I am rough and refined, healthy and sick, an old man and a boy, a sage and a fool.
Tag Archives: Walt Whitman
A song of myself
When we drop out of the head and into the body, we become aware of a thrumming aliveness, an unconducted chorus of burbles, pops, pulsations, tingles, surges, warmings and slow, tendrillic movements. Awareness of this is consciousness aware of itself.
There are a few idols to smash, a past to jettison, before we’re ready for Whitman’s question. “After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, and so on—have found that none of these finally satisfy, or permanently wear—what remains?”
The vast of heaven
The scientist says, “There are 37 trillion cells in the human body.” The poet says, “I am large. I contain multitudes.” Both of these statements knock hell out of our belief in littleness.
In retrospect, I notice that there have been some inconsistencies, that some of my positions seem to contradict themselves while other positions have apparently slipped out the back door and vanished.