Friends! Creatures. Here’s a post. Today these two incredible creature-writers, these goddamn power-house energy-manifestations Ana Božičević and Amy King, gave my blog, this very silly thing, a shout out at PEN amongst some hero-names. I just want to take a moment to say something here that’s been long coming. It’s not about the shout-out. These two folks are tireless explosions who just keep going outward with the red shift. I met them at the CUNY chapbook festival a couple years ago and they have supported me so much ever since. It’s because they f-ing care about women writers and other disenfranchised folks, and their explosions revolve around it. I want people to know about them. Go to their web pages, read their work, their creative work and their essays. They are examples of what we need in this world to make a better world.
Sometimes I cry because I read articles that tell me only 250 tigers remain in Thailand or that capitalist fuckwads are blowing the tops off mountains and blasting the debris into poor valleys–literal and metaphorical–and the head-hearts who inhabit them. Sometimes I’m a body-horizon in my bed for way too long, ruminating about pigs who become pork and the girls I knew in Burma who risked their lives sleeping on boats near enemy guns to learn the definition of “democracy”, because that word’s censored from their dictionary, and how all suffering’s connected but how different suffering is from pain and how the former is a narrated clusterfuck of the latter and is almost always unnecessary. I look at the trees behind my house where the police say a 9-year old may or may not have lied about being nearly hung to death with a jump-rope while I was doing yoga stretches in my living room fifty feet away, and I think to myself, just fucking take care of each other. Just fucking shut up and take care of each other already. And I make these connections that strain my tendons regarding bodies and animals and all kinds of us who are connected and are scared to see how much so, how deeply. Then some folks, the above-mentioned and many others, many more than I am expecting, come marching along, who realize that there’s a choice between being a shit-filled crop-duster infiltrating the earth’s heart and a golden superhero taking leaps and risks to love. That’s all I’m saying, that latter thing. Be that thing. Be that risk. You’re going to die anyways. Be that risk of love. Why are you alive if not for that? I ask myself this question often. Ask it with me.
There are other things I wanted to write about that are now seeming significant in their tonal difference. Let me make some space:
1) The synchronized dives of the Olympics lead to an uncanny valley. Robots exist. I don’t know if they are sentient or not. If they are… fuck. I’ll get back to you.
2) Blenders, turnip greens, strength training for the revolution, conversations about veganism with folks who think they have a lot of differences when they don’t actually, irrelevant iterations of the “Pink Panther” theme in the background, appreciation of arguments that do not involve personal accusation, TNH, tigers, earth, what to say out loud. I want to write your face lightly while rolling my ankle to “Paint It Black.” Don’t ponder alleged details. I sure haven’t.