident about many things. I am in love with my body odor lately and there is so much symbolism in that, all that has transpired for me to not only be comfortable not wearing deodorant and smelling, but to be in love with that smell, to see it as a sexy thing. And if you don't know how beautiful you are, just ask me.

Sunday, May 6, 2007

The old Cock at 12th and A, though it has been closed for two or so years now, replaced by the new Cock at 2nd and 2nd, still is present in the memories of so many people, is present in just about any conversation of the Cock. Someone will lament that though it is fun, though it is trashy and cruisy, it is nothing like what it used to be. When the new Cock opened, it was supposed to be a physical recreation of the old Cock, having lowered the ceiling of the old Hole and changing that bar's dimensions, and though there were lots of nice little touches, details gotten right, it was all still wrong, a poor facsimile of the thing that used to be.

Last night, I went to yet another recreation of the old Cock. Deitch Projects had been decorated to look like the old Cock for a performance by the Scissor Sisters. The walls behind the bar were right, painted black with glitter on them, the glitter that shining in squalor seemed to not only be an analogy for the place and the magic that could happen there but also seemed to in drunken, horny moments promise things with those little dots of reflected light, shifting as you did also, walking around the perimeter of the bar, seeing who or what was on the benches, the light shifting, glowing over that person, then this one, then that. Walking into that bar, it was always that muted glitter in the dark bar that let me know where I was, that made me both giddy and nervous about the night to come.

The old Cock holds a very special place in my heart, more so than any other bar dead or living. It was one of the first, if not the first, gay bar that I went to in New York. A week or two after moving here to New York, Niki, my host, had finally gotten over her sickness and took me on a Monday night to the Cock. I had an amazing time and understood why I had moved to this city when I was there, that this is what I had been seeking, fun music being played in small dirty bars where I could get wasted on various substances and potentially end the night with sex with someone, if not punctuate my night with sex with someone or someones there at the bar, in one of the corners or in the backroom when it was open. After that first visit with Niki, I returned again just about every single week, Mondays being the night with no cover, oftentimes by myself for the first couple of months living here, and then often with Joe after getting off from work at the Strand.

The bar was always filled with smoke, everyone smoking probably more so than they otherwise would indoors because they could and because it was then illegal in New York and this was one of the few bars where that law was ignored. There were nights in the summer, hot, hot nights, when occasionally their air conditioning system would break and they would crack open the door on 12th Street and have industrial fans blowing against the dancefloor. I would always try to dance in front of those fans, in love with dancing even in the heat, and in love with how sweat felt when cooled, pressed against, by the touch of these fans. The dancefloor was also normally covered in urine as the urinals seemed to be broken and overflowing just about every night.

And all of this was absent last night, but was evoked none the less by its absence, by nitpicking and looking at this re-creation, thinking of what was missing and what the specific things are that make a place a place. Justin Bond, in his introduction, drunkenly got at some of what was wrong, commenting on the lack of Puerto Ricans. There was something odd and mildly disconcerting about this place, the old Cock, being brought back into being for so many white people, old ones, rich ones, female ones. The presence of suits and cocktail dresses on some of the people were part of the problem, that there was distance and this was spectacle. Through nostalgia and the deep pockets of Jeffrey Deitch, this important memory of mine and of apparently lots of other gay New Yorkers was turned into a conversation piece, an evening's entertainment, for people that probably never experienced the original thing and probably would never have appreciated it then, are only able to do so because it is in the safe, neutered context of a gallery space.

The "Watch Your Wallets" signs that used to be stapled up all over the glittered black walls were absent also. And there are these details, small as they are, that were that place. Your pet died and your parents bought you a new one just like the old one, but it wasn't anything like the old one and you knew it, knew every little detail about the new one that was off, knew something then, even at that young age, about the distinct qualities, subtle as they are, that make things things.

The space of the old Cock is still tenant-less after these couple of years, still sits empty at that corner, and I walk past it often, walked past it later last evening on my way to a house party and thought about the thing, about the thing I had seen at Deitch, the differences, and the almost magical qualities that particular spaces possess. I like it empty, the space. It reminds me of Tom Burr's "Blackout Bar" piece. I am able to see the thing empty of the life that made it and am able to project my memories onto the thing, those moments dancing or that night in a bunny outfit, Halloween, getting blowjobs from people left and right in the backroom, am able to recreate those things when I see the empty building, to relive those things and mourn the place's absence, the more so when these re-creations are seen.

Saturday, May 5, 2007

"A happy excitement shot through me like an injection, as I realized that the world was full of spontaneous sensuality always in reach if you had the courage to spit in the face of convention."
-Bruce B., The Romanian (129)

The man who said, a writer that I admire, is the man I slept with last night. I went over to his house in the East Village. He served me some whiskey and we sat on his couch, smoking, Clueless playing silently on his television, and talked. I am so interested in this man and so thrilled and shocked that things have played out the way they have. It is weird and funny and perhaps ironic, if you so choose to use that word that way, that a week after reading his memoir of his obsession with a hustler, I got to meet him and now am also getting paid money to sleep with him. Aside from the awesomeness of that, of making money and getting to sleep with someone I admire, there are other potential benefits and it may make me calculating to be aware of them, but since there is already a monetary dimension to this relationship, it doesn't really bother me that much.

Seeing this writer live and struggle and work makes me realize yet again that writing is a job if you are to actually do it. He works rewriting other writers' book proposals to help him get by, does lots of freelance assignments for really cool magazines, and writes fiction also. It is really instructive for me to see this, that he juggles lots of things, some he doesn't care about that much, to get by, to do what he wants to do. And so I am aware of his numerous contacts and know that if I were to seriously start writing good stuff, he would be an invaluable contact and friend to have. Bruce, in case you did not know, is the man basically responsible for bringing JT Leroy into the world, JT originally contacting him and Bruce putting him in touch with editors and agents, something he feels terrible about now.

And there is that also - the literati gossip that he has, that he is a part of. He is friends with so many artists and writers I also admire - John Waters, Bruce LaBruce, Terrence Koh, Dennis Cooper. He used to live with Manuel Puig! He went to school with Camille Paglia. I am definitely a bit starstruck around him, listening to his stories that I asked him to tell. I don't think I would get starstruck around any other type of people except writers. Rock stars, pah! Movie stars, ha! But writers who have written things that I have read in private moments and felt something while doing so, man oh man, they mean the world to me. If I ever were to meet Philip Roth, I think I might faint.

And so it was definitely weird when we finally went into his bedroom and I was making out with him. When he was sucking my dick, I was aware of who was sucking my dick and it seemed totally absurd, that I was in a situation this writer I liked had written about, that I had read prior to enacting this situation.

This week, starting Tuesday, after I get out of my job at the Princeton Review, I am going to go over to his house and help him ready his apartment to sublet it, am going to get paid an hourly wage to do tasks and basically hang out with this man I find really interesting. He is going to Miami for three months to make some money by subletting out his apartment and living at his Florida house, which surprised me - that even well regarded writers (aside from the big names) and who work all the time still aren't rich enough to do whatever they want, that money is still a concern even at that point in your career. He has mentioned that he will bring me to Miami to visit him. I hope that I can sustain his interest during this week of working for him to make that actually happen. Um, this is a bit long and doens't really say much, but I am really excited about this new relationship, am actually almost giddy sometimes about it, and I had to get this out of my system so I don't have to write these things ever again, can write about other dimensions of this thing if it continues, can write about other things, like this sunshine and green leaves and dicks with last names you've never heard of and life and books and my five senses and the things that pleasure them.

Thursday, May 3, 2007

I went to a terribly set up panel last night on the future of gay art. There were no microphones for the speakers, the moderator failed to moderate, and there were too many rambling statements by audience members jumping into the discussion. However, Bruce B. was one of the participants and so that alone made the panel worth it, for getting to hear him say a few things. I just finished his book, The Romanian, last week and it had such an impact on me and I have failed to talk about those effects here for several reasons, cheif among them being that the book made me a total mess, depressed about my own life. I saw all of my crushes, relationships, etc. through the framework B. presents for his relationship with a hustler, that I too was obsessed in unhealthy ways, was involved in things and with people that looked at me as this hustler looked at Bruce. And on and on. These thoughts really did a number on me and came pretty close to ruining one of the most important friendships I currently have.

I would love to talk more about this, or I actually would not like to, and either way, the thing is that I have to leave for work in five minutes and am still in my underwear. But last night, I talked to Bruce after the talk about these things, talked about obsessions. It was so thrilling to talk to this man who gave a certain poetry to obsession about the matter. Perhaps more thrilling is that Bruce is supposedly going to call me, perhaps tonight, to sleep with him for money. I talked to him some more at the Cock and I really am so interested in the things that he has to say and am so fucking thrilled that I might get paid to interact with this really intelligent man. Fuck, the sun is out and I have to go!

Tuesday, May 1, 2007

full moon fever

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.