Why do we all follow, and engage in, those year in review lists, reflections, etc. that tell us who wrote the best, recorded the best, filmed the best, etc. etc., or culminate, as they often do, in resolutions or goals for the future? Is it that we dont want to feel we wasted our time? That we did something that mattered, even if its reading soemone elses important book? Is it that when we recognize that someone else did something that mattered – wrote a book, a song, fought for justice – that seems to mean our witness proves, in some small way, our worth? And how do we decide what to value? Is it important that I had a novelaccepted for publication in France? That I finished a new poetry collection for Press 53? Are these accomplishments more important than setting up a series of community writing workshops, or publishing others books and poems in a magazine, or standing up at Moral Mondays, or being a dogged prick on a board of which Im a member and insisting something be done to address a clear case of pagiarism when everyone else wanted to do nothing? Even as I write these words they seem insubstantial, if not narcissistic given the world were living in. The NYTs Sunday Review section today is a compilation of photos – Ebola in Liberia, war in Afghanistan, Palestine, Kiev, demonstrations in Ferguson, Hong Kong, people displaced by war and disease in Turkey Myanmar, Siera Leone, the U.S., lockdown shooter drills in our country – and a couple odd images of hope – a performance by Skrillix, the Moscow Ballet. A year of chaos, of death, displacement, grief – a place where too often ther “simply is no sanctuary”. And a music and dance performance. So we sum up our lives, or let Facebook do it for us in their end of year this is your life posts. To do what? Fight against the chaos? Find grounds for hope? Theres a poem – and sadly I forget the author – set in a prison, where a woman, a social worker is leaving after a visit, and she notices how its the same jet flying through the same sky that covers both the encaged men of the prison, and the lovers in a car on a dirt road by the river. The woman runs a finger across her lips, gathering lipstick, and leaves a red smear on the hallway leading from the inside to the outside. Saying, I was here. Which is I believe what were all saying,isnt it, in our year end reviews.? I was here. So, how were you here? As a passenger, a driver, a visitor, one staking a claim? Why does what matters to you, in the things you did this past year, matter to you?
Posted on: Sun, 28 Dec 2014 13:44:02 +0000