I cannot begin to speak the broad and foaming madness that is March, hard certainties everywhere broken by slight green impossibilities.
He will not meet me. I plan ahead, arrange the time and place, and when I get there he has been and gone, as if I were the wolf and he the third little pig. I only want to talk to him. I’m only trying to understand.
He leaves me a message. It says: You can’t do it in words.
I stand alone in the foaming. Lost. These are the borderlands, not quite this thing or the other. Anything might happen. Everything is trying to happen, and all at once. I am stunned by the cacophony. I cannot find the rhythm of it.
I arrange another meeting. He leaves another message. It says: It’s not about plans or language or maps. You have to go there with your body. You have to show up. In the flesh. Be in the middle of it.
I don’t know how to stand in all the madness. I don’t know my lines. I don’t know my place or how to harmonize.
The message says: Let go of all the rest. It’s your own song that needs singing. Sing now. Sing. Sing your self into the mix.