ESSAY: THE MYTH OF SOLITUDE: NO WRITER IS AN ISLAND

photo by: Alex Lear

 

 

THE MYTH OF SOLITUDE:

NO WRITER IS AN ISLAND

 

>>No writer is an island.<< No writer creates alone. Even those who withdraw from human contact -- the Salingers and O'Toole's of literature -- are actually shaped by their social development, or more precisely, in the cases just cited, by their social deficiencies. No matter how technically brilliant such writers may be, unless under-girded by social exchange and observations thereon, their writing will not stand the ultimate test of greatness: is the work relevant across time and across cultures?

 

In order to achieve both linear (across generations) and lateral (across cultures) greatness, writers must be both immersed in a specific era/culture and conscious of that era's relationship to other eras and other cultures. It is not enough to report on or even analyze the news of the day. The ultimate meanings of human existence transcend the specifics of any given moment.

 

In practice achieving greatness means moving beyond topicality, requires that we insightfully deal with how and why humans are shaped by social and environmental forces, and deal with how we respond to our specific shaping processes.

 

>>As writers, our goal is the expert use of words<< to convey ideas and information, emotions and experiences, dreams and visions. On the one hand we must study, and study hard, the development of our craft, but, on the other hand, we must never forget that craft without content is meaningless. Beyond the craft/content argument is the more important question of writing for whom? Who is our audience? Are we connected to others?

 

An audience is the single greatest determinant of the shape and relevance of one's craft. How is this so? This is so because as writers our whole craft is based on communication and, quiet as it is too often kept, communication requires an audience.

 

Some of us insist that we write to please no one but ourselves. But does that mean we write for an audience of one? No, it does not. When we write only with ourselves in mind, we are implicitly trying to communicate with the social elements that shaped our being. Indeed, who does not want to be understood by their parents, their children, their siblings and peers? Besides, if we were writing literally only for ourselves as an audience of one, we would have no need to share our writing, no need to publish or recite our writings.

 

In the contemporary United States, "audience" has been collapsed into the concept of consumers, people who literally buy whatever is marketed. That is ultimately a very cynical approach to determining who is one's audience. To write for and about a specific audience does not necessarily mean writing to sell to that audience. What it does mean is using the culture of the intended audience as the starting point (and hopefully an ending point) for our work.

 

Writing well in English presupposes that we deal with the history of English-language literature, a significant part of which includes use as a tool in the historic process of colonizing people of color. As able a craftsperson as Ralph Ellison was, craft is not what distinguishes "Invisible Man." Rather, Ellison's insightful handling of an investigation of the anti-humanist effects of exploitation and oppression on those who are victimized by a dominant and dominating society is the significance of that novel.

 

Ellison, understands at a depth few others have so thoroughly presented in the novel format, that both those who fight against their subjugation and those who are not even conscious of their condition are twisted by social forces. However, Ellison's novel is not merely a political screed because Ellison is more concerned with the range of human responses to social conditions than he is with advocating a specific social order. Moreover, far more than many books that on the surface seem to be more political, Ellison's novel is grounded in the cultural mores, the folklore, of mid-20th century African American life. Invisible Man can not be fully appreciated without an appreciation of Black culture.

 

A horrible truth is that too many of us are unprepared to write significant literature because we have no real appreciation of our audience as fellow human beings, as cultural creatures. We know neither history nor contemporary conditions. We talk about "keeping it real" but have no factual knowledge of reality. Thus, we glibly bandy generalizations, utter hip clichés as though they were timeless wisdom, and inevitably offer instant snapshots of the social facade as though they were in-depth investigations of the structure and nature of our social reality -- in short, we lie and fantasize.

 

Moreover, unless we consciously deal with our conditions, we end up replicating our oppression in our literature. When we are poor we write admiringly of being rich -- when we get some money, we write guiltily about poverty. What is this madness? This is the psychology of the oppressed captivated by their own oppression.

 

If this analysis sounds extreme, run the litmus test of examining works of popular literature and see if this is not the case. Look at the rap videos, notice the lifestyles portrayed. Look at the movies. At some point, we need to be aware that videos, movies, televisions, all of those media employ scripts -- these scripts are our popular literature. The absence and/or low level of craft in popular literature, both in publishing and in electronic, broadcast and video mediums, points to one of our real problems -- many of the people who are scripting for the media, can't or don't write well.

 

Moreover, I understand that the majority of scriptwriters for Black-oriented projects are not Black writers, however, the lack of Black writers in the dominant and dominating mainstream media underscores rather than invalidates my premise. A major part of our problem has nothing to do with craft and everything to do with consciousness — our consciousness and the consciousness of our fellow humans in the United States of America.

 

Our daily lives are shaped by our social conditions and the consciousness that emerges from those conditions. A significant percentage of writers who are craft conscious are also writers who are psychologically alienated from their own culture. Indeed, for the person of color, the act of acquiring education and expertise typically is also an act of alienation. It is unfortunately generally true that mainstream training in craft is simultaneously a directive to distance one's self from the culture and consciousness of our Black communities. Explicitly, to become professional means to emulate the other and eschew the Black self, the working class self, and, for women, to an even greater degree than many may realize, becoming a professional also means eschewing the self-actualized female self.

 

Thus, it is no surprise that once we become professionals, we insist on the right to be seen as autonomous and self-defined individuals who desire to live beyond the restrictions of race, class and/or gender. Indeed, we are often proud as peacocks strutting around glorying in our individuality -- look at the beauty of my butt feathers! We disdain groups, assert that organizations stifle our creativity. Meanwhile, people who are organized control the production and distribution of our creative work.

 

The status quo system loves those of us who think we can make it as individuals precisely because individuals are dependent on the status quo for life support. When you don't have a community of friends and comrades, you end up going to your enemy for supper and shelter, both literally and metaphorically.

 

>>The challenge for conscious and self-identified writers is both external and internal.<< External to the individual, we must build community by working with and achieving an understanding of the people with whom we identify. Internally there is the individual quest to develop a craft that reflects and projects our individual feelings and ideas about ourselves as well as about the world we live in. This struggle for social and artistic development is not an abstract concern. In practical terms such development requires that we who identify ourselves as Black writers:

 

1. Study Black music and Black history.

 

Music because Black music is our mother tongue -- the language through which the deepest and most honest emotions of our people have been expressed in the rawest and most "unmediated" manner. More than in any other sphere of social activity, African Americans have determined our own musical expressions and have communicated with the world through that form of expression.

 

History because if you don't know yourself you will inevitably end up betraying yourself.

 

Is it possible to write without a working knowledge of Black music and history? Of course it is. Is it possible to produce great literature without such knowledge? Probably not, and certainly none that would be considered Black literature. Ultimately, all literature is a product of culture, whether that culture is one's indigenous culture or an adopted culture.

 

2. Study the craft of writing.

 

One certainly would not claim to be a carpenter without learning how to build, nor a farmer and be unable to raise crops. Moreover, we also need to tackle the development of our own approaches and the development of a theoretical foundation.

 

During the Black Arts Movement, this process was called the Black aesthetic -- the development of an aesthetic is still needed. Craft is the concrete manifestation of philosophical aesthetics. If we don't consciously shape our own aesthetics, our craft will invariably and often in a contradictory and conflicted manner reflect someone else's aesthetic, generally the aesthetics of the dominant social order.

 

3. Join with like-minded colleagues.

 

We should join writers associations, guilds, organizations, both formal and informal. Workshops are important in one's formative years. As one develops, peer associations become extremely helpful both in terms of career development and in terms of craft development. We literally find out what's going on by being in touch with others. We become inspired and get ideas from interacting with others.

 

The internet is a major source of community activity for young writers today. There are on-line workshops, resource web sites, informational web sites and specifically, a number of Black oriented literary web sites. A young writer who is not on-line is literally "out of it" -- outside of the ebb and flow of ideas and information. With the advent of public access through libraries, arts organizations, schools, and relatively inexpensive commercial services, there is no excuse for not being on-line.

 

>>Writing is not just the words on the page.<< Writing is documentation of social praxis. There is both an art and a science to writing, a feeling and a thought.

 

Not only is no writer an island, it is up to each one of us to develop as social creatures (i.e. men and women) and as professionals. For our ancestors, for our selves, for our children and those yet unborn, let us as writers come together and create a literature that is as persistent and profound as our people who outlived centuries of chattel slavery, segregation and degradation, and who stand now on the verge of creating a new definition of what it means to be a free, proud and productive people.

 

—kalamu ya salaam

ESSAY: MEMORIES OF DEATH

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

memories of death

 

my first unforgettable death scene was a man’s body all cut up. some man i didn’t know. i had gone to meet my father at his job. a laboratory technician, he worked on the third floor (or was it the fourth floor) at the veteran’s hospital. sometimes he would show us how he mixed chemicals with body fluids, mainly blood or urine. it was kind of fun but not really exciting once you had been there a couple of times. this particular time, i remember i was in seventh grade, and he told me he wasn’t ready to go. often i would go to the main library, which was only a few blocks from the hospital, and afterwards meet my father when he got off from work. on a few occasions i would get there earlier than his getting off time of 4:30pm and would sit around reading until he was ready. but this particular time it was after 4:30. he said he had some extra work he had to do. as most children do, i said, ok.

 

he told me, come on. follow me. and we got on the elevator and headed to the basement. i walked behind him trying my best to keep up. my father was a fast walker. i’ll never forget his story about walking to new orleans from donaldsonville, louisiana. we twisted and turned through the basement. down this corridor, through that door, into another hallway, through another set of doors. i really wasn’t paying much attention. didn’t read any signs or anything. i didn’t have to. i was following my father.  and then we went through the last door.

 

and there it was. a corpse. i balked about ten feet away. the naked body was laid out on a big table that had a ridge around it and pans on carts next to it. the chest was cut completely open with the left and right rib cage folded back. a pan with internal organs was next to the torso. and worse yet, the top of the head was gone. i mean completely sawed off. the brains was in another pan.

 

i don’t remember it stinking or nothing. my daddy said, you can watch me or you can sit over there. over there was only like five or so feet away. i sat way over there. pulled a book out and buried my head in the book while my daddy started messing with that body. it would have been ok except they were making a lot of strange noises. my daddy was sewing the body back together with a big old needle and thread as thick as twine. when he started putting that man’s head back together and sewing the scalp back over the skull, it made this sucking kind of sound.

 

i had, of course, been to funerals before and seen bodies laid out at church, but this was my first really memorable experience with death. at that moment, i was de-romanticized about any thing i thought about dead bodies. i realized that for my daddy, death just brought another job he had to do. in fact it was a good job because it paid him overtime.

 

so this is what happens to you when you die. this is what an autopsy is all about.

 

between that time and my next memorable death experience i graduated from high school. in fact it was february of 1965, the year after i graduated. and, no, kennedy’s assassination was not a memorable death experience for me. by the end of high school i had been active in the civil rights movement: sitting in at woolworth’s and schwegmann’s lunch counters, picketing on canal street, knocking on doors and doing voter registration work in the black community. kennedy had never been a hero of mine. so here i was up in northfield, minnesota, a small town whose claim to fame was that’s where jesse james did his last bank robbery. the local folk had laid a trap for mr. james and they almost caught him. the james gang was badly hurt in the resulting shoot out and disbanded after that attempt. anyway, i was at carleton college. i hated it there and would leave in less than two months, but i also learned a lot there.

 

i was working at the college radio station doing a jazz show. my show came on on sunday nights from 8pm to 10pm, if i remember correctly. part of my job at the station was to get there by 7:30pm and literally rip the news off the teletype. it used to come in automatically and there was this big roll of paper that fed into a box. all the news, weather, sports and whatever. and you had to gather up that long roll of paper and cut it up, or rip it, to separate the items you wanted from the ones you didn’t.

 

there were only 13 black students at carleton, and 8 of us were freshman, so you know how lonely we were. that particular night, linda, a girl from little rock, was visiting my show. as i remember we were the only two black students from the deep south. and when i started ripping the news, i got the first and all subsequent reports: malcolm x had been shot. dead. linda was crying and my eyes were kind of blurry too.

 

at first it was just a line or two, and then later more and more info streamed over on the loudly clattering machine. i’m ripping the news of malcolm’s death for some college kid to read. i don’t know how much, if any of that news item was read that night on carleton’s radio show, but i was strangely very, very affected by malcolm’s death. i say strangely, because i was not a muslim. i was not a follower of malcolm in the sense of being part of any organization, but i was, like many, many people my age, an ardent admirer.

 

why? what was it about malcolm? over the years i have had time to think about it and rather than focus on him, i realize now the focus was on myself and parallels that i scarcely recognized back then, if i saw any of them at all. for one, we both rejected the civil rights movement.

 

i remember sitting on the steps of mt.zion methodist church before our weekly n-double a-c-p youth council meeting. we had been the main force picketing and leading the boycott on canal street. after close to a year of demonstrating, the merchants decided they wanted to negotiate. we said, sure. they said, stop picketing and we can talk. we said, let’s make an agreement and we will stop. the merchants balked. in response to the impasse the adult branch of the naacp, then led by the future first black mayor of new orleans, ernest “dutch” morial, instructed the youth council to stop picketing so negotiations could proceed.

 

we were adamant. we’d stop when the merchants met our demands. not before. the national office sent down wally moon, one of the main officials to instruct us, stop picketing or we will put you out of the naacp. they didn’t have to tell me twice. i decided to leave.

 

for close to two years, the youth council had been my life, consuming all my free time and a lot of my thoughts even when i was in school. i was a few years younger than the leading members, who were mainly college students but they were my gang, whom i hung out with, admired, wanted to be like.

 

i sat there on those church steps and finally decided: i couldn’t do it. anyone who has ever, for whatever reasons, abandoned a love can appreciate the pain of this voluntary separation. that was my first divorce.

 

malcolm had divorced himself from the muslims. also, malcolm was advocating internationalism and self-determination. i agreed with both. plus, malcolm had been a preacher--well, officially he had been a muslim minister, but anyone familiar with his oratory knew that malcolm was not just a master minister, he was a full blooded, get down preacher who spoke so eloquently both birds and angels hushed their singing while he was delivering the word. amen.

 

i had been groomed to hold forth in the pulpit, i knew a thing or two about public speaking, and i knew that malcolm was about the best we had, martin luther king notwithstanding. king had dreams but malcolm had the fire.

 

to paraphrase malcolm’s eloquent post mortem, the march on washington had been a picnic. the white man told those negroes when they could march, where they could march, how long they could march and when to leave town, and you know what, they came when the white man said you can come and they said what the white man wanted said and they left when the white man said go! malcolm. malcolm. el hajj malik shabazz, malcolm x.

 

knowing about the organizers’ attempt to censor the march on washington speech of john lewis, the chairman of the student nonviolent organizing committee, whom walter reuther (of the afl-cio) and others considered too militant was proof to me that malcolm had been right. the sell-out house negroes and their white liberal supporters were emasculating our leadership. i was a young man; speaking truth to power was a sine qua non of my definition of manhood, and in that regard no nationally recognized black leader was more man than malcolm.

 

plus as an insider, i knew all the stories, tales and gossip about our black leaders--king as a philanderer; this one on the take; the other one married to a white woman; on and on. but  when it came to malcolm there was nothing, and malcolm was so hard on middle class negro leadership, i knew that if anyone had anything on malcolm we all would have been made aware. malcolm was a model of leadership in a category unto himself. and now he was gone.

 

days afterwards, i tried to find out as much as i could. and when i saw one of the death scenes: malcolm carted out on a gurney, his head back and to the side, his mouth sort of open, i thought about that body my father had sewn up and wondered would malcolm be cut up like that. my subsequent thoughts were about the men who shot malcolm, how they could do it. death comes in many forms, but for us in the movement, the hardest to confront is the seeming endless cases of black-on-black killings. 

 

death makes you think. at first you just recoil in shock, but sooner or later, the philosophical aspects confront and confound. malcolm’s murder in particular initiated many hours of trying to figure out what, if anything, i could do to address, and ultimately stop, black on black murder. i was too young to know how old that particular problem was. fratricide has never been a racial issue, has never been anything but a human issue, and mainly a human male issue.

 

nevertheless, when your leader and hero dies at the hands of our own, you never forget. i don’t recall what music i played the night malcolm died. despite any nostalgia for my youth and the glory days of seemingly boundless energy and optimism (which two qualities are, after all, the hallmarks of youth regardless of the specifics of any particular time period), despite the fog of memory and the hunger for the good old days (isn’t it oxymoronic that we call the days of our youth “the good old days”?), despite any and all of that, all i remember about that sunday night is malcolm was assassinated. our movement was in crisis. i was in crisis. those were difficult days.

 

—kalamu ya salaam

POEM: THERE'S NO BIG ACCOMPLISHMENT IN ACTING WHITE

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

There's no big accomplishment in acting white

(after being subjected to some third stream muzak)

 

 

1.

if a chamber orchestra / complete

 w/tympani as percussion

 

plays a pentatonic scale

 

includes six and one half bars 

of flute improvisation

 

& the tune was composed

by an intelligent moor

 

does that make it

black

 music?

 

 

2.

does a dollop of musical melanin

make orchestral scores

something blood might

want to dance to

or squeeze lover flesh to

or fit to express 

what we been through?

 

is acting 

white

really more profound 

than afrikan aesthetics?

 

more tragic more magic 

more real more desirous

than soulful us jumping straight up

and being down, head thrown back

wailing into the blue, slightly off their key

but in our tune, blowing bodaciously 

like there was no tomorrow

 

must we really 

dot all our eyes

with fields of blue,

cross all our tee's with the deafening silence

of liberal-arts-degreed negroes demonstrating 

they have arrived by sitting quiet 

legs crossed and morosely 

concentrating on deciphering 

well modulated arias

which resist the tapping foot, still 

the bobbing head and 

reject the shaking of any entraced 

body movements other than polite 

and discreetly tepid applause 

to indicate we're in the pocket?

 

must we make ourselves

into something our enemies love 

to listen to

in order for us and our art 

to be considered human?

 

 

3.

if you want to play compose and be respected

as a classical musician why not just do that

and not insist that there is anything culturally black

about such a quest except perhaps our skin

and a few references to your lynched

history thrown in

 

why not just openly embrace what they do

and be what you've been trained to do

there is nothing prohibiting you

or me or any of we

from acting white

 

except maybe our individual angst 

constantly trying to justify

that there be something real

black about passing

over into the age-old truth 

of negro life and history,

abjectly supplicating to white supremacy

with a sambo-colored shibboleth

on our lips: boss, i may not be quite your color,

but i've disciplined my black ass to be your kind

 

 

4.

acting like our bodies are not us

is one of the most frequent ways

educated blacks manifest

they are cultured

 

the denial of blackness

is petite bourgeois power

 

insisting 

 

there is nothing wrong

with disappearing

 

into the tinkling 

quiet

 

of a well composed 

 

ode 

 

to otherness

 

 

 

—kalamu ya salaam

POEM: JANIS JOPLIN

 

 

Janis Joplin/poor white-refuse

refugee running for cover of rock, 

 

like a baby with an hereditary

birth defect, i didn't ask

for this white skin privilege;

this maximum security

with guards everywhere

and the wall so far off

so high, so hard to scale

minefields of twinkling consumables

studding the distance between

me and the rest of humanity,

a spiraling bob of drugs at the top

 

and i ain't asking for no

mercy neither, no pity, none

of yall tears, anyway,

i'm going to kill myself

or at least die trying

 

they say i'm so wild

cause all what i need is a man,

a real man, a hard on

but like once a man was in me

and said "god, you so ugly

i can't look" but so what

is his opinion anyway but

a thirty second commercial

he thinks he's a man

he thinks niggers stink

he thinks i'm a piece of meat

he's my father, my brother

and this is no gentle incest

nor any human touch

 

so i will do these insane acts

i will sing in the night

say what i want

drink and be driven crazy

put a tombstone

and real flowers on

a black woman's grave

and have no regrets, no

regrets

 

—kalamu ya salaam

POEM: TASTY KNEES

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

Tasty Knees

 

in the dark of touch

my face pressed heavy

to your head i open

my eyes and see the

night hair of you dark

as the lightless black

of a warm womb's interior,

your wetness inviting touch

your earth quakes, shakes and opens

as my rod my staff

slids across your ground

though i want to scream i

resolve to remain mute

as a militant refusing to snitch

to the improper authorities, but

suddenly, a riot of joy breeches my resolve

and i disperse the joyous quiet of our union

with an involuntary shout loud

as a bull elephant's triumphant ejaculation

 

of course i am exaggerating, but my, my, my

your knees did taste some good, yeah

 

—kalamu ya salaam

POEM: MY SHOES ARE OFF

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

My Shoes Are Off

 

 

when i think of you

i take my shoes off, would take

off all my clothes, but then if someone

walked in the door they might

not quite understand

why

 

i sit

reared back in my chair

nude

perfectly relaxed

smiling

 

and thinking

about

 

the sound

 

of your voice

a thousand miles away

 

—kalamu ya salaam

POEM: DOWN TO EARTH / IN HOUSE

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

 

down to earth

         /in house

 

 

yr silent smile is feeding

the tender screams

of my emerging ecstasy

 

i float above you &

eloquently flow

into the receptive wet

 

of yr patiently powerful

sensuality, the deep suck

of yr wide lips, yr

insistent nibble

of my hard male nipples

 

i am running for the border

but you are enfolding me into

the limitlessness of yr

wide open spaces

 

& when i can no longer steer

the controls of my soaring, i

collapse into the safety

net of yr laughing arms ready

to receive and caress my breathless

body, thrashing and heaving, urgent

as a dark fish flailing

outside the security of water

 

over my head

there is a roof

yet stars nonetheless

are exploding in my eyes,

yr irresistible gravity

has gripped all my strategic

satellites & enforced the

joyous disintegration of reentry

 

my burly, black & bearded face falls

slow floating to yr undulating earth

and effortlessly buries itself

into the welcoming nude

warmth of yr pulsing brown

breasts which invite me to pause,

to dream, to rest, reflect

 

within the wonderful

world of women

man is an alien

constantly seeking

to revisit the moment

of his birth

 

—kalamu ya salaam


POEM + AUDIO: I LOOK BUT WHAT IS THERE TO SEE?

 

 

I Look But What Is There To See?

 

look

ing for

you is like

standing

on the track

staring at the space

 

left

 

by a slow train

what done long

gone

 

around the bend

 

only

the whistle sound

faintly

in the air

 

and the ground’s

vibration

felt down

to your toes

 

nothing

 

more.

 

—kalamu ya salaam

 

_____________________

 

Kalamu ya Salaam – vocals

Stephan Richter – clarinet

Wolfi Schlick – reeds

Frank Bruckner – guitar

Mathis Mayer - cello

Georg Janker - bass

Michael Heilrath - bass

Roland HH Biswurm - drums

 

 

Recorded: June 14, 1998 – "ETA Theatre" Munich, Germany

HAIKU: INDIGO'S HAIKU SEQUENCE

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

indigo’s haiku sequence

 

one.

at dawn the seed of

life enters—at midnight the

fruit of life exits

 

two.

only our dark depths

ego empty can contain

the vastness of light

 

three.

thinking is dry dust

feeling is moist mud—we are

more water than dirt

 

—kalamu ya salaam

 

PROSE POEM: KISS THE FROG

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

KISS THE FROG

(A Poem With Substance But Without Form / It Made Itself As It Went Along)

 

            "There is never any end. There are always new sounds to imagine, new feelings to get at. And always there is the need to keep purifying these feelings and sounds so that we can really see what we've discovered in its pure state. So that we can see more and more clearly what we are. In that way, we can give to those who listen the essence, the best of what we are. But to do that at each stage, we have to keep on cleaning the mirror."

                                                                        —John William Coltrane

 

i am not certain what i am writing, where this task will take me, why and from whence the words stream forth, even what impels me to open my skin to the radiation from a computer screen--my style is such that i now reach for a keyboard before a pencil or pen, there is a sensation pleasingly tactile for me in tapping the keys, tactile in the same way i have heard others who don't like computers describe the manual motion of noting, the heft of the fountain pen, ink flowing, or the scrape of graphite as the pencil marks the page, you can actually hear the pencil point swoshing bumpily over the paper without benefit of the liquidity of ink to smooth its moving—but i write anyway because beyond the creativity, the profession, the hosannas i sometimes receive for something i've written, beyond the mundane, exploration itself is exciting, especially when i am exploring what is presumably the known yet is ever changing and never accurately charted, when i am uncovering the interior me.

 

who—or should i say what writer, what serious artist?—does not know the self, has not examined closely, with or without aid of some kind of mirror, the mind being the chief reflector, but really candid talks with lovers, children, parents and lifelong friends giving a more true image, talks when words just tumble forth without the constraint of consideration weighing them, those freewheeling conversations where we actually say everything, withhold nothing, and leave with our mouths atingle, sort of like a sip of carbonated water rinsing away whatever taste was already there. what i'm saying is that—i mean what i'm writing, it's just that for me writing is a form of "saying," a textual sounding of what i feel or think or both—anyway, what i'm trying to get to is not only the old saw about the unexamined life not being worth living, i am going further, i am blowing trane's tune when trane spoke about keeping the mirror clean, that's what i want: unrelenting honesty with myself, the facing of all my foibles and fantasies, my accomplishments as well as my failures, especially my omissions when, for whatever reason, i lay back when i should have propelled myself forward. the exploration of the self is the intrepid journey, or at least one would like to think of oneself as being intrepid in investigating the self, but isn't it true that if there is one spirit we all fear it is the shadow self, that part of us which usually goes unexamined, the persona whose face we deign not kiss for fear our lips land on the warty countenance of the frog that croaks inside everyone of us, the frog, the secret-knowing, fly-eating, maladjusted, toad-ugly, anti-social night creature who resides at the bottom of our personality wells, splashes around in our deepest water and just waits, just waits...

 

—kalamu ya salaam