a letter to comrade czerny,
1.
“being” is all the destiny there is—that we can move, choose to do or not do one action or another, travel or be tethered/anchored, seek the sweets we want to taste or complain about the bitter shoved down our throats; that we are random bits of chance and circumstance somewhat directed by choice and consciousness—well, that is all i believe there is, indeed, what is commonly called “fate” may be nothing more than our futile attempts to make sense of the hugeness of coincidence and the meagerness of our own human abilities to both micro-manage and intellectually justify all that happens, which is also why people say “god knows,” in both exasperation and explanation, admitting that while it is impossible for humans to know the mysteries, it is unthinkable for someone or something not to know the meaning and workings of life.
some say the world is so well-ordered that the basic and interrelated structure of the universe is, in and of itself, proof of the existence of god. but the sun rising and setting every day (well, really the planet spinning on its axis) is not what really astounds us; no, what causes pause is the unexpected meeting, the fortuitous number played in a lotto, a phone call from an old friend, finding five dollars on the sidewalk, an old picture viewed from a new angle years later when our hearts are in a different place, etc.
what we make of our being, that is not the gods or the universe, that is our own doing and for those of us who are conscious, who are political, who are alive—you said i sound young, like a little boy, if so, perhaps it is because i am still growing.
2.
i am thinking of water. big bodies of water. lakes. long rivers too deep, too wide to wade. oceans and seas. sitting on a seawall watching the waves and letting the heavy, in-and-out of water motion relax us, make love, in a sense, to us. african americans are water born(e).
some mornings when the familiar is missing and, on the other hand, those whom we normally hold at a distance suddenly sit uninvited on our faces, slow-stirring our inner feelings until we ache and are forced to accept the intensity of an undeniable longing to talk softly with that someone, that particular person whom we consider a comrade of the heart, even when, indeed, especially when, that person’s physical being is not present; they are in some space we are not. it is disconcerting, isn’t it, to realize how much we can miss what we never experienced but what we “know” might have been, and in some minute instant even believe might still become, a union we know that would have been/could still be welcomingly warm—“know” is such a weak word for what we feel, and love is too particular a description for this vague sense, comforting as an after-the-rain summer twilight, perhaps this missing is a personal saudade, a feeling of loss for a flower that never bloomed but whose fruition we are certain could have been undeniably beautiful—there are parts of me that are you, most times far too small to notice but nevertheless so potent that when you called, enough of me was moved that the rest of me had to wait a minute while i stood staring into the air and wondering about how your voice-touch is so unerring in piercing my vulnerability.
be blackly well, comrade czerny.
a luta continua,
kalamu
—kalamu ya salaam