Morningthots on whatever day this is

Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” (sec. 47) says: “I swear I will never again mention love or death inside a house . . .” — When I sat down to write today, I wanted to quote this and react to it, but my faulty memory recalled the line as “I swear I will never again read a book inside a house.” Somewhere else, I think Walt has a poem saying that his book should only be read outside, in fresh air. Despite my muddled recollection of these passages, an idea emerges: there’s something profane about contemplating sublimities withindoors.

Why is this? (If a heckler objects, saying “Read or talk about anything wherever you want — you don’t need any poet’s permission. Who cares what Walt Whitman wrote?” I answer: “I care, because Walt has always been out ahead of me on everything.” Then I snap my fingers and this heckler falls down dead, and the earth opens up and swallows him whole.) Why is it better to pursue the mysteries of existence in the open air than in an enclosed shelter? What happens to the imagination when confined to four walls, a floor and a ceiling? I myself have always found houses and rooms to be inviting, even comforting — they don’t seem to stifle my mind; although I can’t claim to have done any experiments comparing indoor and outdoor thinking. 

I do notice a difference in my general mood whether I read poetry on a hill outside or on a sofa at home; but they’re both desirable: I’ve never favored one over the other — or, rather, it depends on the weather: if the sky is overcast and there’s a mild breeze, I like to go out; but if it’s either a violent thunderstorm or a warm and sunny day, I’ll just stay in. 

Another notion that Walt presumably didn’t factor into his doctrine is the general poisoning of the atmosphere. Nowadays, there are few places that one can go, in the great outdoors, that are not either rife with noxious fumes or bathed in a radioactive glow. 

No, I’m being jokey — there is plenty of nature that’s still healthy and welcoming. And I admit, tho I’m used to placing a few volumes in my backpack, then riding my bike to parks and reading all day (especially when I’m supposed to be at the office working), I’ve never attempted to WRITE outside: I really should try it. Would it be at all noticeable if I were to compose a whole book in the open air? It would probably be gentler and more humane, wiser, clearer and more direct, more universally appealing than anything I’ve written. People would probably say: 

“Never in my life have I enjoyed reading anything; I find the medium of text to be unbearably annoying — but I recently looked into your book, and now I cannot put it down. Every morning, I go out to the mountainside and spend hours with your words; they put my mind in a state of marvel. You have literally changed everything for me.” 

I think my book could even cause all the wars to stop. The U.S. would relax and forgive all debts and befriend all nations; it would stop aggravating everyone, and it would convert all its machineguns into seed-planters.

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Cars, trucks, vans . . . are these vehicles inside-places or outside-places? When I see a horse pulling a buggy, the horse is definitely outside; and I would say the same for his or her passengers, even tho they’re under a canopy. Altho vehicles can constitute a gray-zone between outdoors and indoors, I think that any carriage that is open on three sides and being drawn by a beast qualifies as an external phenomenon. I’ve never been interrupted by a horse-and-buggy trotting past, when reading a book in a room of my house. But when a police car speeds down the street, is its driver truly outside? The cop is enclosed by the vehicle’s frame (its doors, roof and floor); so if she begins to read a book while racing past, it would be an indoor act — and the same could be said if she decided to write a book. That’s why people whose houses have been stolen by banksters are known to say: “I now live in my car.” Each motorized vehicle is like a mobile home. Except for choppers — so Whitman approves the act of reading while driving a motorbike.

When I’m trying to enjoy a springtime walk, my nerves are jarred by the nonstop traffic from the six-lane highway. I think to myself: Why does everybody need to hasten from one place to another? Why can’t we all take a breather, calm down, refrain from traveling and just be happy wherever we are? What does anyone really need in life that is not available within reaching distance of one’s bed? You have green beans growing in your flower box — that takes care of your food (I’m working down the list of basic needs); then the tropical climate makes clothing and shelter unnecessary. So the only people who truly should be using the roads are the truckers that come from faraway islands transporting bulk orders of leashes. 

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Yet there is also a good reason for all these midsize coupés to keep zipping and dashing about from sunup to sundown: For they are all delivering pizza. If a man who lives across town orders a pepperoni pizza, you must use your midsize coupé to deliver it to him. If a woman who lives one hundred miles from the State Capitol orders a cheese pizza, then get into your midsize coupé and hit the gas. The interior of your car will smell like Canadian bacon, or whatever type of sausage the customer wants. 

A young couple who lives in a house mere blocks away from the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses in Burnsville orders a pizza with mushrooms, green peppers, and pineapple topping. You show up promptly in your midsize coupé and offer them the rectangular cardboard carton. They pay you in pennies. You bow and thank them. Now dump the coins into the large orange bucket that you keep in your trunk. The orange bucket is for pennies; the blue one holds dimes; the red one is quarters; and the gray one is nickels. Paper bills of all denominations are stuffed in a burlap sack that has a dollar sign (“$”) painted on its front. And you store all the gold ingots in your briefcase. 

You possess a firearm, which you keep on your passenger seat. You do not have a permit or license for this; and nobody performed a background check on you before you obtained the lethal weapon. Bullets are expensive: You will need to deliver many pizzas, in order to be able to shoot at a duck-shaped target. 

The elderly man at the Gun Store ordered a thin-crust pizza: he wanted onions on one half of it and black olives on the other. Over the phone, while placing his order, he explained that he himself cannot stand either of these two toppings, but his wife likes both; and he can just pick them off if he decides to try a piece. He doesn’t eat much anyway. Pizza doesn’t agree with him. He’s not even hungry, right now. He might even just go to bed without supper tonight. By the way, from now till July 4th, his shop is running a special on shotguns: Buy six at regular price and get the seventh one free. No (he replies to your question), he’s not against bartering. “Do you sell soup, or is it only pizza and breadsticks?” he asks. “OK, then add a side of vegetable soup. That is also for my wife.” 

The night is very dark; there is no moon, and all the streetlamps are off. You wonder to yourself if there might be a power outage in this neighborhood; for all the buildings are shrouded in gloom: the only illumination in the vicinity are the beams from the headlights of your coupé. When you arrive at the destination, you get out of your vehicle and slowly approach the entryway. Very carefully, you place a two-liter bottle of cola next to the sleeping head of the guard dog.