Once in a while, repopulate and penetrate, paint a list of incitement onto the walls. An elder told him that to overturn the city, one must surrender body/belongings to the one explosive spectacle of truth, making it ongoing. Pay attention. To overturn the city, not just the scraps but fervor itself. Not just the wan broadcast of indignation but IRL incursions into the workhouses and poorhouses
It was necessary to move, and at this exit the beggar, cross-legged at the fork of the tunnel, calls out Love! A welcome, of sorts. The night light fucks the suburb into nightmare familiarity — not like a shrammed nerd touting guided walks and histories that contract imagination for demolition work, levelling today’s housing, restoring common greens, lingering at sites orphaned of their fever hospitals — by no means that hyperliterate, poor entrepreneur —
It is the view, the barbed wire roaring into view round and round the playground walltop. It is the warehouse, warehouse windows blank of occupation. It is lives, lives supplied in great number, fulfilment of numbers. It is the sense of something shared — the tailor scissors razoring open fishmouth stitches, the sewn-up pocket of the new suit, and finding something —
But it is new, all new, even the gangs who graffiti chimneys scrubbed and lovely, deleted like the railways delete repeatedly the head, the occasionally payrolled head, the feet of the quartered commuters, of the vertebral week.
Which I do believe added to my survival skills. I remember thinking one day as we were pulling out of the driveway, as I was waving good-bye to my best friends, whom I would never see again…. At least half of your mind is always thinking, I’ll be leaving; this won’t last. It’s a good Buddhist attitude. If I were a Buddhist, this would be a great help. As it is, I’m just sad. -anne carson