All stories are unreal. Even real stories are unreal.

AN EVENING WITH WALT WHITMAN

(All words in italics are from the book “Leaves of Grass” by Walt Whitman. This story presumes you know who Walt Whitman is and have read his poem called Leaves of Grass. If not, please read it first. You can read it for free here.)

“It is a strange evening” he contemplates.

“Well, every evening is strange. Every moment is strange if you think about it. Or maybe not. Maybe no moment is strange and every moment is exactly the same as all other moments.” He stared into the glass of his whisky which seemed to stare back at him with the question: “Dude, now that you have fucked up your life, what are you gonna do? How is it going to end, if ever? Now that you began this chaos, can you take it through to the end?”  Then his eyes moved to the wall and got stuck over the photo of Walt Whitman. Whitman had an important effect on his life and ideology, apparently. Otherwise, who in 2018 hangs a picture of Whitman on every corner of his house? Even here, in the bar! He seemed to remember Whitman verbatim and read out aloud…

“I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end,

But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,

Nor any more youth or age than there is now,

And will never be any more perfection than there is now,

Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.”

He then wondered, to whom did I just read this poem aloud? Is it this glass of whisky? Has this become my own Wilson? Ha, that’s funny. Now that my wife and son left me, did I just make up my own Wilson? God, do I need a Wilson! If I did need a Wilson, why did I let go of my wife and son? Why? Better a talking Wilson than this goddamn glass of whisky. Why didn’t I stop them?

I am getting distracted again, he thinks. Why do I need anybody? “Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself” he recites Whitman again. He then wonders “is it me or Whitman who is saying these stuffs? Feels like its Whitman using me and not me using Whitman. When I recite this poem, is it me or Whitman that’s reciting the poem. When I lift my hand, is it me or God that lifts the arm? Oh no, that one was probably from Moby Dick.  But really, why do I need any company? Am I not complete by myself? Who am I? Is God better than me?…Ha, now that’s a nice thought. If I had a chance to be God, would I take it? Come on, answer me…. I guess this is why you need a Wilson. One that doesn’t bother you with anything and yet holds up his end of the conversation.”