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a letter to comrade
czerny,
1.
"being" is all the
destiny there is--that we can move, choose to do or not do
one action or another, travel or
be tethered/anchored, seek the sweets we
want to taste or complain about
the bitter shoved down our throats, that we
are random bits of chance and
circumstance somewhat directed by choice
and consciousness--well, that is
all i believe there is, indeed, what is
commonly called "fate"
may be nothing more than our futile attempts to
make sense of the hugeness of
coincidence and the meagerness of our own
human abilities to both
micro-manage and intellectually justify all that
happens, which is also why people
say "god knows," in both exasperation
and explanation, admitting that
while it is impossible for humans to know
the mysteries, it is unthinkable
for someone or something not to know the
meaning and workings of life.
some say the world is so
well-ordered that the basic and interrelated
structure of the universe is, in
and of itself, proof of the existence of god, but
the sun rising and setting every
day (well, really the planet spinning on its
axis) is not what really astounds
us; no, what causes pause is the unexpected
meeting, the fortuitous number
played in a lotto, a phone call from an old
friend, finding five dollars on
the sidewalk, an old picture viewed from a new
angle years later when our hearts
are in a different place, etc.
what we make of our being, that is
not the gods or the universe, that is our
own doing and for those of us who
are conscious, who are political, who are
alive--you said i sound young,
like a little boy, if so, perhaps it is because i
am still growing.
2.
I am thinking of water, big bodies
of water. lakes. long rivers too deep, too
wide to wade. oceans and seas.
sitting on a seawall watching the waves and
letting the heavy, in-and-out of
water motion relax, make love, in a sense,
to us. african americans are water
born(e).
some mornings when the familiar is
missing and, on the other hand, those,
whom we normally hold at a
distance suddenly sit uninvited on our faces,
slow-stirring our inner feelings
until we ache and are forced to accept the
intensity of an undeniable longing
to talk softly with that someone, that
particular person whom we consider
a comrade of the heart, even when,
indeed, especially when, that
person's physical being is not present, they are
in some space we are not. it is
disconcerting, isn't it, to realize how much we
can miss what we never experienced
but what we "know" might have been,
and in some minute instant even
believe might still become, a union we
know that would have been/could
still be welcomingly warm--"know" is
such a weak word for what we feel,
and love is too particular a description
for this vague sense, comforting
as an after-the-rain summer twilight,
perhaps this missing is a personal
saudade, a feeling of loss for a flower that
never bloomed but whose fruition
we are certain could have been
undeniably beautiful--there are
parts of me that are you, most times far too
small to notice but nevertheless
so potent that when you called, enough of
me was moved that the rest of me
had to wait a minute while i stood staring
into the air and wondering about
your voice--touch is so unerring in
piercing my vulnerability.
be blackly well, comrade czerny.
a luta cotinua,
kalamu |
