Reaching out

I suppose I should reach out to someone at this point after all this time pinballing back and forth between these blocks and and living rooms, screens and keyboards. They say you can get lost out here. In here. On here. Between here and there. But they also say don’t hold on too long, even though this message is also contradicted by the plea to hold on. Reach out. Hold on. Let go! I suppose when someone’s on a ledge, so to speak, or literally—it goes both ways, thank you—you tell someone to reach out.  Just take one step, reach out, and take my hand. And you tell them to hold on until a certain point when all fear and danger recedes until the eyes open onto a new world in which holding on is no longer appropriate. And so the letting go. Let go, garden state told my generation, and so we did, except me and my brother because we didn’t like the movie even though we brought champagne, popped it and drank it, because we made it, our generation and our shins there on the big screen, but no, so much so no. At this point a decade later all there is is to let it go, and so yes.

But hold on. Wait. The paranoid can no longer reach out because what you find in that black decoupaged cube are skinless peeled grapes or worse—in recent memory we haven’t stuck our hand in. Not this month. We haven’t put our hand in in this millennium as we have become convinced it’s not worth it. The Willennium. We chose not to get jiggy with it. At all.

This is the tamed tamed west, gentrified, neo-colonized, etc. Everybody reaches out, the hands don’t touch necessarily but instead pass the credit card, hand to hand, and then back again. This is not to exclude the possibility, the cold hard fact, really, that in that moment maybe the hands linger, two thumbs, two index fingers, the lingering middle fingers, and the card becomes a bridge as they all meet and in this moment of finding each other the V*** falls to the ground and, finger by finger, an embrace begins, hand by hand, all four feeling the skin past the wrist—more, more, more—transforming the counter that once separated these quote unquote human beings into a marriage bed in which, yes, you and me—us—all of us remember what it was to reach out, hold on, and know when to let go.

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