this is a call
for pen-pals and people who want to read critical theory this summer. (I could kind of stand to read more Nietzsche; also Society of the Spectacle, Agamben or Arendt, of course Foucault, and Tiqqun/Invisible Committee. I kind of want to read Baudrillard, also. Maybe even D&G? I set ridiculous goals for myself at the beginning of every summer, and that's okay too.)
Being at home without a car takes me back to being fourteen: no more, no less.
I don't have very much nice to say about my Other Life when I'm in Greensboro. But the silence that settles isn't an absence, exactly. I can see the sky here, and buildings don't suffocate. My friends live in big, old houses; the community space is gorgeous and huge and full of food. Driving allows for a quality of solitude that can be devastating, but isn't right now: the word that comes when I'm on my way home in the middle of the night is grounding, I feel grounded here. That's what home is for, I guess. Nothing changes enough that I can't jump right back in it. I'm not scared of anything here: because too many people in this city love me and aren't afraid to love me. It's so apparent that it isn't overwhelming, even, just natural. I have words here, despite myself. The future just is and I don't have to fight for it, or with it. I don't mind not knowing. The time people make for me is apolitical, their hands and their faces. It feels fine: not okay but grand, rich, the way that only poor people with nothing to hold on to except each other can feel. It feels fine.
Being at home without a car takes me back to being fourteen: no more, no less.
I don't have very much nice to say about my Other Life when I'm in Greensboro. But the silence that settles isn't an absence, exactly. I can see the sky here, and buildings don't suffocate. My friends live in big, old houses; the community space is gorgeous and huge and full of food. Driving allows for a quality of solitude that can be devastating, but isn't right now: the word that comes when I'm on my way home in the middle of the night is grounding, I feel grounded here. That's what home is for, I guess. Nothing changes enough that I can't jump right back in it. I'm not scared of anything here: because too many people in this city love me and aren't afraid to love me. It's so apparent that it isn't overwhelming, even, just natural. I have words here, despite myself. The future just is and I don't have to fight for it, or with it. I don't mind not knowing. The time people make for me is apolitical, their hands and their faces. It feels fine: not okay but grand, rich, the way that only poor people with nothing to hold on to except each other can feel. It feels fine.