I wasn't going to write today. What could I possibly write? There's too much happening out there and in here, and it seems impossible to throw a few puny words at that massive mountain.
So that's it, then. I can stop writing and put away the books and the tweed jacket with the patches on the elbows, stop calling myself a writer and rearranging the world to provide me with More Time to Write, because, and this is a secret: no matter how much you get, it's never enough.
And, still, it's always enough. I can sneak away like I'm cutting school, take a little walk.
And there's the young woman in the park, lying on her back, examining a leaf she holds at arm's length while she talks on her cell phone. An older man stands on the sidewalk and flosses. He works at his teeth with great concentration, and I love him for it.
I hear a man tell the girl beside him that she'll learn a lot while she's here. To not get caught is the main thing, he says, Ask yourself, do I need to not get caught standing here? She hasn't grown hips yet, her skinny arms a little too long for her body, she holds them out to the side, nodding.
One of my neighbors picked up a Halloween mask last night and wears it back on his forehead, over the top of his hood. It's new and shining silver, a brilliant red feather on one side. A short wind flirts through the feather, flaps the legs of his pants against his skinny shins.
A hundred thousand human beings, each one a hundred stories, all right outside my door. Any time I think I don't have anything to write, all I need to do is walk outside, like Exene said:
Hey baby, Baby take a walk outside.