The homie Assata quoted to me today from James Baldwin, on the gut wrench pain of writing being only secondary to the pain of not writing. I understand.
July 8, 2008
On a day like today, when the front page is all carnage, I am so glad for yesterday’s front page on Wimbledon.
On a day like today, India targeted, innocent Afghani lives lost. May 13, 2008, wasn’t that long ago. Nine synchronized bombings in Jaipur on the good people’s Tuesday trek to the God of Strength, Hanuman. They bombed when the people would be out in full force, to pray. Hanuman who crossed an ocean in the name of loyalty and with the encouragement of an elder. When I talked to my cousin brother and Mausi Ji (mother’s sister) who live in Jaipur, “near Agricultural farm” one must add when talking to the rickshaw driver, where green and blue parakeets fly dense, and the boy next door plays the flute like Krishna himself, both said quickly, deadpanned, “nothing has changed.” Which is a sure sign, everything has changed.
And today, July 8, 2008, a bomb in Afghanistan, at the entrance to the Indian embassy.
What kind of wealth is this? What price will we pay for it?
“KABUL, Afghanistan — A huge blast from a suicide car bomb at the gates of the Indian Embassy in Kabul killed 41 people and wounded more than 130 on Monday in the latest sign of a sharp deterioration in Afghanistan, where combat deaths have surpassed Iraq’s in the past two months.” (Wafa and Cowell reporting for the New York Times)
Two reporters credited on this story, Abdul Waheed Wafa, and Alan Cowell. Notably, The Times website gives Cowell a link to his previous articles. But Waheed Wafa gets no link love. Even though Wafa has reported extensively for the Times (U.S. paper of record) and the International Herald Tribune (International paper of record).
If you’d like to learn more about Afghani journalist, Abdul Waheed Wafa: CLICK HERE.
On a day like today, I’m so glad yesterday’s front page of the Times featured the Wimbledon game in excited glee, reporter Christopher Clarey called it an “epic battle,” a “classic,” “one of the greatest tennis matches ever played,” using words like “drained,” “delighted,” “tears,” “emotional,” and “dramatic.” Rafael Nadal of Spain won this battle to the bone. Had the gall and balls to be humble. The match ended in the dark. Reporters are on the players like bees on honey. Federer, the loser-albeit 5 time WImbeldon champ-is like, there’s nothing worse than this, so give me a motherfucking minute.
When things like Wimbledon make the front page, I feel sense of near quadratic relief.
Wrote a poem about it, here it goes:
ax squared + bx + c = 0
(life is a) non-linear equation
(i want to be) coeffecient (not codependent)
(is it dumb to want some kind of) constant
(internal) squared (just a dork, me and these lines, these blank, dense canvases)
(life is) real and complex (the battle sand is still red at the part)
(my) roots (real and complex)
a (survivors life) does not equal zero
(i am) irreducible
Stay tuned for more, from me.