Somberly,
Less
And this way he replied:
My dearest Less—
There are no words . . . only these: A child is an extension of the soul, the soul of its progenitor, the parent; and as the child grows, becomes strong, robust—the parent, the entity from whence he came, becomes . . . less; for that is the order of things: The parent (prima causa) sacrifices for the child his self, his soul, until resources are depleted, until nothing is left, and the parent is no more; not even Cronos could alter this. However, if the effect (the child) perishes before the affect (the parent), the soul is disturbed; for its growth, its extension, is lost, thus disturbing the order of things, thus disturbing order.
But these words only illustrate why you are hurting, and explain nothing about your future mending, which, sadly, I have no knowlege of. Be that as it may, know that your sorrow now extends to me; for I too shall bare your burden, as if Ian were the child to whom my soul would someday pass. And so, Less, with me you are more.—
Most Sincerely,
A Concerned Citizen
The seventh (and final):
To him:
—Happiness is something I will never know, not will it ever know me.
—No greater pain have I ever known than that which comes from reflection.
—The worst thing, however, is that at 27 the best is over, and now I must face the rest of my days knowing no future as grand as childhood.
—And she can give to me nothing!—not the love I want, nor the acceptance I require.
—When I die, I don't want Heaven; give me the universe!
—There is no hate more potent than mine for life—for my own or anyone else's.
—Today I began carrying a hammer in my gym bag; and as I carried it (the bag in which the hammer rested), I dreamt that every woman was a nail.
—There are moments on this earth when nothing matters: not the pleasant breeze of summer, nor the calming warmth of my lover's arms. It was during one such moment that I decided to leave this place for another, in search of solitude and better days.
—What ought to be . . . will.
Frankly,
Me
And the response:
To Me (and to the heart of the matter):
You no doubt suffer from depression; I too suffer from this, which comes and goes and comes again—indeed, there is rarely a day when I don't fear its arrival, never a moment when I don't look for it to appear. The following is a passage from when last depression touched me; I hope my thoughts are helpful.
BLUE TO BLACK
The mind—by this I mean, that part of us resting just beneath the conscious, far beyond the reach of man or machine—the mind, I say, never lies; and it is for this reason that mortals suffer depression: for while the conscious can be tricked into believing falsities, the subconscious (the mind) is impervious to our fairy tales, which we create to make life less severe.
Beyond its inability to hide from truth, the mind (the subconscious) is perpetual, that is, it never stops its work—thinking, constructing, destroying, conjoining ideas without rest, and doing so for no other cause than the fulfillment of its purpose, which is discovery! —and it discovers no matter how harsh or unpleasant the result, no matter our feelings; for what is emotion to the mind, which knows only reason.
Again: The mind is a device for absorbing truth, and the knowledge it consumes is redirected by us, to be altered and obscured; to the conscious goes the tainted truth, and to the subconscious goes the pure—and our ability to access the latter's information is determined by innate predispositions; for example: The dim have almost no entranceway into the mind, and, because of this, have its contents infected by the conscious, which almost always spoils its fruits. The smart, however, who are intellectually inclined (though only somewhat), have greater access to the mind, but are unable to do this freely and are often confused by the gifts of the subconcious, and so stumble around using mostly intuition, like the dumb, just not as feebly. It is only those blessed with genius who, at so high a perch, have the best view and thus passage into the mind, and, as a result, can both easily access and comprehend its treasures; for genius has the ability to tap into the subconscious and bring the idea to the fore, the pure idea, the uncut idea, one not diluted by commonness. This is why, more often than not, the genius, being surrounded by us who are mostly deaf and blind, the genius, I say, is rarely understood, for he is speaking to those who cannot possibly see or hear him.
(DEPRESSION: HOW THE MIND SUPPLIES IT FUEL)
As we previously noted, the mind is composed of two parts—the conscious and the subconscious—and both have a significant purpose: the subconscious, to discern the truth; the conscious, to mainly protect us from it—indeed, most would be unable to function if the truth of their world were revealed. For example: How could the poor bare their lives if, suddenly, they understood that most, despite their efforts, will remain impoverished until death? And how could the ugly, the homely, the wretchedly offensive—how could they endure a second knowing what the subconscious knows, that no matter how many pretty clothes they purchase, or pretty people they befriend, no matter how much money they acquire to be spent on pretty things, no matter these, they will always be ugly? And so the conscious, to protect them from harshest truth, keeps reality at bay and supplies each with hope, the most effective hallucinogen.
However, sometines the conscious is overwhelmed; for some have existence so miserable that all truth cannot be kept behind the veil—this, of course, ultimately leads to depression, a state in which the world (your world) beomes all too clear.
(THE VOICE OF REASON:
HOW IT WHISPERS UNTIL WE ARE DEAF)
Once the subconscious begins to crack, to break, then eventually, to burst, a sudden stream of awareness makes its way into our thoughts, and we are, understandably, overwhelmed. In order to function, the conscious, newly burdened, creates for itself a helper (a hindrance), which manifests itself in a voice we soon come to hear. At first the voice is quite reasonable (afterall, it was created to help us); however, over time, as reality makes itself know (for now it bares no masks, and we are entirely exposed), the voice becomes too honest, and guides us towards escape, by this I mean, suicide, which was an option previously unrealized before reason made it known.
To extend beyond this point: The spirit is separate from the mind—moreover, the spirit is separate from the body, the world, the universe, and is free to explore all things. The spirit, unlike the mind, has no stake in our being, that is, it exists beyond us, despite us, and will do so long after we are gone.
(ON THE SPIRIT'S SELF-INTERESTED DESIGN,
AND HOW WE SUFFER FROM IT)
The spirit, however liberated from the body, is, nevertheless, trapped; for as long as there is a body, and with it a mind, it (the spirit, the soul) is deprived of omniscience, which occurs because of us, who are but anchors of the soul. And so, the spirit has as its design a complete and total separation from its jailer, man, which it accomplishes upon his death; and since the spirit is impatient, it hastens our end by twisting logic and altering reason, which happily assures us that, to be free of torment, death is the only way.—
These are just a few of my notes on the subject; I do not wish to burden you with more, which would, because of volume, bring you to the floor.—Keep healthy, by strengthening your mind: suffer books, endure symphonies, so that, like me, you will be able to resist the voice which so often calls our name.
Sincerely,
Me Too
Having ended with these words, ***** named and sealed each envelope, then slid all beneath his door, unconcerned if any reached their destinations, for his mind was consumed by other things. The correspondence had taken its toll; the notes, each of them (but especially the latter two), had freed emotions which had, he thought, long been restrained, held down, and put to rest; but before him now was Sorrow, Anger, Grief, and Despair, who had come for conversation.
&n
bsp; Chopin played, beautifully, and as the notes descended, so too did the listener, whose mood grew dark, whose pleasantness faded into shadow; for suddenly, before him was the truth, uncut and pure: he was pathetic, he was alone, he was afraid . . . of gravity.
Slowly, cautiously, he began removing from his pockets all that they contained, and, moving for the window, felt his body rising from the floor, his soul smiling from the heavens (for soon it would be free). Shortly after, ***** was no more; and though he had long believed it to be his enemy, on this day, Gravity was his friend.
FROM The Queen of Harlem
BY BRIAN KEITH JACKSON
Yo. Yo wassup?” asks a young man, planting himself in front of me. Though the temperature hardly warrants it, he's already wearing his new black parka, with fur trimming the hood. The coat is his business suit, different from the one I wear but a business suit nonetheless. “You cool?” That is all he says, and I fully understand the nature of the weather report.
I smile, somewhat tempted by the offer, but I pass with a simple lift of the hands. The moment does find me cool, so the young man, with a swagger and a sway, pushes off on his way. He doesn't take it personally; in his business, and in mine, a no is a yes, an offer away.
“Great day, huh?” says a guy walking by with a briefcase.
“Yeah,” I say. “Can't complain.”
“I hear ya. Have a good one.”
“You too.”
Autumn has alwyas been my favorite season. It's when time turns back on itself, if only for an hour.
Spring forward. Fall back.
I sit on the stoop of the town house, checking out the refurbished Marcus Garvey Park, which has been renamed Mount Morris. The leaves, going through their changes, sway with the breeze in the air as though Billie Holiday is singing “Autumn in New York.”
I cherish the moment because I haven't been back to this street, haven't been back to New York, in four years. But here I sit where it all began.
A group of kids on the sidewalk across the street are double-Dutching, maybe hoping to one day take the crown back from the Japanese team. They are screaming with delight and the sting of the frayed extension cord they use goes unnoticed. They are used to its touch.
I bob my head to the sound of the cord slapping the concrete; my dreads swing to its cadence, almost as though my turn is coming up. Watching the kids, I'm loving their natural high.
An old woman tosses bread crumbs for the pigeons, and their velvet coos attract a swarm and they settle on the sidewalk at her feet. All the pigeons look alike to me, but I'm certain the old woman can spot a few of her favorites, her “babies”; perhaps the ones that most resemble doves. The pigeons begin to scurry as a car passes, but the little girls across the street double-Dutching never miss a beat.
“Mr. Randolph?”
“Yes,” I say, standing, closing my journal.
“Diane Turner,” she says, sticking out her hand. “So nice to meet you. Sorry I'm tardy, but this area is booming and I've had to show four other town houses today. Of course, this one is the prize.”
“That's fine. I was having a great time just sitting here checking things out.”
“Yes. The neighborhood has changed drastically in the last several years. This town house is a jewel.” I suspect she knows what time it is, but she takes a look at her watch. “I actually have another client coming to see it in an hour. Shall we?” Diane Turner walks up the steps. I follow.
“Didn't that park used to be called Marcus Garvey?” I ask.
“Yes. Well, actually it was Mount Morris Park first, then it was renamed Marcus Garvey Park in 1973, but due to the current changes in the area they thought it would be best to again call it Mount Morris. Full circle, wouldn't you say?”
“Yes. It seems so. Malcolm X Boulevard hasn't been renamed, has it?” She smiles but gives no answer.
“After you,” says Diane Turner, opening the door. “As you can see, fabulous.” She places her hand behind her ear. “Just listen. You hear that? That's the sound of history.”
Though the place has been renovated it's still as familiar to me as a childhood scar.
“I see you've brought a notebook,” says Diane Turner, glancing at my old journal. She looks like a fancy black doll in her tangerine designer suit and matching suede shoes. A black and gold silk scarf covers her neck, and her lips are painted into a permanent smile. “That's wise. It's amazing how much people forget.”
“Yes. It's just something to refer to.”
“You said you're new in town?
“Somewhat. But I like the area.”
“I'm sure you'll enjoy New York. Harlem is definitely the place to be. It's as the kids say, ‘All that.' You'll find this town house to be a worthy investment. The best space for the buck. It's all in the details.”
“You've got that right.”
“I don't normally advertise, but I used to be the only broker handling properties up here. White brokers wouldn't touch it with a gloved hand when it was just shit. Anyone can appreciate the harvest, but few have seen the seeds I've sown. We do what we can. I'm sure as a young brother, and a lawyer no less, you understand.”
“Yes,” I say, catching her eye. “I think I do.”
A cell phone rings and I reach inside my jacket pocket. “Oh, that's me,” she says, taking her black alligator purse off her shoulder, digging inside. “This will only take a sec.” Then into the phone, “Diane Turner . . . Hello, dahling. How are you? . . . Yes . . . Well, we do what we can . . . Um huh . . . Well, I'm showing another house at the moment . . . Yes, of course. Hold on.” Diane Turner covers the phone, then whispers to me like telling a friend a secret, “Listen, hon, a couple interested in a property around the corner—mind you, not nearly as fabulous as this—is waiting for me. They want to take another look. Do you mind if I just — ”
“No, please. Feel free to go. I'll just make myself at home.”
“Clever. Clever,” she says, slapping me on the arm playfully. “I feel good about this. I think it's going to work out for you here.” Diane Turner winks at me. “I have another appointment to show the house in an hour, but I'll try to be back before then. I think this deal around the corner is about to come together. A lovely couple, they. Did you say you were married?”
“No,” I say. “I'm not.”
“Well, FYI, a great many gay people have moved into the neighborhood. Follow the gays, I say. They really are the best people. Just fabulous. Give gays a ghetto and they'll fix it right up . . . Not that I'm implying you're gay, but if you were, just know, it certainly wouldn't be held against you.”
I open my mouth to speak, but Diane Turner with a hold-that-thought gesture returns to her phone call. “Hello. Yes, I'll be right there . . . Nonononono, don't be silly. Anything for you . . . I'm just around the corner. I had a feeling you would want to take another look.”
Yes, another look. but for me it was more than that.
I'd been staying at Jim's East Village apartment for two weeks, but as we sat in his favorite bar on East Fourth Street downing dollar drafts, the air was let out of the keg.
“Listen, Mason, it's been cool having you crash, but if you wanna keep kicking it in New York you're gonna need to find your own place.”
Jim was your average hipster whose claim to fame was that he was the first white guy, that he knew, to have dreadlocks. All summer I had been twisting my hair, trying to attach myself to something associated with black heritage.
I know. I've been looking,” I said. “I've checked the ads every day.”
“Fuck the ads,” said Jim, holding up his empty mug to the tattooed bartender. “Just tell everybody you meet that you're looking. It's the only way. That's how I found my place.”
The “place” was a railroad flat. At least that's what they're called in New York. In the South it's called a shotgun house. But at that moment it was more than I had.
I'd crossed out all the possible ads but one remained:
; HOUSEMATE WANTED
TO SHARE TOWN HOUSE
450/month. Rarely home
No. 20 W. 120th St.
Appt. 4–4:15, 15 October
I'd circled it as a lark. Sure, I was going to go to Harlem, at some point, to check it out, but I'd never really considered living there.
“Please be sure to take all of your belongings when leaving the train. And be mindful of your wallets, for the hand in your pocket may not be your own.” Voice over the intercom of the 6 train, tunneling through Manhattan's East Side.
I got out of the subway at 125th Street, and the rush of color, fabric as well as skin, filled me like a Jamaican patty. The air was different, alive. Incense filled my nose, and the different languages and accents felt good in my ears.
Harlem.
“Dreads?” said the West African woman, stepping up to me. “You want dreads? Twist?”
“No, thank you,” I said with a smile as I walked on, avoiding the rolling tumbleweeds of hair that hadn't made it onto someone's head.
“Yo. Yo, playa. Wassup?” said a voice. I turned around as he stood on a stoop. His three friends stayed on the steps, sipping forties and sporting their latest bubble coats. “You a-ight? You need something?”
“Nah, man. I'm cool. Thanks,” I said, stopping, hoping to strike up a conversation. Bond with the brothers.
“ ‘I'm cool. Thanks,' ” he said, not at all trying to cover his mocking tone. His friends started laughing like Richard Pryor was doing a show. “Yeah, I see. You one of them uppity niggas. Probably get your shit delivered. Look at this motherfucker,” he said, turning back to the peanut gallery. “He look like one of them niggas they always have in an ad, peeping out from behind the white boys. Like he don't care they got his ass stuck in the back. ‘Just so happy to be here, massa.' Black boy blending.”
I smiled, trying to brush off the situation. That I was used to, but not this.
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