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PART II - - -This where I say I've had enough, no one should ever feel the way that I feel now.- - - PART II

I just got back from a walk outside. Every time I walk, I find myself enamored with the simplicity of humans and nature. It's the way the clouds look at night. Not quite neon, but just illuminated, and opaquely and evenly aglow. Fairyism and whispers. And Shakespeare. Lawrence Ferlinghetti has an ongoing project called "What is Poetry?" There's a book out in which he attempts to answer it. One of my favorite conclusions of his is that poetry is like the conversations of nude statues. That's what I think of at night, the clouds denuded into conversations and poetry.

There's this house on the corner with a willow tree draping across the shadow of a stop sign. It's such a beautiful contrast to have the severity of a straight angle wafted by the wind of a willow. When you look at it, it feels like the ethereal conquering reality. Not just conquering it, but daunting it. I dunno. The way the willow stretches out in billows reminds me of a sorceress' hair elongated against the length of night. As if reality is her prisoner, but willingly and frozen with the realization there is something more to gain, but no way to really gain it.

The old man who lives there likes to sit out on his driveway under the subdued glow of his porch light. It is the most mysterious thing to me. I always walk abnormally slow to observe him. The garage door is all the way open, but even with it open, there is still a wall. A prodigious barrier of junk, stuff, treasures, trash, past lives? Magic? Ten hubcaps sit to the right of him, immobilized in the corner, robbed of their destiny to spin.

So he just sits there, convinced his Great Wall of possessions is stable, and he sorts. Or something. I can never tell, it's too grainy looking. Like an underexposed picture. (He needs to get some new porch lights.)Around him are a few boxes, sometimes bags, things that look like they came from a toyshop, or vague dark items that remind me of the components for a demo Halloween stew.

I never know, I just wonder. If I could talk to anyone at the moment, I think it would be him. I always have an insatiable desire to walk up and start to break down his wall with my curiosity.

When I was at Quartz this summer I had the most intriguing photography instructor. We talked a lot out of class and he is the most enthralling person I've ever met in my entire life. I'd be in love with him if he were my age. He's been all around the world and he's so passionate about triviality. I figure his house is a) a mess, packed very tightly with the artifacts of his life and b) on my top ten places to peruse list. I asked him if he'd put me in his will, so that when he dies I can go through all of the things no one wants. I was serious when I asked, as well. He didn't mind. He laughed at me, but very genuinely and kindly. We were sitting in the car once on a field trip and he told me that he liked to watch me because I was always somewhere else. So he asked me, "Where are you today?" And I told him. And it was that same laugh, but I didn't mind. I hope he puts me in his will, perhaps my imagination has a fighting chance after all.