sǝuoſ ǝuıɥsunS

A man was yelling at cars, his arms flailing wildly. His voice was scarred from alcohol, and he croaked out unintelligible words and spit at the cars as the passed. The cars were honking at the man for standing in the street, it was just about to rain, and it was cold out. You could see your breath. The man was wearing bermuda shorts and a tank top that said sex wax on it. His skin was red, but you could tell it wasn’t from sunburn. The horns were honking, and the man was yelling, and the sky was pregnant with rain. I sensed that this was what it is all about.

I love this crazy man in the middle of the street. He is bloated, half dressed, and furious with the world for failing him. He is hurt, damaged, and in a pain I can not imagine. He is my brother, and I love him. The drivers of the cars, hurried and under the pressure of even owning a vehicle in San Francisco (parking tickets, no place to park, garage fees, the DPT, the DMV, the boot, bird shit, scratched up bumpers, and city tow) now have to undertake the fear of what this crazy man is doing in the road. Can’t he see they’re just trying to get where they’re going safely? Can’t he see that he’s clearly out of his mind? I know that frustration. I know that selfishness. I know that fear. I loved them for it.

When they come for you, angry, merciless, and mean, see the pain in their eyes. Listen for the hurt, the damage, and love them for the broken boys they are. When they look you over, making an object out of you, watch carefully for the limited view of dignity they share. See the lonely, and frustrated instincts of the isolated, and love them for it. When they abandon you, in silence, or in violence, listen for the hurt, the breaking of their hearts. Watch while they live out the loop from which there is no escape, and love them for it. When they reach for you, needing, wanting, taking, never giving, never sharing, never even considering the possibility, watch the broken limbs of the indigent, the hurt and emptiness of infants, and love them for it. Sometimes we can send a card, a little gift. Other times we can open our arms with a hug of reassurance. Sometimes the most loving thing we can do it nothing. But love is always the answer. It is the secret of the universe.

Now I’m quietly sitting here, in my chair, listening to the cars shooshing by my building in the rainy street. The couple downstairs are fighting, the couple upstairs are fucking, and I am just about ready to call it an early night. Before I pull off my sweaters and throw myself into my lumpy, but very warm bed, I would like to kiss you on your forehead, and smile brightly for you, looking deeply into your eyes. I love you so much. It’s just terrible. But of course I mean terrible as in something awful and not at all as if it were anything bad. It hurts sometimes, but that’s just when I forget what’s really important. I have to love you more. A higher love. The best kind. When I forget that, it hurts me. Otherwise it’s wonderful.

I love the sound of the rain against my windows, I love the sound of feet splashing in puddles outside in the darkness, I love the quiet that’s come over my house, I love this building. I love my new life. I am so deeply, deeply grateful.