| I'll keep explaining—because maybe you still don't get it Those children in California (substitute any state), dead from gunfire— Let me begin again in a little roof garden with my friend A perverse reader, he listens to my stories as if they were TV I mean he mocks me lovingly on the roof and at the library book sale My friend is not a banker but a prison activist He used to be a philosopher, but like many philosophers, he's taken a turn that should be easy to understand The trajectory from philosopher to activist is like the curve of a single brushstroke across a large canvas Artists in the fifties paid attention to that I hate flat language like this, but I'm pretty flat sometimes. You have to be your own dictator and the law is, hate yourself if you have to, but don't stop doing the thing you said you were going to do As I tell my daughters often Emotion is a site of unraveling (JB) I admit, gripping my T-shirt I wish I were writing in prose an unfolding intensity that shocks history professors and prison activists equally Later, in the grass, we'll practice gymnastics and that way contribute our sweat to Our Ephemeral City Copyright © 2017 Julie Carr. Used with permission of the author. |
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