Our Tomorrow
Hello friends.
I’m once again not wanting to add to the blizzard of opinions, predictions, etc. What I will share today is the poem I’m reading daily as a reminder to myself, and a quote from Octavia Butler I didn’t expect.
Sorrow Is Not My Name by Ross Gay —after Gwendolyn Brooks No matter the pull toward brink. No matter the florid, deep sleep awaits. There is a time for everything. Look, just this morning a vulture nodded his red, grizzled head at me, and I looked at him, admiring the sickle of his beak. Then the wind kicked up, and, after arranging that good suit of feathers he up and took off. Just like that. And to boot, there are, on this planet alone, something like two million naturally occurring sweet things, some with names so generous as to kick the steel from my knees: agave, persimmon, stick ball, the purple okra I bought for two bucks at the market. Think of that. The long night, the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me on the bus taking notes, yeah, yeah. But look; my niece is running through a field calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel and at the end of my block is a basketball court. I remember. My color's green. I'm spring. —for Walter Aikens
Octavia Butler has been on a lot of minds lately, with the elections and then of course with the devastating wildfires in LA. Yes, I’ve read her works, and heard many quotes from her that I admire and find thought-provoking. But I’m most interested, at the moment, in this quote from her:
And that’s where I’m writing you from. From today, the genesis of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, doing my best to offer shape to it and to also remember how little I control. From remembering, my color’s green.
With love and rage,
Adrie