A New Circle of Motion

I wonder what Walt Whitman would think of an airport. I sit in Atlanta, as I have so many times in my life, waiting for a plane, and I imagine the Good, Gray Poet strolling up and down the wide aisles, his beard long and unkempt, that hat he wears late in his life sitting easily on his large head. He would see, as I do, the “democratic masses,” and while I see the worst of us, I can’t help but think he would see the best. He always does. Apart from being amazed and delighted and the technologies that allow us to communicate so easily and effectively and to travel with such speed and relative comfort, I think Walt would be thrilled to have access to so many people at once. I see him approaching travelers and asking them their destinations along with why they are traveling. I see him ignore the discomfort he creates in our–after all–conversative selves, choosing instead to celebrate and sing our courage to fly on these damn machines and the spirit of travel that emboldens us. I see him marvel at this American Self that he foresaw in so many ways, and I imagine him adjusting his perceptions as he begins to see the shadow self that emerges from our collective ennui. My vision of Walt Whitman is an echo of Allen Ginsberg’s, who imagines him not in an airport but in a supermarket in California.

A Supermarket in California
by Allen Ginsberg

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked

down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking

at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon

fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at

night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!

–and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking

among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops?

What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you,

and followed in my imagination by the store detective.

We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy

tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the

cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in a hour.

Which way does your beard point tonight?

(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and

feel absurd.)

Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade

to shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be lonely.

Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automo-

biles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?

Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America

did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a

smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of

Lethe?

Today Walt’s beard points toward Boston, as do I. It is my second trip in three weeks, and once again I am called by the Andover Saint to help her at her new college. It is, of course, a bit of a racket since she equally wants to see me and connect me with my east coast friends, especially herself. But tonight belongs to Roger and Eileen, who seem to have forgiven me for sleeping through my flight on Sunday and welcome me for one evening instead of three. Anna says that my mistake was a sign that I needed to bring in the new year in my new home instead of my old one. I like that explanation a lot, especially since it diminishes the doofus factor somewhat. In fact she called me at 9pm last night with a cheerful “Happy New Year!” I respond in kind, surprised that my former student has nothing better to do than to call her professor and friend. “You know, it’s only 9pm in California, right?” “Oh shit,” she says, “I didn’t think of that. Call me when it’s midnight in California.” “Really?” I say, not quite believing her. “Absolutely,” she says, “I want to hear you say it from California, your new home.” So I do, and it’s 3am in DC, but my twenty-year-old friend is, of course, still awake and partying. She hands the phone to a guy named Will and says “This is my friend Aristaeus I was telling you about. Talk to him for a while.” Will and I speak for a moment, awkwardly, and then he puts Anna back on the phone. “Sweetie, I have to go, but I’ll call you back,” she tells me. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, “Happy New Year and be safe.” And she is gone.

Now I am off to a party at a colleague’s house. She had said to dress up, so I decide to wear the tux I bought a few months ago. The thing about buying a tux is that you look for events where you can wear it, and there aren’t that many, so I will take this rare opportunity. It is a strange evening, and I arrive back home at 1:30 am. I am too wired to sleep, and I have to get up at 5:00. I consider staying awake, but eventually the tiredness overtakes me, and I drop off. I awake at 5:00 and turn the alarm off–and go back to sleep. Something jars me back awake at 5:19am, and I jump up and get dressed and ready to go. I almost overslept again. What’s going on?

Arriving in Atlanta, I find that St. Mary of Virginia has nominated me for consideration of the Best New Writing on the Web, a project of TBR Books in England. LitLov mentions my “Aftershock” post among the others. Looks like the new year is starting well. Flight 680 is now ready for boarding to Boston, and so I will return to the place where my journey began nearly one year ago. Another circle of motion. I pray that it will be done in beauty.