There is a strip of mist/fog outside my window almost like the Milky Way in its white permeability and uplift. It begins to dissipate now, but my heart is still resting on its pillow-like beauty. When the light is like this, soft gray, I feel I'm living in a Japanese painting. My whole body shimmers. Oh, now, everything is softening into gray. I woke to wetness and rain is predicted and now the trees blend in the distance. It is a continual play.
I am reminded now of this quote:
It is not necessary that you leave the house. Remain at your table and listen. Do not even listen, only wait. Do not even wait, be wholly still and alone. The world will present itself to you for its unmasking, it can do no other, in ecstasy it will writhe at your feet.
There is nothing valuable to say in this place, which is why I will place the following poem here. I do not understand people who speak on cell phones in crowded places or indoors at all. I find it beyond rude, so this poem is a wonderful outlet. Perhaps we could all print it out and then, softly place it on the table of the coffee house as we walk by, or hand it to those with whom we stand in line at the post office, or those chatterers we try and reach around to reach the produce in the grocery aisles.
Yesterday, our local paper, the SF Chronicle, announced massive cutbacks and a possible closure. They are losing money. I hope they hold onto Jon Carroll, who probably has many eloquent columns on the courteous use of cell phones.
Perhaps, in a distant café,
four or five people are talking
with the four or five people
who are chatting on their cell phones this morning
in my favorite café.
And perhaps someone there,
someone like me, is watching them as they frown,
or smile, or shrug
at their invisible friends or lovers,
jabbing the air for emphasis.
And, like me, he misses the old days,
when talking to yourself
meant you were crazy,
back when being crazy was a big deal,
not just an acronym
or something you could take a pill for.
I liked it
when people who were talking to themselves
might actually have been talking to God
or an angel.
You respected people like that.
You didn't want to kill them,
as I want to kill the woman at the next table
with the little blue light on her ear
who has been telling the emptiness in front of her
about her daughter's bridal shower
in astonishing detail
for the past thirty minutes.
O person like me,
phoneless in your distant café,
I wish we could meet to discuss this,
and perhaps you would help me
murder this woman on her cell phone,
after which we could have a cup of coffee,
maybe a bagel, and talk to each other,
face to face.