Foxes in London
An image keeps coming back to me:
Forever leaving London in the early morning hours of the beginning of the new century... in such a state of exploration, contemplation and examination that only the back seat of a cab can afford, where you invite and allow whatever is in the moment to enter your eyes and you can take it all in without judgment or identification, a passive observer with no delusions of control because you know you are just. passing. by.
David Gray's 'Babylon' on the radio, and what passes my vision but a fox. In the middle of the grime in the center of London, a fox slinks along the filth and alleyways before the sun has even risen.
So here I am again, standing at the precipice of change, of transition, bags packed, belongings in boxes, questioning, asking--where will I land? What is in store for me?
Questions of self-expression. How will I express myself in the world? How do I want to express myself in the world? Last night, I said, "I just can't give the world what it wants." By that I mean I cannot give the world sex and mindlessness and outrage and victimhood. It doesn't feel authentic to me.
At the same time, there is a limit to the kind of honesty the world is ready to hear. Certain tragedies are acceptable; others repel. As if people think even hearing about them could somehow contaminate their own existences, could shatter their glass houses with contagion. And so, I feel stuck.
And so, onward.