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questionthebox · 3 years

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Poets Diary, The DSA Event

i’m going to start this off as a deication to my mother, The Goddess Aphrodite, of which, when she came to me that time, i came home from college, and sat in my living room, what she said to me, i understand now mother, i understand everything. secondly i am dedeicating this to my most beloved, and assured, elly, who has stuck by me, as i was mired in physical and mental anguish and ailment, in those years of exile,

yesterday, i attended what was both a DSA meeting, and rally for this young latino man running for city counsel in Los Feliz California, which is bascially a suburb of Los Angeles, i arrived early, around 2.40 pm, dressed colorful, wearing a leopard print bucket hat, these anime shorts i bought off a man i befirended of instagram, and my light green bapestas, somewhat shy, yet confident, i walked up to these men, cooking, this took place at a park, they were preparing the BBQ, and i was sort of meandering around, they were very nice, and i was speaking to the man i would later find out is running for the city counsel position, and if you know me, or if you’ve seen my eyes, you know all it takes, for me to relinquish my shyness, is when i feel comfortable in the space, to reveal myself, and so i did, we talked, we talked about my ideas, for the town i live in here, in Los Angeles, and i blew this guys socks off when i was talking about “nationalizing” the small motels, and empty lots, and having the middle aged latino men in my community, who have experience in “construction” etc hring them, and having them oversee and train the unemployed youth in our community, to build that free housing, thus making everyone feel involved and belonging to something.

amidst political talk, and the exchange of plesantries, and as many others started to filter in,

people who seemingly knew each other, i found myself drifting somewhat aloof, mind you i wasn’t shy, or scared, more so, i was shedding something, shedding the miasma of the years i have built alone, and in that i found Anthony, yes me, Anthony, causually making jokes, making people laugh, being my gregarious self, swifttly and deftly moving between groups of people, all of whom, were representitive of something, i have been searching for, not simply community, but an aesthetic of life, that is young, romantic, ambigious in the sense of love, direct and explorative in the sense of career, utilizing the educations they have to do something postive in the world, i was intermingling with people my age, who were public school teachers, working for non profits a few artists, and other young professionals, and it was fucking exhilarating, eye opening, assuring, my mind while speaking with these people, was simaultaneously connecting the dots,

and something i became aware of, as the warmth of myself started to take center stage, and the casualness of conversation with the myriad of people, started to take on a more intimate direct sense of things, and i myself feeling their warmth, listening to them, observing who they were intrinsically, started to realize the absolute tragedy and folly, of all prejudice, here i was, amidst and welcolmed by people who were non binary, queer, and on the spectrum, people of many different races, and ages, and these people openly asked me to be their friend, followed me on instagram, and asked me, if we all could hang out, a funny little side note, i stepped aside, with this young man, to smoke, i didn’t know he was Gay or what have you, but as we were walking to an area, to smoke, he made a direct pass at me, calling me cute, in the process, he was a young mexican american man, and i blushed lol, it caught me off guard in a good way, and he and i hit it off big time, and i came to find out he utilizes or uses female pro nouns, i say all of this, to say, i will never ever utter a prejudice word for the rest of my life, from this point forward i count myself as an “ally” and i understand the folly of all prejudice, when i cut my hand, the same thing that is in there that pours out, comes out of your hand, and thus prejudice is irrartional and horrible, an affliction, of ignorance and self loathing and misery.

There was also a woman, amidst women, how could there not be lol i am me, so there’s always a woman, i knew in heading there, i could feel in the air, i would meet a woman, and there was much women to meet, and being as i am, i made myself known, to the women, there, there was one woman, utterly goregous, long blonde curly hair, she was a teacher, but there was one woman, of whom i spent the most time with, of whom, proposed we’d meet and hang out, outside of the event, and this woman, she was probably about 5 foot 4, skinny, she wore a grey colored pixie hairstyle, there was something in her yearning, lost, romantic, and we opened up to each other, in a way that was completely unexpected, and i am now infatuated by her, as she carried a musk of soemthing, i feel both of us entail, she also self identified as an Anarchist, which is interesting because when i took that political test it labeled me as a Libertarian Socialist, and this is important in the sense, that i am fundamnetally open and decolonized. we followed each other on instagram, and in viewing her pictures, i see something there, and i can’t wait to spend time with her,

there was alot, i was wrestlign with, there, understanding, something about myself, i believe i have figured out what i want to do with my life, because when Hugo the man, who is running for city counsel, got up on one of the picnic tables and gave a speech, to all of us, what he said had me emotional, i belive i can do what he did, but better, because the blessing in my years in the wilderness is i got to see all of the misery present in life, the poverty, the violence, the prejudice, the misery, the struggles, i have known people, who are queer, struggle with their queerness, people who are poor struggle with poverty, in me are all the people and experiences ive had since age 18 in 2010, and i intend on crossing the rubicon and actually manifesting change within the world.

all of the self loathing, and doubt ive had, is gone, there is only anthony, an i am present in this body, with others, in all things, and i intend on exploring all things, with everyone,

#poets on tumblr #writers on tumblr #my thoughts #diary #personal diary #leftist #socialist #finding happiness

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davidastbury · 4 years

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Early Morning .... Manchester ... postcode M1 4RJ

Pavement littered with the detritus of last night’s fun and folly - smashed bottles, crushed cans, pizza packaging, Costa cups, vaping cartridges, vomit.

I was stepping carefully, skipping over pools, when I came face to face with a lovely Japanese couple. They were adults but looked about twelve - identical mops of the blackest hair imaginable and Pierrot white faces. He in belted baggy jeans; she in a very abbreviated Burberry mini-skirt.

There was an instant recognition of our incongruity- they probably thought I looked funny jumping over the puddles; I thought they looked absolutely divine. So we all laughed - and then I carried on, stepping carefully around the smashed bottles, crushed cans and vaping cartridges.

THE American

Henry James said that the Fellow’s Garden at Trinity Hall, Cambridge was the most perfect small garden in Europe ...

‘ ... The trees are of prodigious size; they occupy half the garden, and are remarkable for the fact that their giant limbs strike down into the earth, take root again and emulate, as they rise, the majesty of the parent stem. The manner in which this magnificent group of horse-chestnuts sprawl about over the grass, out into the middle of the lawn, is one of the most heart-shaking features of the garden ... ‘

He also rhapsodised about ‘the other place’ ...

‘... the beautiful gardens of the Oxford Colleges - charming lawns and spreading trees, music of Grenadier Guards, ices in striped marquees, mild flirtation of youthful gownsmen and bemuslined maidens; memories too, of quiet dinner in common-room, a decorous, excellent repast; old portraits on the walls and great windows open upon the ancient court, where the afternoon light was fading in the stillness; superior talk upon current topics, and over all the peculiar air of Oxford - the air of liberty to care for the things of the mind assured and secured by machinery which in itself a satisfaction to sense.’

North of Cambridge

The train was delayed somewhere north of Cambridge and then went at a crazy gallop as if trying to make up lost time. Imogen stared out at the blur of landscape, she was in a foul mood. Her boyfriend, knowing her as he did, realised that there wouldn’t be much enjoyment for him - she was in one of her ‘pushing away’ moods - yet he was under the spell of that mane of red hair and her peevish, caustic, perfection.

‘There’s my school!’ - she called out, pointing at a building in the distance. He decided to go along with her mood and said it looked like a Victorian mental asylum. ‘Good description’ - she replied. ‘Apart from me, it’s full of very tall girls whose fathers are Church of England vicars - or their dads are dead and the church pays the fees.’

And he was right ... there wasn’t much enjoyment that day. The railway line was long since ripped up; the school demolished and is now a science park; everything has gone - Imogen has gone, leaving memories that crumble when touched, like ancient paper or dried flowers.

And only now - at such a distance in time, does the enjoyment pour through.

Young Couple ... 1965

It was a soft goodbye - they’d see each other again - three months wasn’t all that long - it would pass. But he was gloomy and she put her arms around him and made him smile. And the train pulled up noisily; awful squealing brakes, doors slamming open, it was difficult saying anything. He stood at the window and looked down at her and felt that he might never see her again - or he might see her but she would no longer look at him this way. And then it was all over - the train moved, laboriously gathering speed.

He wanted to turn away - go to a seat like everyone else - but he stayed at the window, seeing her vanish.

But he wasn’t aware of the railway’s eccentric topography. The little station passed out of view causing the young man to think - ‘Well, that’s that!’ - but a few seconds later it came back into view. He could see the station again; he could see her again. And then a huge building, railway sheds, blocked everything - but then it cleared and again he could see her. This occurred a few more times and it horribly disturbed him. Saying the goodbye was bad enough - he could still kindle hopes - but these repeated views hammered home the message - ‘You will never see her again’.

A French Trip 1965

Paris was fabulous but he had liked Deauville and Trouville far more. Those two little towns on the Normandy coast made his heart sing. He felt he had stepped into the pages of Proust! The sea-air and gulls; the ribbon of ornate railings; the iron street-lights converted from gas; the butter yellow facades of the hotels where uniformed men held back the doors; the excitement of foreign faces; the elderly women, white-haired and fierce looking, sitting in their wheel-chairs being pushed along by nurses; the wonderful French men with their grey flannel suits and silk ties, smoking Gauloises cigarettes; the feeling of a charming ill-health, not the frightening kind, more like when you were a child and your mother was looking after you; the clever girls leaving the Lycée each afternoon so stylish in school uniform, so pretty, so ... je ne sais quoi; the little cafes, modest and plain, yet serving Chateaubriand steaks few London restaurants could match; the sunshine and elegance and gorgeous ease of it all - he was captivated.

Going back to England filled him with dismay - but there was one further surprise. He and his friend boarded a boat from Dieppe to Newhaven. Again it was a beautiful afternoon. The top deck was quite crowded and he leaned on the handrail watching the complications of disengaging ropes and the jerky manoeuvres to leave the jetty. The boat shuddered and the gulls screamed. People laughed as they almost overbalanced. A man wearing an apron was selling drinks; black coal smoke poured from the chimney but was deflected by the breeze; a young teacher with a party of tiny children got them singing; an elderly man wearing shiny brogue shoes looked up at the sky, as if praying; a woman was clutching her pet dog, nuzzling him with kisses and the dog looked over her shoulder, tongue out.

And in the middle of all this - like the motionless centre of a tornado - stood the most astonishingly beautiful girl he had ever seen. He was nineteen and fearless - he went up to her as if going to his death.

She took his hand and smiled.

She said - ‘My name is Agnes Bujold and my town is Dijon.’

Anna

I’ve mentioned Anna before - the student nurse at St Thomas’ Hospital, married to the unemployed drummer. She was gentle, soft-spoken, generous and uncomplaining, even when her husband brought home his pals from the pub - usually out of work musicians but also every sort of drunk who had missed the last train home, or didn’t have a home to go to. Even at the end of a long shift, when she must have been exhausted, she sorted out supper and carried heaps of bedding.

It taught me a lesson - confirmed many times over the years - that women will overlook mediocrity in their men. Once their heart is set on someone they will overlook almost anything. Anna was a much finer person than her husband. She had intuitions and intelligence far beyond his. She probably climbed upwards through the nursing grades - she had a brilliance about her - he probably didn’t change, he would drift in and out of work, sometimes making money, sometimes playing for the beer. Yet she wouldn’t hold his lack of success against him; she wouldn’t ever make him feel a failure. Her only demand, perhaps never spoken in that soft Welsh voice of hers, was that he treasured her above anyone else - that was all that mattered.

Took a walk today - a few miles along main roads, side roads, country lanes and so on. Passed lots of people but no one I knew; no one wanted me to stop and talk - but - so many (I didn’t count, but it was a lot) smiled and said hello. I’ve never experienced that before.

It’s not all jostling and fighting in supermarkets - people are nice to each other; there is friendliness and affection.

Haircut in Houmt-Souk

He was a charmer! The barber of Djerba, small and bald and old, but nimble on his feet, skilfully snipping the undergrowth at the back of my neck, all the time chirruping in an amalgam of English, French, Arabic etc. Delighted to have a foreigner captive on his faux leather chair. I could see him beaming at me in the peeling mirror - around which were fading Polaroid snaps of the man himself - much younger - in a white tuxedo and bow tie - brandishing a violin.

‘So you are a musician?’ I asked.

He swelled with pride and nodded enthusiastically. I made some pleasant remarks and then he vanished into a side room behind a plastic screen. He reappeared carrying a violin case.

What happened next was a concert - for me and for those waiting their turn. His eyes closed and started to play - ecstatic romantic music - palm court music - Viennese waltzes, Polkas, sobbings and pleadings from his violin - the ache of separation, the hope of meeting again, deepest melancholy, and then! Back to the frivolous and pretty!

This man had played on ocean liners and in palaces. He had been in Egypt before the revolution - the one in 1952 - he mentioned parties for Soraya, the second wife of the Shah of Iran. He had played for everyone - and he was playing for me!

His head was back, swaying to Strauss - a small crowd had gathered. The door was open and the sound had reached the street. Everyone was smiling and nodding to me and the doorway was blocked with small children playing imaginary violins.

‘ ... and hearts that we broke long ago, have long been breaking others ... ‘

W. H. Auden

She had finished with him and he had only himself to blame. Word had got back to her that he’d been seen with another girl and she wasn’t having any excuses. So she finished with him - dumped him as the modern term has it - and there couldn’t be any reconciliation; it was over; totally.

He felt unhappy and angry with himself for a while. Eventually the guilt eased and eventually faded altogether, but then unexpectedly returned in a different form - he was afraid that he may have hurt her in a way that had not occurred to him at the time. He had adored her and she must have known it - he rushed to meet her - he loved being with her - he was always surprising her with gifts - he put her wishes before his own - he couldn’t get enough of her loveliness - but he began to feel a dreadful realisation that he hadn’t made her see how much he liked her - how much he simply liked her.

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