swimming in swarms of sweat and swine

It is raining and plans to be according to my online weather projector for almost all of next week. I am raining as well in sync with the weather. I feel as if I have been leaking, pouring, I feel drenched and drenching, wasted, swept away. It is Sunday, and i have had a full and intense weekend. Full of enchantments and intensities, once again I have managed to miss Yoga, laundry, to not finish...books, calendars, to keep on schedule. I met a woman with giant, fully lashed eyes, who moved her body like one long ribbon. I melted and watched my friends transform, watched my perspective shift, felt my longings hover threateningly then recede then come crashing back into my gut like lead. I wanted to start a fight, to strut, to spill blood, but I chose to dance instead. Now, in less than a day...I go back... to work, to talk intelligently with the full thrust of expertise behind me like a satin pillow at my elbows. I go back to taking things literally, seriously, to acting my age, to staying on schedule, to riding the rails. On Friday afternoon on the way back from my friends house I was redirected to Coney Island on the D train. Suddenly everyone become a Russian grandparent, Babushkas and their stooped toothy male equivalents all around me, Russian mixed with old German, Yiddish, who knows what mix...it is strange the arbitrary nature of countries, the places we live, the languages we speak, suddenly i was a foreigner, although my great grandmother was one of them, I am not. New York City, I will never be more at home than in a place of immigrants, strangers, upon strangers, becoming stranger by the minute. The edge of insecurity dusts the air of NYC and makes it feel familiar. I could never live in plantation land or on the genteel farms or in the small protestant towns of New England. I could never breeze easily and confidently down the sunswept streets of the mid-west. Perhpas in Arizona with it's deep red stretches where I have never been but only imagined I would feel somewhat comforted, just by the vastness...Kafka who wrote his America without ever having seen it, Germany was no more than his subconscious, only in Amerika, the country of his mind's eye, could he look outside, out the window, so to speak. I nolonger crave travel, I would like to begin to feel rooted. Maybe this week I will finally make it to the Yoga class I've been planning to attend for the last 10 years...