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contours provocations
journal - 2001-09 - fri 2100 Cold, Business Types, Who We Are, WW It's cold again. And it was cold yesterday. And it was cold at work yesterday and again today. It may be cold, but the grass has started to grow, so that means lawnmowers are out scattering pollen to the wild winds. Gee! Just what I fucking love: cold weather AND pollen. Every day this week I've eaten at the bar at XXXX. Salmon, loaded baked potato and broccoli. Better living through better eating. Actually, I enjoy it. The only problem is that the broccoli has a slight tendency to bother my digestive system a couple of hours later. Today's bar crowd were several business types acting out the role of being business types. Cell phone, pseudo business claptrap, overly agressive with the staff, red meat and potatoes. At home they probably get off on wearing silk panties. The other morning, I lurched into BK for my morning biscuits and coke, and spotted a kid around 6 or 7 seated by himself. And immediately the thought crossed my mind that he was gay. Then I tried to decide why I thought this. What did I have to go on? Why did I think this? Could it be true? The more I thought about it, the more puzzled I was. Yet, after a day or so, I think I know why I thought that. My guess is that I saw me at that age in him. He was by himself, but the mother was at another table I noticed. He was half sitting in the chair, half crouching over the table. Starring into space without really seeing anything. A stare that revealed an inward gaze. The body language indicated a momentary physical stillness that would abruptly turn into spastic energy. All the elements were the type of thing I did at his age. I would want to sit alone. I'd glare at the world but be looking inward. And there was always a sensation of curtailed energy. I'd feel confused and perplexed without understanding why, as though there was something just outside my grasp. I always wonder how we know who we are. Or what we are supposed to be. How long does it take someone to realize he is gay? My theory is that many never do. Or do but are terrified of admitting it. I've seen the homeless man several times recently. Yesterday, I noticed him seated on a bench at the bus stop which is close to store front where I'm certain he sleeps. For the first time I realized who he reminds me of: Walt Whitman. The full beard, the crushed hat, the bear-like posture. Today he was back at the bus stop, sitting on the grass, playing a guitar and singing to another homeless-looking man. PAX!
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