Whatever happens
What are we doing? Embracing each other as we are? Holding onto each other for dear life? The answer is yes.
I ask, what are we doing?
I ask because I want to know. Less because I believe there is a perfect answer or action. Because I want to know, quite literally, what are we doing? As in, presently. I, for instance, am trying to string one word after the next and minding my posture. I am searching my body for signs of strain and, finding none, thank whatever god is listening. Thank you.
I am reading I Who Have Never Known Men and thrilled by it—when her heart becomes a clock. When she sets her mind to stare at a man until he feels shame.
I am in Chicago, on the floor of Nermin’s living room, gathering my muscles. It is the day after Typeforce, an art show I’ve been going to for ten years, and I am writing a list of everyone I held close to me last night—
Will. Maddie, who turns 30 next week. Lemmy, my lemon, and Leah, like lee-ah. Heather, darling Emily, André, another Emily—equally marvelous as the first, though much taller. Jess and Taylor, Dean who has a goatee now and looked so handsome in his joy. Lindsay and Lindsay’s sister, Megan, who I used to think looked just like Lindsay though now I know they look just like themselves. Linda, oh my god, the way I love and admire her. I can barely look at Nedaa without smiling. Amer, Kinan, Rocio. I hugged and shared a joint with Alibaster, whose mind I thank my lucky stars to know at least every other day, and Amy Nicole, who once tricked me into doing the most frightening thing I’ve ever done—stand up on a stage with a mic for five minutes and try to make people laugh. It was lovely. I met and hugged Shirien, I was as starstruck as I’ve been, but then, I laid my real eyes on Mai for the very first time, my real eyes. And I started weeping. It was one of the top five hugs of my life. I held LaMere in my arms, he recalled how 16 years ago he kept inviting me to parties until I came to the parties and everything about my world changed then. LaMere brought Bart who I met three or thirteen times in those days and eventually Bart remembered. I hugged David and Jonelle and met Ava, nine-years old. I hugged Sami, nine-years old, who asked if I brought my weird socks with me to Chicago (I did.). The children were magnificent. Mary, with her always excellent frames and lip, from whom I learn so much. Kristen, Nick in his red shirt and Lyndon in green, Lyndon who spoke so inquisitively and imaginatively about what lies beyond care, which is to say love, and what it requires—struggle, stretch, trust, a willingness to risk conflict, chaos, dangerous terrain, even without a map, I mean faith. She spoke of faith. Or that’s what I heard, and remember. Nariman wore the most wonderful earrings—an inverted red triangle in one ear, a slice of watermelon in the other. The night was embroidered and I was a stitch.
We know how to make heaven on earth. I ask again, what are we doing?
Tonight Lindsay and Emily will come here, to the floor where I am. We’ll drink tea and snack. Tomorrow I’ll go watch Lem win at pool then listen to poems and poets in a neighborhood I once lived in for thirteen years. I will go where there is life, and by life I mean love, and find what I need, and share what I have. I will be where my feet are, Nermin keeps reminding us. I will tell anyone who asks about the earth whatever I know. It’s not much. I will eat soup dumplings in Chinatown, injera in Edgewater and, if I’m lucky, break bread with Mai. I will listen, lord help me listen, and speak faithfully my dearest intentions. I will make a year and a life big enough to name what I love and am willing to move my whole body toward, which is everything, really. It must be.
We must learn to love each other fiercely. It’s the only world worth making. Act like you understand what love means. Share seeds. Do your pushups. Tell cops nothing. Buy no bullshit. Get as strong as you can and stay that way. Learn to say what needs saying out loud. We don’t know what’s coming. We can’t, we never have. Stay ready. Stay.
Anyway. Here’s a poem.
Prayer
Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.
Galway Kinnell
"Stay ready. Stay." — One of my mentors once told me: "Loving is staying." So yes to this a hundred thousand times.
Il faut cultiver notre jardin