Because zeno's_arrow asked me to change it from a Friends-locked post to a public one.
And because I am strongly disinclined to deny him anything, and because we've all been on a train in the deep night, and we've all been tired, felt ineffectual in the face of everything, have forgotten, for a moment, the actual power of love, and what it would mean for all of us to be in it together. Moving this from vest pocket to billboard meant redacting the names of some living friends, which snagged me for a moment until Ben reminded me of what is unaffected by that initialing: "One way to characterize such a life [une vie re|politique] is as the speaking not of one's own name, but of the names of one's beloveds." Thank you, Ben.
Anonymous among strangers, I look for those with hidden wings... This would've been an hour by plane. The TSA is ruining my life. Inaccurate, when you're tired: Hegemony is ruining your life. Inaccurate, when you're tired: Hegemony is ruining Life. Inaccurate, when you're tired: Hegemony is death.
Very particular, the silence of a traincar deep into night. Beckettian, somehow. But then, all silences are particular. More particular than words, perhaps. The way the spaces between notes in music- Shh. Drift. If I slip into sleep right now, I can still get five solid hours. Dance with me, sleep, in that just-standing-still-and-swaying-together-way, your head on my shoulder, my arms slipped softly around your waist.
They're all, I think, asleep at this moment, whatever their time zone, my people: Some just easing in, some just about to stir to light - The sturdiness of hardwood floor under slippered feet; coffeesmell; the flower of consciousness blooming open for another day of wild, unlikely, electrochemical miracle. One of them probably nearly an inch taller overnight; some of them a millimeter shorter. They're all- I will never be worthy of the extraordinary love given to me.
I will never be worthy of the extraordinary love given to me. And I will never be equal to the tasks in front of me. And I will never be brave enough. And I will never adequately conquer selfishness.
I will always try.
Will I always try?
I will always try to try.
Sixteen hours until smell of totlet's hair, own bed, fresh food. I will be too tired to work. But I will try. Because it's the right thing to do, and because it's who I am, but also because. B. never stops writing, no matter how exhausted. Because C. is writing something difficult. And because of Judith and Ali and all the rest who don't turn away from the unique challenge that is writing; that is the thought-language- oh. Tired. You won't get it right. Jacob wrestling the angel on the riverbank. I don't like metaphors about writing, but. Because somewhere on the island this morning someone will choose, despite being furious and late for the office and hating the rattle and roll of it all so seethingly it sets their teeth on edge, to go back to the old man struggling with parcels they just passed in brisk stride and help him. Because somewhere in the desert, someone will share water that already isn't enough for themselves with a stranger. Because Hawa Abdi is tired, "I've been here so long. So long." but never stops. Because David tried his very best, kept trying right up until he couldn't try anymore. Because everyone is trying to try to be equal to their tasks and brave enough and less selfish, even if only for a moment, for moments, and if they can try, I can too. And if I try, perhaps it will help their trying. If we all try to try, it's so much easier for each of us to. Overly sentimental, when you're tired. But perhaps not entirely inaccurate.
Water is lovely, rolling down window glass. Water. The universal solvent.
Things we think about when we glance into a foggy train window on the other side of which is dimmed running lights and shadowy rolling ribcages breathing and beneath them, billions of precarious cells inside a tiny infinity floating on a pebble
Anonymous among strangers, I look for those with hidden wings... This would've been an hour by plane. The TSA is ruining my life. Inaccurate, when you're tired: Hegemony is ruining your life. Inaccurate, when you're tired: Hegemony is ruining Life. Inaccurate, when you're tired: Hegemony is death.
Very particular, the silence of a traincar deep into night. Beckettian, somehow. But then, all silences are particular. More particular than words, perhaps. The way the spaces between notes in music- Shh. Drift. If I slip into sleep right now, I can still get five solid hours. Dance with me, sleep, in that just-standing-still-and-swaying-together-way, your head on my shoulder, my arms slipped softly around your waist.
They're all, I think, asleep at this moment, whatever their time zone, my people: Some just easing in, some just about to stir to light - The sturdiness of hardwood floor under slippered feet; coffeesmell; the flower of consciousness blooming open for another day of wild, unlikely, electrochemical miracle. One of them probably nearly an inch taller overnight; some of them a millimeter shorter. They're all- I will never be worthy of the extraordinary love given to me.
I will never be worthy of the extraordinary love given to me. And I will never be equal to the tasks in front of me. And I will never be brave enough. And I will never adequately conquer selfishness.
I will always try.
Will I always try?
I will always try to try.
Sixteen hours until smell of totlet's hair, own bed, fresh food. I will be too tired to work. But I will try. Because it's the right thing to do, and because it's who I am, but also because. B. never stops writing, no matter how exhausted. Because C. is writing something difficult. And because of Judith and Ali and all the rest who don't turn away from the unique challenge that is writing; that is the thought-language- oh. Tired. You won't get it right. Jacob wrestling the angel on the riverbank. I don't like metaphors about writing, but. Because somewhere on the island this morning someone will choose, despite being furious and late for the office and hating the rattle and roll of it all so seethingly it sets their teeth on edge, to go back to the old man struggling with parcels they just passed in brisk stride and help him. Because somewhere in the desert, someone will share water that already isn't enough for themselves with a stranger. Because Hawa Abdi is tired, "I've been here so long. So long." but never stops. Because David tried his very best, kept trying right up until he couldn't try anymore. Because everyone is trying to try to be equal to their tasks and brave enough and less selfish, even if only for a moment, for moments, and if they can try, I can too. And if I try, perhaps it will help their trying. If we all try to try, it's so much easier for each of us to. Overly sentimental, when you're tired. But perhaps not entirely inaccurate.
Water is lovely, rolling down window glass. Water. The universal solvent.
Things we think about when we glance into a foggy train window on the other side of which is dimmed running lights and shadowy rolling ribcages breathing and beneath them, billions of precarious cells inside a tiny infinity floating on a pebble