Who is here with me?
My mother and a dark brown man.
(I am writing this from the past.)
the dark man is not a man, but a statue,
just outside the limits of wood. My mother
is made of mother. She touches the wood
with her eyes, and the eyes of the statue
become her eyes.
(I am not dreaming this. I haven’t been born yet.)
There is a cloud in the sky
where my father sleeps.
When he wakes up he will
want coffee and a smoke.
My mother will set fire to the statue, and
from deep inside her body, I will tell her
to start the coffee.
For even now,
I hear my father’s breathing change.
I don’t agree with socialism as an automatic fix for this kind of rigid chronological thinking. I think people will always be prone to thinking in the arc of story and linear progression. It is part of how we cope with the uncertainties of random events, but the more we can pull ourselves away from fixating on turning points and rigid structure and see the flow and waves of interconnection and interaction that surround us all the time, the more we will be successful at solving the problems we face as humanity.
Originally posted on Progressive Geographies:
Translated by Alberto Toscano for Viewpoint.
Every morning, when I wake again under the pall of the sky, I feel that for me it is New Year’s day.
That’s why I hate these New Year’s that fall like fixed maturities, which turn life and human spirit into a commercial concern with its neat final balance, its outstanding amounts, its budget for the new management. They make us lose the continuity of life and spirit. You end up seriously thinking that between one year and the next there is a break, that a new history is beginning; you make resolutions, and you regret your irresolution, and so on, and so forth. This is generally what’s wrong with dates. (continues…)