I would like just this: to be perfectly alone. For absolute solitude. For the woods and the sunrise. To know every gradient of the temperature and every sound, and every shadow, to taste every flavour of air completely, and see every strange shape. And only then, to keep walking, to come back.
So, we went to yoga. I had lunch with the poet, and went with him around the city, to the university, his aunt’s house, and to his friends’ apartment, across a dirt car park in a block of flats. The woman had a toothache and soon everyone arrived to start drinking brandy and reading poetry. He said they are good people but have a problem with alcohol. We shared some beers. I talked with an actor of indeterminate age. Another mimed.
I was thinking of a line from some book or film, an exchange between lovers: ‘You know what, friend. This is a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation’. I remembered, it is from Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx.
I met a girl from my school for enchiladas in a retro cafe and an Italian Coffee Company drink. My photos came back.
I met the poet again for a mass ride through the city. One of the organisers said there were about 800 people. The night was cool and the sky was black and the road was full of bicycles. People waved from their door steps and it was exhilarating to ride across the intersection of a six lane road. He tried to tell me something, but right then I couldn’t believe him.
In The Happiness Project Gretchen Ruben quotes a Mary Cantwell, from Manhatten, When I Was Young: Silence was the cure, if only temporarily, silence and geography. But of what was I being cured? I do not know, have never known. I only know the cure. Silence, and no connections except to landscape.