He has always been a hapless dreamer: bouncing after fairytales and pursuing fantasies of passion; selling freshly baked bread at the park; traversing the countryside playing songs to the world while living out of his car; falling madly in love and winding his way to Brooklyn; flying to New Zealand to explore the wild beauty for a month; and questioning his own privilege along the way. As he reaches his thirties and witnesses a dead body in his apartment in San Francisco, he feels an urgent desire to pursue something of “substance.” I am, ironically, taking on the carefree wonderment of being a pixie in the wind, writing poetry for strangers on the street and creating impermanent art pieces as I dance along the streets of random cities with my typewriter.
We laugh as we get swept up in the revelry of a sunny day at Dolores Park and eat homemade orange marmalade on freshly baked buttermilk biscuits. We have this little moment of wonder and I bust out a poem about the nonsense of the world through the lens of public urination for a drunk passerby who marvels at the strangeness of it all.
“I have just been drinking all of the time to cope with the sadness,” says my friend and I look back at him with love because that is what we all need. I am grateful for him showing up in the midst of earth shattering revelations to spend time with me at the park; this is all I could ever hope to do with my life: a collection of moments, creating poetry for the world and laughing about the ridiculous nature of growing up.
“If I’m writing a poem every day, then I know I must be doing something right,” says his friend. “He writes litter poetry and just throws it around with all of the garbage on the streets!” he tells me and I laugh. We create artistic garbage to balance the universe and to acknowledge the shit that rides along inside of our utopian ideals. We are growing the only way we know how and we are doing the things that feed us. He wants to be an architect or an engineer, but he already is one, just like I am already a poet because these are the things that we are doing with our lives; that is what makes them real.