The woman standing in the Whole Foods aisle over the pyramid of fruit, neatly arranged under glossy lights, watched me drop a handful into a paper bag, said how do you do it? I always have to check each one. I looked down at the dark red fruit, each cherry good in its own, particular way the way breasts are good or birds or stars. Doesn’t everything that shines carry its own shadow? A scar across the surface, a worm buried in the sweet flesh. Why not reach in, take whatever falls into your hand.
I realize more with every passing day what a distinct privilege and joy it was to be able to walk through the market, shopping for peaches, shopping for images, striding down the open corridors together. This infamous poem by Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) is of course about so much more than a supermarket, but it keeps rolling through my mind as we navigate the unease of meandering through markets in this moment.