For Peter, on Dark Illusions and Giddy Phantoms by Irene Zimmerman

Dear Peter,

sometimes, when I am sitting on the subway or walking past an ugly park or eating eggs while I wait to move my laundry to the dryer I wonder why it is that I only seem to write when there is conflict

spheres of energy at war with each other inside me but that is also not true another conflict that is an illusion as much as everything else, perspective gained

What is true is that there seems to be nothing to write about today I was on the subway I was in a building I talked to strangers about market trends in Brooklyn and Queens none of this is sad, there is no harrowing meaninglessness to my life more so even since we sat in the garden while I listened to your story about Paris and keys and rooftops and a comedy of errors

What is true is that I have returned to a deep and peaceful plain-ness that I can only ruin with foolishness or boredom –the classic question, again: and aren’t they the same?– that can only be destroyed by my deranged belief that by submitting completely to darkness by confronting the worst we imagine in ourselves can we find truth or be healed

the weight of the world, an illusion as much as everything else, perspective gained this is why old men and women chuckle at Youth at inner city kids living and dying by each other’s slight of hand on the G train this is why I find myself unable to stop singing

What is true in your living room, snickering over the thought that Andy might come upstairs and catch me lounging in my underwear and become jealous what is true getting rude emails from coworkers telling me things I already know what is true unconsciously avoiding the pool so I can regroup before running into Fernando again

is that love is acceptance and life is good breath joy like a giddy phantom lurking in haphazard clown shoes ready to jump out and make club soda rain from the sky

and thanks as always for the cheap wine