I do this. Delete everything and start over. 57, and I’ve been doing this my entire life. As an old man bought everything I need for any musical or creative opportunity. A fool who’s tossed his sail into the thin winds of the atmosphere, an atmosphere more heady than we see. I have no house, no land, no savings, and no place to land. This is it.
Every night I watch chimney swifts dance outside my loft windows in a murmuration too impossible to describe in words. Bidart did it with Najinksky, but that’s only half of it. There’s still Nietzsche (Kaufmann’s), Heidegger, & Sarte. The Dalai Lama, Lao Tzu. Ghosts in the Bardo dancing like Southern mists after a hard rain: asphalt a chaos best described in terms of string theory, a theory which a physicist friend of mine once called “a religion,” meaning a beautiful dream not provable by physics.
And I am lonely. I will admit it. There are only so many ways to be a child again. Only so many ways to ask what, where, and why. To live as openly as possible, to explore. To be authentic.
