A spiritual guide to Manhattan

Whole Earth Review, Wntr, 1989 by Sparrow

"Excuse me." A hand touched my shoulder. I looked up to see a green sweater with WALKDON CRICKET CLUB on it.

"Can I help you? Are you waiting for the Dr.?"

I showed him my letter.

He looked at it a long time.

"You have to bring this to Social Security, before you come here," he said.

CAVE, FT. TRYON PARK

(near Bway and 193rd St. entrance)

The Navajos believe your soul stays in the land where you were born. "My soul is here," I felt, leaving the subway at 190th St. (I grew up in the Dyckman Projects, 6 blocks off.) Still I was terrified of my cave, where Mitchell Kleinrock and I first smoked pot, and found bags of glue, all stiff, from neighborhood sniffers, inside.

Is it gone? I worried, then remembered rocks don't move.

I climbed the hill, 50 yards.

Hello?, I called into the crevice, standing over an old man's hat. No answer.

Inside was a carpet -- I forgot the carpet I sat on it damply, first laying down The NY Times. (It has to be the NY Times -- the way Don Juan tells Castanada. "It must be a branch of mesquite.") A shaft of sunlight fell from a chink. Plants are growing in my cave!

I head dripping water, closed my eyes and thought, "I'm the Prodical Son because the cave seemed to be saying, "You can always return."

"The peace that passeth understanding" came to me.

Then I left, afraid someone would knife me.

Outside: "I did it! I finished this article!"

A cop was on the roof of my cave. "Don't worry, I'm not looking for you. There's a policeman missing."

"He's not in that cave," I volunteered.

"What's in there?"

"Just a carpet."

The cop continued down, a youngfaced cop, looking worried and trying not to.

I'll read the papers tomorrow, I thought.

Experimental nonfiction is not attempted often enough. When a quiet, almost timid, voice belonging to a poet named Sparrow (I have no idea what his real name is) called me up and said he'd like to have a note to help him map the spiritual contours of New York City. I gave him my blessings. Why let California bog the reputation for spiritual innovation?