Saturday, March 23, 2013
Sweet Walt exalts bygone days, and exteriors, a celebration of living, fingers exploring the outward shapes, the soft surfaces, the hard boundaries, the rough skin and smooth, in a world where life seems to come in monochrome ignoring the hot and gold of things, the big and small, the loud and silent.
I lean in and smell the aromatic scents, the flower and perfumes that give our universe its appeal, even the sour scents that define all that makes us real. I need to taste reality the way Whitman did, the sting of sea salt on the tip of my tongue, the fling in the face of ash bringing tears to my eyes, or the choking, smoke heat I feel deep in my throat. I want to swallow it all, take it into me, feel it warm me from the inside out, pressing against my ribs as I breathe, and against my thighs with the rise and fall of tides.
To touch it, to feel it, to hold it, is not enough. I must take it in and keep it there until the world blooms inside of me and radiates out my eyes, and explodes from my lips, oozing out of every orifice so that I am what it is, and what will ever be.
Sweet Walt, singing this to me and I feel its beat.