Keeping busy is something, like dribbling a basketball, and you can't stop and start again. Feel the texture of the ball, keep your knees soft, agile, use your eyes, your lungs. The clock's running, the crowd you your team want a 3-pointer from half court at the last second, we want a slam dunk; we all want to win.
It feels like that now. The net is there, the swish is a possibility, this is a good metaphor for the moment. Basketball's beautiful. I played rec league in Collingswood during grade school. My team was the Tigers; we were complete underdogs. Kinda rag-tag. My mom took one look at me during a game told me later she felt like she'd cheated me never teaching me to run. But some dad dude who ran the league told her I was an "exuberant" player. Through it all I never forgot what that word means.
One year the Tigers won the playoffs by sheer luck and guts. Until I moved to NYC I had my shirt from '92, I was #5 and someone'd written KICK ME in sharpie on the back at the end of season ice cream social. It was out of love I'm sure. I think Mimi has that shirt now.
Now I have house guests when I should probably be alone but it's all right, and I'm trying to dance a lot, let go, listen to the music and move. I think the way out is through. Even though it fucking sucks sometimes. Stay busy, surrender to the feelings, accept the delivery. WHOA man.
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