#61: I am a Tree (and Other Observations)

I am a tree.
I have never really taken the time to feel my ribs.
Eye sockets are larger than eyes suggest.
All babies when they are born are loved, even giraffes.
Age is a mask.
Grit is a mask.
Underneath our masks we are all children.
Remember you have wings.
You can wrap them around yourself for protection.
But wings are meant for flying.
A least one in the eight and a half million was walking around on Thursday with half a pair of knee-length tube socks.
The best umbrella is a car.
The tunnel to Wollman Rink in Central Park smells like weed.
You can be with someone forever then meet the right person.
Sometimes there will be a couple outside the window on Fredrick Douglass Blvd arguing at the top of their lungs for four hours about a toothbrush.
And it can be hilarious and profound.
Attention begets profundity.
Repetition too.
I am a tree.
You can go to conferences and meditate and travel the world. You can do psychedelic jungle plants in a cave in the Andes or an apartment in the Upper West Side. You can be in love. You can come down from all these things and try to apply the lessons to your regular life.
But there is no such thing.
Shutting off the projector is different than swapping out the reel.
That hangover feeling is the end of the reel.
Let the picture stay black for a while. *
Weeping willows can be happy too.

Jul 13 2014