Happiest day of my life. Faith is the substance of things hoped for. Optimism. Hope. History. We have done these things. We have done these things. We have done them together.
> Middle class repulsion to the poor; the poor are weak, lazy, addicted;
> I feel it myself — the great discomfort and fear I feel when faced with those less privileged than I am. Do they want what I want? Do they dislike me out of jealousy? Deeper questions too — such as why I’ve gotten the privileges I’ve gotten, how many backs have I tread on and climbed upon to get to where I am — a great discomfort and anxiety — it’s a true one — and the only answer may be to look back, to return to the masses, not out of guilt, but out of solidarity, to accept the responsibility that the only justification for my gifts are that they be returned to the good of the community. Helping in some way the common weal.
At 2:50 PM, I put down my guitar, picked up my backpack, and walked out the door. Late again. Somehow, whenever I am in a place I call home, surrounded by the fetish-objects I’ve invested pieces of myself in, time slips away, distractions multiply, and I can never get out of the house. I have lost whole months of my life in this way, distracted by toys. I wonder if I will miss those months one day? How can I miss what I never had?
Still, it’s the day before election day, and since my absentee ballot never came, I have to make my way south to Philadelphia and go vote at the Old Original Polling Place one last time, exercising the lucky franchise of a swing-stater (a dubious privilege since it means I must share my home state with loyal oppositioners; still, fellow-travelers make me nervous as well–surrounded by the like-minded, I fear I’m not getting the whole story and can’t accurately guage the national mood).
So I hop on the subway, slipping through the revolving metal barred turnstile just as the 1 pulls up. I walk down, hoping to get in a less crowded car, but stand anyway, glancing helpless at the three attractive girls my age sitting a few feet from me. They speak in Spanish and are handing back and forth medium-sized handdrawn posters that look like blown-up greeting cards by way of an indie rock album’s cover art. I look away and I look back–drawn by either some residue left over from my bachelor days or alternatively by some still lingering question about that whole “one and only” business I’ve got going with my girlfriend, the girlfriend I love and have just left this morning.
I get off at 32nd St, Penn station, fall in line behind a mother and her young four-year-old daughter–I walk slowly, a secret protector, letting them go before me. I turn around, walk up some stairs and then I’m right in the deep dark middle of the great station, Penn Station
The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees 