last night, we sat in front of the screen; exhausted, looking for opportunities and ways to entangle our routes even more, flowing like streams of water that fuse yet remain themselves, in temperature and content (it is surprising and not surprising how we return to nature when the words for recent experiences, or for anticipated lives, leave us: i call out for help and comfort from the shadow of trees, from the stable dynamics of grass in the breeze, from the sharpness of the morning air, for the refreshing steadiness of the water touching my feet.). so we sat and read; and while we read through rights of residence, legislations for families, permits for this and that, we also read that gil scott-heron passed on.
how long is life, my love, and how short? how much there is to design, to imagine, to do, to dare, to risk and to play with. and how much to be achieved. in admiration we look up to the work of the ‘rough healer’ (gwendolyn brooks, ‘he is his’) that provided the vocabulary for the struggles of more than one generation. he looked older that his days, and such are the traces of the struggles against conformity and a comfortable life.
may his soul rest in peace and continue to inspire.
read this text, it’s beautiful.