...and in the end all that we can do is to sit at the table over which our hands cross, listening to tunes from the wurlitzer, with love huge and simple between us and nothing more to be said.
By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept
What I keep seeing is something white and slightly translucent, like a blob of suet the size of a koala bear, that has been plunked down onto this small wobbly table. It's solid and heavy. Hard to move. Everything in the room attends to it. We sitting here ignoring it, pretending it doesn't exist, is the height of ridiculous. Yet we do it. Daily. Constantly.
I suspect it's that way with the joy as well. There are so many smiles. They spill out almost painfully from lips dusty with disuse. All that awkward tripping. Stupid stupidity. Still we persist in pretending. For the sake of the higher ground? Of being what we're supposed to be? Behaving with decorum and dignity? What one really wants to do is get very very drunk & wail & cry about all the injustice, all the pain of it. Behaviour frowned upon by society, by proper folk. Judged as sloppy and embarrassing.
You keep asking what I want as if the very asking is the answer. Well, right now, what I want is the indulgence. Even once. To be a bad movie and trust that it's OK to be so just for a while.