Notebook

A city, whatever its size, is an amazing, fantastic place. I prefer the country myself, but, having been a farmer once, I believe this is only natural. For me, a city is a place to go, while the country is a place to be — although I have been in the city and gone to the country with similar satisfying results. I think what this means, ultimately, is that all places are valid, and that, in fact, there is really only one place, which is here, where we are, where the earth is, as well as this thing we refer to as the universe, whatever that means.

When the sun rises, homeless people leave doorways and crevices and begin making their rounds. The town is quiet. Traffic is light. The only places open are the coffee shops, but the homeless don’t go in, because they can’t afford the expensive coffee, and because they wouldn’t be welcome anyway. A man wrapped in a dirty blanket inhales smoke from a cigarette. His hand shakes. Smoke rises in the moist air. Another man lifts the lid on a container of garbage and looks in. He finds nothing that interests him, nothing of value.

The day unfolds. A bakery door opens, allowing the smell of fresh bread to escape into the street. A woman sweeps the sidewalk in front of a jewelry store. Pigeons line up in the sun along the curb.

It is a small town, a place where nothing happens and where everything happens, a place where people meet, do business, and pass the time of day, and where they keep the important things to themselves, while they wonder what is to come.

It is an enormous city, a loud place where so many things happen that nothing happens, a place where people walk a nervous tightrope between their worries and their dreams, and where they keep the important things to themselves, for fear no one will understand.

It is a field where flowers once grew, that everyone has forgotten.

It is a song that was sung long ago, in a time called yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

It is home, but everyone is still searching.