Gumbo: A Celebration of African American Writing Part 84

Troubled Soul, I burden you with my pros only to belabor this point: that you not diminish the act you are considering, which, because it so violently impacts your life, and more so than anyone else now capable of opinion-because of this, you, and you alone, must decide your embryo's fate, and then live, and perhaps suffer, with the choice you've made.-I hope that I've been helpful.

Sincerely,

A Concernced Citizen

The second note was as follows: To Occupant: I observed your letter as it was printed in the Promenade, and was so impressed by your correspondence that I was moved to send you this note, which has taken me forever to compose.

I am a husband and a parent, and love dearly my wife and daughter; but yesterday (a few days before your receiving this), I cheated-at least, I think I did; for never did my genitals touch another's, which means, in the literal sense, there was no s.e.x; and if there was no s.e.x, then, I believe, as does my favorite President, I did nothing wrong, for what is mere petting but harmless play? Indeed, I go to sleep at night free from guilt because I know-as you do, I'm sure-that nothing I did can be interpreted as cheating. Still, I would very much like your opinion on the matter.

Thank you,

Friend of the President

Which inspired this response: Dear Friend: Being that I, like you, am a man, and therefore know well your desires, I can truly empathize with your position; for we are sadly, loathsome creatures driven towards monsters more loathsome than ourselves. Be that as it may, what you are suggesting is ridiculous, and for this reason: A man sticks his tongue in your wife's ear-how do you feel? He then puts his pinkie on each of her b.u.t.t-cheeks (which she allows free from guilt, for what is mere petting but harmless play?)-again, how do you feel? And then, simply because it thrills him to do so, he places a toe between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s-once more, how do you feel? . . . My point is simply this: Intimate contact of any kind, with someone-anyone!-beyond your significant other is cheating, and wherever the placement of genitalia; I'm sure your anger, given life by my merely proposing such debauches, is proof enough that I speak true. Admit to this now, and, maybe, possibly, I'll remove my toe from between your wife's t.i.ts.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

The third correspondence went this way: To a wise and knowledgeable fellow: Please answer this (for your doing so, quickly and promptly, will at once alleviate a tremendous load which threatens, daily, my bones and extremities): What's the deal with the Fed?*4 and moreover, its chairman, Alan Greenspan? I ask this because over the past year Fortune has blessed me, and I have, aided by her keen advice, acquired lots of things-money, car, clothes, women-and enjoy each immensely; however, I am quite fearful of the Joker at the bank, whose tinkering promises to deprive me of all these.-What say you?

Impatient for your reply,

A Restless Neighbor

Which was answered thusly: To Restless Neighbor: Being that I am a simple man, I am uncertain how to respond to your note; of its parts, the first is too vague, but the second, however, is a matter I myself have contemplated often, and can best answer thusly: A man in his car is on a road headed for "Prosperity"; every mile takes him closer to where he wants to be, and each mile seems (and is) smoother than the one before it, making his ride a joyous one; but for fear of an accident which has yet to occur, caused by an oil-spill he has yet to see, the man slows then stops his motion, allowing the car no progress beyond its pa.s.sing through time (which cannot be altered by deceleration). So afraid is he of the "might" and the "maybe" that the traveler doesn't dare go further, even reversing the car so to move away from impending doom, which, of course, he has only imagined. Eventually, over time, when he determines it safe to continue, the car, for whatever reason, stalls, though ultimately progresses, but only after much coaxing from its driver. Still, when it does go the vehicle moves much slower than before, and its handling isn't nearly as steady: the road has changed, as has the car, for on this journey time is the only constant; and so the driver, for lack of speed, finds "Prosperity" to be much farther away.

On Alan Greenspan I say to you this: When traveling, no matter the distance or destination, one should, one must, have courage-and Greenspan lacks this.

Having written thusly, I trust my anecdote was readily understood; for you are, it seems, a very shrewd man; one does not ama.s.s the sums you have on simple good fortune. Still, beyond your query, there is a more relevant question before us, one which, upon my asking, should help alleviate your fear concerning Greenspan's actions: Why does having "things" matter to you?-and what are you without them? I ask the latter because: when a man is himself nothing, he requires additions to make him whole, i.e., money, car, clothes, women-anything that might bring to him greater visibility-by this I mean, relevance. Ponder this, answer this, and learn from that result; for only then will you have something which, it appears, Fortune has yet to grant you . . . peace.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

The fourth: Kind Sir- My boyfriend and I argue incessantly, and always about the same thing: My clothes. Being that I am young, beautiful, and shapely-and will be none of these forever-I feel it is both my right and duty to display to the world my magnificence; for is not beauty meant to be shared, adored, and admired?-Am I not doing, by wearing clothes that reveal to lesser eyes my glory-I say, am I not doing only what is right?

Without shame,

Venus

Which inspired this: Dear Venus- I agree: Beauty is a thing that should be shared and admired; nevertheless, you got to have cla.s.s with that a.s.s.

The fifth: To whomever is capable of answering this: My dilemma is a desperate one; for it deals with the heart, a broken heart, and one belonging to me.

Three years ago I broke up with my dearest love, a woman whom I cherished more than anything or anyone, in this world or the one beyond it. Nevertheless, despite my affection, I, using faithful logic, one day determined that this woman-this angel!-though fulfilling all my emotional and s.e.xual needs, was my lesser intellectually, and could never placate that part of me which requires more than simple hugs and kisses. Still, as I have said, it has been three years since my leaving, and my soul screams for her, as it did when we were lovers. Because of this I cannot sustain a relationship beyond a few months, so long is the shadow she casts, so black is my heart, which dies form lack of sun, its peddles . . . wilting. and so I have chosen to remain alone (for circ.u.mstance will not permit our reuniting). I hate being this way, but what am I to do? I ask you: Will I ever love again?

With reverence,

Anteros

And to this he responded: Anteros: Know this: The question is not will you ever love again? but will you ever stop loving? For it is only when you no longer love this girl will you be free to love another.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

The Sixth: To you who would quell my sorrow; at least, to you who would try On the 15th of May was born my only child-the sweetest melody, the loveliest portrait, the finest poem has yet to be which could describe to you the boy, who was from G.o.d, who was . . . mine.-On the 18th of May, three days' following his eleventh year, was born my gravest sorrow, my darkest day . . . it was then . . . when Ian was no more.

I write to you now not for pity but for relief; it has been four years since Ian's departure, and my tears come just as quickly as the day when first he left. I cannot eat or sleep, and every child I pa.s.s-boy or girl-reminds me of him. Even now I cry . . . even not I see his face. I ask you: When shall there be sleep? When shall there be peace? When shall I not know pain? . . .

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 ent.i.ty 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 ill.u.s.trate 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 pa.s.s. 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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sage 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:.