breast—only the thump of his heart, the thump of his feet landing, shattering the stillness, his body shaped by waves of silence breaking over him, waves crashing again and again, the same and different each time, and with each blow and between blows he learns himself, his gasps, whines, his coughs and grunts, his breath pushing at the darkness, opening it, sealing it, one more creature in the mix, learning to hear what he is, fear what he's not.
Alerted by the forest sounds, alerted and thrilled by them as hightension cables bringing power to a New Africa will be thrilled by the passage of enormous voltage. And soothed too. Deeply calmed. Beyond sleep. Emptied of himself. Remembering whomever and wherever he'd been when his feet first thumped against the earth. Falling also rising, weightless as the forest noises he recalls now as he rides beside a driver who scowls at a road which intermittently crumbles to a sandpit or fills with water or skitters off in many directions at once, a fan of game trails, take your pick, the pages turning, skipping ahead, flipping backward. Inhabiting his own story like trying to construct a dam with water. His life never entirely believable. A morning sky opens after a night, Fanon, in which perhaps you had dreamed you'd never awaken. Maybe it's another person's dream you're living. You're only an extra, a bit player. Wouldn't you willingly give up your flimsy role for the solid world of darkness, the reality of creatures you can't see surrounding you, their hunting cries, death wails, scent of their shit and blood, their slithering and wings beating, their fear.
Whether Fanon slept that night or dreamed his dream of Algerian independence or didn't sleeps with him in one of his contested graves. Why do I need to go there. To sleep. To dream with him. Through a three-inch-wide feeding slot in a solid concrete wall I ask my keeper questions. Will a little bit of conversation soften up the guard. Will he respond to my pleading. Or despise me. Lead me on. He enters the cell and appears to listen, letting me run my mouth, write my book—blah, blah, blah—till he's bored and points to the floor. I drop to my knees and beg. He readies the gag, twisting it thicker between the cogs of his fists.
Doctor Fanon. Please free me. Release me from angers and fears that consume me. Heal the divisions within me my enemies exploit to keep me in a place I despise. Myself cut up, separated into bloody pieces, doctor. Like you. Fractured, dispersed, in death as in life. Help me, doc.
Come then, comrades,
Doctor Fanon says,
it would be as well to decide at once to change our ways. We must shake off the heavy darkness in which we were plunged, and leave it behind. The new day which is already at hand must find us firm, prudent, and resolute.
PITTSBURGH—A PRISON
The wheelchair folds up easily once you empty it. The backrest and seat are wide leather straps and if I stick my fist under the seat strap and punch up, the chair's braces unlock, its metal sides collapse inward. Mash the metal wings together and I have a compact package that fits conveniently into the trunk of the car I rented at the airport for this visit home. Emptying the wheelchair's not so easy. Whether I lift my mother out of it or help her leverage herself from the wheelchair into the rental car's front seat, emptying the chair's an ordeal. My mother's not heavy, the wheelchair neither heavy nor unwieldy; the difficulty stems from the chair's existence and the truth that there's no way around it, the chair a simple, evil fact we didn't expect, didn't plan for, and when it's sitting there waiting to be emptied or waiting to be filled, we hate the wheelchair's implacability, the necessity to deal with it, work around it, include it in our activities. The chair's existence spites us, hurts us like the hateful fact of the prison's stone walls incarcerating my brother these last twenty-eight years. The prison also folds up when prison visits end.
Alerted by the forest sounds, alerted and thrilled by them as hightension cables bringing power to a New Africa will be thrilled by the passage of enormous voltage. And soothed too. Deeply calmed. Beyond sleep. Emptied of himself. Remembering whomever and wherever he'd been when his feet first thumped against the earth. Falling also rising, weightless as the forest noises he recalls now as he rides beside a driver who scowls at a road which intermittently crumbles to a sandpit or fills with water or skitters off in many directions at once, a fan of game trails, take your pick, the pages turning, skipping ahead, flipping backward. Inhabiting his own story like trying to construct a dam with water. His life never entirely believable. A morning sky opens after a night, Fanon, in which perhaps you had dreamed you'd never awaken. Maybe it's another person's dream you're living. You're only an extra, a bit player. Wouldn't you willingly give up your flimsy role for the solid world of darkness, the reality of creatures you can't see surrounding you, their hunting cries, death wails, scent of their shit and blood, their slithering and wings beating, their fear.
Whether Fanon slept that night or dreamed his dream of Algerian independence or didn't sleeps with him in one of his contested graves. Why do I need to go there. To sleep. To dream with him. Through a three-inch-wide feeding slot in a solid concrete wall I ask my keeper questions. Will a little bit of conversation soften up the guard. Will he respond to my pleading. Or despise me. Lead me on. He enters the cell and appears to listen, letting me run my mouth, write my book—blah, blah, blah—till he's bored and points to the floor. I drop to my knees and beg. He readies the gag, twisting it thicker between the cogs of his fists.
Doctor Fanon. Please free me. Release me from angers and fears that consume me. Heal the divisions within me my enemies exploit to keep me in a place I despise. Myself cut up, separated into bloody pieces, doctor. Like you. Fractured, dispersed, in death as in life. Help me, doc.
Come then, comrades,
Doctor Fanon says,
it would be as well to decide at once to change our ways. We must shake off the heavy darkness in which we were plunged, and leave it behind. The new day which is already at hand must find us firm, prudent, and resolute.
PITTSBURGH—A PRISON
The wheelchair folds up easily once you empty it. The backrest and seat are wide leather straps and if I stick my fist under the seat strap and punch up, the chair's braces unlock, its metal sides collapse inward. Mash the metal wings together and I have a compact package that fits conveniently into the trunk of the car I rented at the airport for this visit home. Emptying the wheelchair's not so easy. Whether I lift my mother out of it or help her leverage herself from the wheelchair into the rental car's front seat, emptying the chair's an ordeal. My mother's not heavy, the wheelchair neither heavy nor unwieldy; the difficulty stems from the chair's existence and the truth that there's no way around it, the chair a simple, evil fact we didn't expect, didn't plan for, and when it's sitting there waiting to be emptied or waiting to be filled, we hate the wheelchair's implacability, the necessity to deal with it, work around it, include it in our activities. The chair's existence spites us, hurts us like the hateful fact of the prison's stone walls incarcerating my brother these last twenty-eight years. The prison also folds up when prison visits end.
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