My mouth does not firefly, my body is not a landscape, I am not a fucking orchard. Or a crate of bruised fruit on the road you stop at on the way to some beautiful hillside with curves in all the right places. My body is good like a body. I take up this much space. I’m not some sprawling thing in the distance. I am right here. I am right here.
People want the rugged authenticity of being different without actually being punished for it — and I understand why they do it. I recognize the insecurity. Just a decade ago, my peers were flinging words like “terrorist” and “faggot” to me in the halls of our high school. Now I’m “trendy” and “fierce.” Either assessment rings lonely and desperate. How they are tremendously afraid of being insignificant. How the fantasy of race that they have projected on my body makes me have some mystic power they are jealous of. They are afraid of boring. They are afraid of being nothing. They are in a constant state of falling — grasping for all of the bindis, beards, dashikis, gauges that they hold on to to feel relevant. And what hurts the most is that when they do it, it magically becomes beautiful. It becomes a beard worth $8,500 and not a beard worth five bullets. When the white body wears our scars, they finally become beautiful.
Every brown boy has a story about the hair. Pluck it out of him. He’s used to it.
I still love the people I’ve loved, even if I cross the street to avoid them.
Huxley deals a lot with man’s “infinite appetite for distraction”, and extending from it, an economy of attention ruled by the inane, that nurtures an unreflective culture and allows power/authority to operate unquestioned. I’m afraid that Snapchat, in its ephemerality and structural content limitations (e.g. character limit, not possible to link off to other content), demands, or at least suggests as primary, vacuousness on a whole other level than media like Facebook or Twitter. It suggests that we should share things not worth keeping…
I would like to see a qualified Negro as President of the United States. But I suspect that even if this were today possible, the necessities of the office would shape his actions far more than his racial identity.
Had I the crude and scrannel rhymes to suit
the melancholy hole upon which all
the other circling crags converge and rest,
the juice of my conception would be pressed
more fully; but because I feel their lack,
I bring myself to speak, yet speak in fear;
for it is not a task to take in jest,
to show the base of all the universe-
nor for a tongue that cries out, “mama,” “papa.”
God offers to every mind its choice between truth and repose. Take which you please, — you can never have both. Between these, as a pendulum, man oscillates.
He in whom the love of repose predominates will accept the first creed, the first philosophy, the first political party he meets, — most likely his father’s. He gets rest, commodity, and reputation; but he shuts the door of truth.
He in whom the love of truth predominates will keep himself aloof from all moorings, and afloat. He will abstain from dogmatism, and recognize all the opposite negations, between which, as walls, his being is swung.
He submits to the inconvenience of suspense and imperfect opinion, but he is a candidate for truth, as the other is not, and respects the highest law of his being.
Sometimes, often while drunk, I leave myself notes, only to find them months or years later. Here’s one I stumbled across from June 2013. I was somewhere in Colombia.
Every song seems an ode to my inadequacy. I need salsa like I need air. I’ll never breathe free until my feet know what my hips have known from the first instant I stood erect. What’s wrong with me? Why don’t I just know? Salsa is all that matters; the rest is just waiting to die.
And if all that is meaningless, I want to be cured
Of a craving for something I cannot find
And of the shame of never finding it.
Note to self: Don’t let the ache of all the books you haven’t read, may never read, cripple you - keeping you from reading any books at all.
On changing the world and not
Dear technology startup: It sends a chill down my spine when you say you’ll change the world. Hitler changed the world. The Koch brothers are having a “scalable impact”. I need you to be more specific. What is the magnitude of the change? Is it tectonic or incremental? What are its moral dimensions? Will the world be more or less just as a result? Build cool stuff, by all means, but don’t delude yourself. Lies of effusion are some of the most insidious.
Frank Chimero puts it brilliantly:
Revolutionary, disruptive, magical, wizards, and on and on—contemporary digital culture has co-opted the language of revolution and magic without the muscle, ethics, conviction, or imagination of either. And it’s not that those things aren’t possible, we just aren’t living up to their meaning and instead saturating ourselves with hyperbole. These are words you have to earn, and slinging them around strips the words of their powerful meaning. Can you take a real revolution seriously if you are bombarded with messaging that says your phone is revolutionary?
Weep not now, my love.
For as all die, so shall we.
But it is not dying that should pain us.
It is the waiting, the intermission when we cannot act, when our will is shackled by tyranny.
Yet somehow, I know the miracle of the world will be wrought again.
The space will be filled in spite of the hurt, by the immensity of love that will defy dying, and death.
Good night, my love.