Monday, May 15, 2006

Fear of the Other: An Opening Screen

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I am afraid because the powers that be are insistent, though not that we know it. Because even the poets are lost in our anaphora—Whitman’s body laid out for the taking—of need. Is it that we are safe and should fear less? Is it that we don’t need our language to say it? Yet information has found it’s freedom, is almost entirely free, and who is to blame. I have found my thou and know myself—what now? What poem? What will happen when democracy is realized and one hand clutches the truth while everything else runs full throttle. I am anything but alone, and yet it speaks within me. What I’m saying is already said, everywhere. Belief is endless. But it should still be uttered, still find its way from the closed mouth. Like a patient and lovely word fashioned from sorrow.
What I mean is only that information is free and welcome, yet it makes no money. We are lost of it, and sorry often. But it makes no money and so it’s entertainment’s gain. It draws us. Which is not to say we are all drawn. We pace beside it, no one afraid to say what it is. Some afraid not to. Yet it draws us and costs everything. Friends that let friends and all that. Companies stacked on top of one another. Oh God. But the vision is of children who speak of objects by proper names and sleep alone, contented in their futures. If I stop, now, the massacre. If I never write another and die content. If there is nothing in a life of passionate wandering. If I have fooled myself or been fooled. And loneliness is no captain.
And fawned for lusts know nothing of their basics. I am happy not to know. To be entertained by information. Oh, I was born of women and yet know none. And yet was fond of them, yet nothing. Yet I was found there outside of that peace and brought here. Into the not-city. Into the place of keeping from where we fear and loathe us. The last place we’d visit or pay to. The shame of being from someplace unnecessary. The fear of long lots and the simple trade of money for passions. Forgive me, Lord. There was no gate and I did what I had to do. The great and mighty was gracious and it said why and how so that I could follow. My name was in the book and I believed him. Now what? No word, no nothing. I came back to it and have only now seen.

1 Comments:

Blogger alex said...

"But the vision is of children who speak of objects by proper names and sleep alone, contented in their futures."

beautiful. and terrible.

beautifully terrible.

terribly beautiful.

Thursday, May 18, 2006 2:24:00 PM  

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