Me.My.You.We.

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When you’re given lined paper, ask what are the lines.

I’d be remiss if I proceeded without giving credit to David Foster Wallace so before I go any further, credit him. At least with the conceptual basis of my initial thought. Yet a friend, a close friend, brought to my attention the following: what is autonomy without structure? Agency and the like are defined by “the lines.” To choose to live between the lines is to acknowledge that there are lines, no? That makes sense, doesn’t it? I promise I’m not being confusing for the sake of pseudo-intellectualism, or some self-indulgent desire to be “meta.” Frankly, that ostentatious bulls*&t only irks me.

Honestly, I’m contemplating with the aid of my keyboard and hoping some tangible learning will manifest. If not, I came. I typed. I babbled. I tried…

But one has to wonder is it meaningful to question for the sake of questioning. I can’t help but wonder how many OWS protestors protest because it’s en vogue; protest to have concrete opposition for a life laden with failure; protest to avoid boredom, boredom that creates space for contemplation, contemplation which, for most, is terrifying; protest to be apart of a body; protest for acceptance. How many know the power and the meaning of protesting? I’d be a fool to say I grasp the meaning of the act of protesting. I can only surmise the meaning. I could, and may very well, be wrong but I see protesting as both a declaration and a question. It declares that I deserve more and questions the quality of some facet of life. It ponders could this system, country, world be just.

a.

touch.

better than it is. The question mark, negligently, pardons us from responsibility. The question mark, courageously, demands accountability from others. The question mark is our adversary. The question mark is our savior. When given the paper, what will you do: ask what the lines are or wonder why we’re writing at all?

#HerEyes

*They dance

Dancing involves leaping or skipping with a rhythmic pattern, deep exhalations between beats

Skin meets cloth, friction creating a light film of perspiration

Turning, spinning or gyrating, feet that work in accord creating a music of their own (tip…tap…tap, tap, tip, tip, tap, tap, tap, tip) 

It’s done in large groups, drunkenly, sloppily, tips of shoes clipping stiletto tips

Gravely/formally in pairs to Baroque draped in pretenses, erudite, stiff movements that few enjoy

And by individuals—all the same, never the same

Takes place in churches bathed in the Spirit, accompanying bellows in morning showers and even on the gig for reasons that have nothing to do with productivity 

A language of gestures, understood without exceptions, spoken by all 

*They’re fathomless

Have you ever thought about the beauty found depths under the sea—that fathomless **black hole?

The life who, not that, exist in a world few human eyes will ever see—will not see unless using the lens of technology 

Copious crustaceans living a solitary life, living God’s life unaided, unabated life as it was meant to be lived

It’s something beautiful in not being able to quantify things/objects

Not being able to wrap our minds around size, number or shape  

There are some things in life that we’ll never be able to describe, not aptly. We’re meant to exist & experience these things. We pay homage to these things by appreciating them and thanking our fucking stars that God sewed them into the fabric that is life. Prose only post, post modernizes the moment (if that makes sense), the object or that creature and yet I feel that I wouldn’t be serving Him, disserving him even, if I didn’t try to create some of account of Her eyes. 

*They’re Her eyes

**Disregard the typical associations and connotations associated with black here