2003-04-20 - 6:01 p.m.
I read part of Whitman's `Song of Myself' today, sitting on the grass a few blocks from my apartment. It was one of those dog-walking parks, more trampled by sneakers and paws than enjoyed by frisbee-tossers. I was self-conscious about laying there, on my blanket, eating a salami sandwich, but I knew I shouldn't be. I get such a feeling of trespassing sometimes, and I wish I didn't. I felt like I was on their lawn, on their property, but then part of me says that's silly, that I should enjoy the grass, the thick clover, the descending jets leaving boisterousness in their wakes. So I did my best to eliminate everything that wasn't the poem and I think I managed, in spots, to succeed.
I think of Bridgett and the hard time she's going through right now. Actually, I can't tell what `right now' means, because I haven't known her long enough to guess whether it's a specific thing or a general thing. She's hurting, though, and that gets to me. She said the other day, on the phone, that she thinks certain parts of her body are disgusting. I told her I wished she could see herself through my eyes. I wonder if she believed me when I said that.
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