crazy

Most often when walking home from the Spruce Street suspension bridge I notice a hummingbird on one of the electric company wires above me to my left, canyon-side of Front Street. When I told Sarah Roshi I felt any hummingbird was there to fill me with joy, she said perhaps I was there to delight the hummingbird. Hmm. It’s come to me standing in the street, my arms up and wide open, thanking both of us for the greeting. This giddy, sparkling wonder.

And what do people in their homes think, out their windows, an old man in the middle of the street with his hands raised to the sky, apparently in conversation? I’m left with this giddy, sparkling wonder as well. It’s kind of like Mr. Baker, back there in my hometown, passing by, walking sidewalks every day. All he did was walk, occasionally taking a puff on the cigar he was carrying. He always wore a hat.

Beatniks were often heard saying, “Crazy,” as in how fabulously cool and right-here worthy is that. Like, all kinds of crazy.