here in steel city, desis are fucking everywhere, gods (sic) bless us.
i’m spending a few days here in pittsburgh with moms, we’re making dosas, going to the temple, getting on each others nerves–the incredible usual. incredible, because after everything, we still manage to hang out, kick it, even.
i just finished reading junot diaz’s, “the brief wonderous life of oscar wao.” once i got over the fact that he spelled nigga with an “er” at the end, i dug in deep. you know what i like about this book? besides the hood-star-science-fiction-geek mix, besides the palpable love he has for the dominican republic (to love it enough to know it!), besides the way he writes ephemeral beauty into brown girls, besides the endearing insertion of himself as fallible and knowable narrator: i like the book because it traces family bullshit back to political violence. plain and simple.
arguably, arundhati roy did that for india with “the god of small things.” but whose turn is it next? this goes out to you, us potential bearers of the novel flame, that great relay race of humans charting the stars of our stories.
in, the prophet, khalil gibran writes of work, and says, “And what is it to work with love? It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your heart, even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth…It is to charge all things you fashion with a breath of your own spirit. And to know that all the blessed dead are standing about you and watching…Work is love made visible.”
and so it is. more to come.