I find things alone, when I’m alone. The sizes of things impress me. The look in a small dog’s eyes, the blank stares of cities living in fear. I look for deeper things, the Essence, whatever I am. Discovery is replaced by immutable laws. Perhaps it isn’t that we are moving too fast. Maybe we move fast to distract ourselves from this: nothing lays along the path of the speeding train. It’s over the hill.

               I lived in Ireland for three months for no good reason. I looked for the Essence and found it. But could I have found it in Wilmington, Delaware? Too bad we only get one spin at the wheel. Anyway, I threw a party once and it was a good time. Talked to two Spanish fellows about poetry. There we were, off to the side in a cheaply constructed bedroom turning anything in sight into chairs and beer coasters, getting riled up about poetry. They recited some things I knew and didn’t know. I slang a few on them. One friend remarked how great it was to meet people who could do this – just relate to each other over language barriers and the Atlantic. The Essence.

               The great tragedy of culture, that which can communicate Essence, is its absorption of All Things. All Things illuminate and contaminate, and it all comes out in the wash to a big, fat nothing. And it’s loud. That’s a dangerous way to build a speeding train.

               By the way, if you want to accelerate your search for the Essence, surround yourself with those who don’t speak English. The struggle to perceive and communicate the Essence will be like a beating bass drum in your heart.

               It’s not all good when it’s happening. I had a few different crushes in Ireland. No less than three simultaneously. But they amounted to a Big Fat Nothing.

               Here, the Essence is being pounded flat. It’s no wonder – Essence requires bravery, confidence, knowledge and openness. But there is always a murderer, a blemish, a contorted fact, an unflattering mirror.

               Bruce Lee once instructed to take what works and abandon everything else. The Gang of Four once said, “I found that Essence rare/ it’s what I live for.”

               I once said all this here about the Essence without fully understanding it. I’m dead now, as you’re reading this. Maybe. Wherever I am, I understand the Essence because I’m part of it. Maybe.

               Here’s how it happens to me: I’m walking along, minding my own business, and suddenly a small dog with big eyes, a big man with beady eyes, a strange building alone or 50 normal ones in a row, a joke that gets it so right, a powerful person getting it so wrong, a place that looks like home for anyone and everyone, shoes that command respect, music that’s accidentally good, noise that forms sonic structure, a car sexier than any woman, a hub cap sprung loose rolling cleanly through a crosswalk, people I want to know, children who stare at me, old people frowning, a waterfall of coffee into a cup, a mansion with wall-to-wall books in every room …

               These things, they take my breath and stiffen me up, slap me on the back. My tendons, muscles and ligaments tighten across my bones, calibrated closer to the Essence and ready to be plucked. I turn a corner and a new gale blows through me, playing a new tune.