Listening to Bowie (Heathen) on the subway platform and the street musician with a hurt leg in a sparkling Santa hat.
We all keep our eyes down. We look down. The old Chinese man pushes ahead when the train comes, squiggles through all us waiting, pushes on.
There’s a wolf up here. World. Up here if we could look at each other. Up here if we could see each other. Up here if we could not be afraid. There’s eight something million of us and we keep our distance.
The year’s coming to a close and I choose to believe the calendar is not arbitrary. Time does not meander on forever it does not spin or careen out of control it is us that does that.
If I can fee the pain of all the people’s pain am I responsible for it? Am I responsible to it? Am I meant to heal it? Am I meant to try? Or is it simply just. That I should inhabit this world of the wolf. And witness it. See it. Know it. And do nothing outside of my own reach.
The way my parents felt. When I was a kid and they would see old friends, old friends I’d never seen before, and here I thought these were the extra people, the people who don’t really exist outside this moment of sit-properly-don’t-interrupt, when really, in the land of the wolf, up above in their eyes, where their eyes met there was knowledge, there was look-at-that, there was did-you-ever-think-it-would-be-me-working-a-job-living-this-life-taking-on-responsibility. There was recognition and real feeling.
We’re all old friends, really. If you would feel my heart. If you would let me feel your heart.
Love and respect,