08 July 2007
Asylum & Infinity...
France is
still fine. However, I'm thinking about hiding for a
week to see how much reading and writing I can get
done. In general, I'm happy with the amount I'm
getting done, but I know how voracious and prolific I
could be. There could be more. Time is precious and
should be treated as such. Also, I have to really
think about this verse play I've had on the back
burner for a while. It seems in keeping with the goal
of a place I would like to apply to time for in the
coming year.
I was prompted, tonight, to think about infinity. When I was in high school, I learned that the distance between any two points is infinite, because it can always be divided and that that divided segment can be infinitely expanded. Too, later, I found that this could be applied to people. Between any two points in a life, there are an infinite number of events of which we are aware and not that shape not only us, but each thing and person that we touch and the things that those things and people go on to touch. It's a progression of instances that, though contained by two points in space and time (our lifetimes) can never be quantified, or assigned a numeral.
Recently, I've been often told that I'm too serious. Actually, it's likely that I'm quite often told that, but probably don't listen, because either: 1. I know, or 2. I don't find being serious too terrible a thing. I'm serious. The world is a serious place, full of serious things and I do my best not to allow that fact to make me a miserable person. Often, I fail. "Lighten up," I'm told. "Just be who you are." Whereas, I often wonder: "Who am I?" and, "if I'm serious, why the hell should I lighten up?"
I suppose that I'm many things, but a narrow, working definition could include: A student. A bit of a wanderer. An artist. A black American man. The last is the identity which I consider most in my private hours. A lot of that consideration has to do with its assumed incongruity with the others. It is an identity of which the world has an ingrained fear and, perhaps, more. Often, under my breath, in the past hard few months, I've been heard to say: "They hate us. They will always hate us." I've been successful sometimes at copping a shrugging acceptance, others not. As to who 'they' are, I'll let you know when I meet a group of them who aren't.
Mine is a voice can never grow too deep. My intellect may never be expressed too forcefully. Hyperbole - not for me. I must remain more mindful of others than anyone whom I can name off the top of my head who actually cares about how others feel, because there is always the sidelong glance, the half-second held breath - that awkwardness, because when I lose my (oft considerable) temper, or even become in the slightest displeased, it is too often the case that people will jump to the most irrational and, it must be said, ridiculous conclusions and then to extreme measures. They will believe whatever concocted cockamamie excuse for a reason to use you as tacit confirmation of everything they already believe about your race. Then you (I) become the person who must be changed, or removed when you (I) have already bent over backwards in ways that they will never know to accommodate their assumptions and insecurities. Some black men are far more graceful and diplomatic (and for such reasons, I think that Barack Obama could actually return us to a lustrous American presidency) and some are just tamed, or some of the few are coddled, championed, or token. Those who are incapable, or refuse to be any of those things are probably destined for a, perhaps even brief, lifetime of alienation and loneliness.
In the world in which I live, I have seen all sorts of passes issued for people far less "serious," that is to say, intense than I, but none have been black. Sometimes, I wonder if I should be grateful, because of how much fuller and better my lot is than of so many others young men like me that I have known. While it might seem nice to be on the outside of the asylum staring longingly inside, perhaps the cost of "freedom," when there is so much else to bear, so many situations and others to consider if you are even just to preserve yourself, an asylum can seem like a lovely thing to seek.
I was prompted, tonight, to think about infinity. When I was in high school, I learned that the distance between any two points is infinite, because it can always be divided and that that divided segment can be infinitely expanded. Too, later, I found that this could be applied to people. Between any two points in a life, there are an infinite number of events of which we are aware and not that shape not only us, but each thing and person that we touch and the things that those things and people go on to touch. It's a progression of instances that, though contained by two points in space and time (our lifetimes) can never be quantified, or assigned a numeral.
Recently, I've been often told that I'm too serious. Actually, it's likely that I'm quite often told that, but probably don't listen, because either: 1. I know, or 2. I don't find being serious too terrible a thing. I'm serious. The world is a serious place, full of serious things and I do my best not to allow that fact to make me a miserable person. Often, I fail. "Lighten up," I'm told. "Just be who you are." Whereas, I often wonder: "Who am I?" and, "if I'm serious, why the hell should I lighten up?"
I suppose that I'm many things, but a narrow, working definition could include: A student. A bit of a wanderer. An artist. A black American man. The last is the identity which I consider most in my private hours. A lot of that consideration has to do with its assumed incongruity with the others. It is an identity of which the world has an ingrained fear and, perhaps, more. Often, under my breath, in the past hard few months, I've been heard to say: "They hate us. They will always hate us." I've been successful sometimes at copping a shrugging acceptance, others not. As to who 'they' are, I'll let you know when I meet a group of them who aren't.
Mine is a voice can never grow too deep. My intellect may never be expressed too forcefully. Hyperbole - not for me. I must remain more mindful of others than anyone whom I can name off the top of my head who actually cares about how others feel, because there is always the sidelong glance, the half-second held breath - that awkwardness, because when I lose my (oft considerable) temper, or even become in the slightest displeased, it is too often the case that people will jump to the most irrational and, it must be said, ridiculous conclusions and then to extreme measures. They will believe whatever concocted cockamamie excuse for a reason to use you as tacit confirmation of everything they already believe about your race. Then you (I) become the person who must be changed, or removed when you (I) have already bent over backwards in ways that they will never know to accommodate their assumptions and insecurities. Some black men are far more graceful and diplomatic (and for such reasons, I think that Barack Obama could actually return us to a lustrous American presidency) and some are just tamed, or some of the few are coddled, championed, or token. Those who are incapable, or refuse to be any of those things are probably destined for a, perhaps even brief, lifetime of alienation and loneliness.
In the world in which I live, I have seen all sorts of passes issued for people far less "serious," that is to say, intense than I, but none have been black. Sometimes, I wonder if I should be grateful, because of how much fuller and better my lot is than of so many others young men like me that I have known. While it might seem nice to be on the outside of the asylum staring longingly inside, perhaps the cost of "freedom," when there is so much else to bear, so many situations and others to consider if you are even just to preserve yourself, an asylum can seem like a lovely thing to seek.
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Lullabye
08/07/07 03:43 Permalink
Sigh. I wish
I could keep up with my blog the way that I wrote I
would when I got here. There always seem to be things
better to do than sitting in front of a computer
screen for longer than I must.
The world spins on and life is good. Wine. Bread. France. Poems. I had the most wonderful conversation about so many things with a woman who is a painter and in residence here. It was as though I had unburdened myself of ideas that I'd carried so far and exchanged them with her. Yes. I probably have gone mystic again.
There are a number of new artists here - two of them from New York and my age. One of the women (also my age) - at present, I am the only man in residence - who is in residence found it strange that three of us live in the same city, frequent the same establishments, but have not ever run into each other. It doesn't strike me as strange, just the nature of cities, New York, especially. It's like a strange and unique type of mathematics.
It's late. Near 4 AM I was just messaged on Skype by a woman from Poland to whom I was very unkind. It's very difficult for me to communicate with just about any Pole now (I see Polish faces and, mostly, I just want to hit them), especially when they say things, as this woman did, like, "you just had bad luck." No. I didn't have bad luck. My "luck" is generally great in that it gets me out of binds with the least amount of scathing possible. I made the terrible mistake of trying to bring a form of intellectual enlightenment to a hateful, violent & backwards country. That's not bad luck. That was stupidity. I would have felt better if she'd have called me stupid, rather than just being another stubborn Pole determined to have a conversation I've had time and again and which only ends up in hurt feelings and a roiled stomach. At least calling my stupid would have been true. This is why I don't want to talk about it. I'm trying not to hate it. I feel like if I can walk away from the experience without hating Poles and Poland, I won't have wasted nearly a year of my life.
I am trying to write a lullabye as part of my Ezekiel cycle. It's a song that Ezekiel's mother sings to him about the times that were dark, before their people built a kingdom under the sea. The pages of my notebook on which I am attempting to write said lullabye Perhaps, I need music - a melody. Perhaps, I need to reconnoiter with tenderness. One of the things that I always wished that I brought more of to my poems was tenderness. It's a hard thing to come by, and I envy those who can bring such a thing to bear in their own work.
The world spins on and life is good. Wine. Bread. France. Poems. I had the most wonderful conversation about so many things with a woman who is a painter and in residence here. It was as though I had unburdened myself of ideas that I'd carried so far and exchanged them with her. Yes. I probably have gone mystic again.
There are a number of new artists here - two of them from New York and my age. One of the women (also my age) - at present, I am the only man in residence - who is in residence found it strange that three of us live in the same city, frequent the same establishments, but have not ever run into each other. It doesn't strike me as strange, just the nature of cities, New York, especially. It's like a strange and unique type of mathematics.
It's late. Near 4 AM I was just messaged on Skype by a woman from Poland to whom I was very unkind. It's very difficult for me to communicate with just about any Pole now (I see Polish faces and, mostly, I just want to hit them), especially when they say things, as this woman did, like, "you just had bad luck." No. I didn't have bad luck. My "luck" is generally great in that it gets me out of binds with the least amount of scathing possible. I made the terrible mistake of trying to bring a form of intellectual enlightenment to a hateful, violent & backwards country. That's not bad luck. That was stupidity. I would have felt better if she'd have called me stupid, rather than just being another stubborn Pole determined to have a conversation I've had time and again and which only ends up in hurt feelings and a roiled stomach. At least calling my stupid would have been true. This is why I don't want to talk about it. I'm trying not to hate it. I feel like if I can walk away from the experience without hating Poles and Poland, I won't have wasted nearly a year of my life.
I am trying to write a lullabye as part of my Ezekiel cycle. It's a song that Ezekiel's mother sings to him about the times that were dark, before their people built a kingdom under the sea. The pages of my notebook on which I am attempting to write said lullabye Perhaps, I need music - a melody. Perhaps, I need to reconnoiter with tenderness. One of the things that I always wished that I brought more of to my poems was tenderness. It's a hard thing to come by, and I envy those who can bring such a thing to bear in their own work.