I cannot stand close, even, to the love, or to the respect I feel for Zora Neal Hurston. I mean, I am unworthy in my own sight-though her and I were in love, once, and I abandoned her with little shame, and she died, in the poorhouse, virtually alone.
She was homeless, and died in a flophouse yet she has inspired generations of people to resist conformity, and to experience life at it’s doorstep, unconditionally, to live.
Not that she knew I loved her, like many of us do. And not that I could ever pretend to know ‘her’.
Because I was too busy for many years to reflect upon what she had taught me as a survivor; as a literate companion; as a warrior; and as a friend. I would die for her toady, today, if she asked me to-which she wouldn’t because in her day, she LIVED!
And that life, quite fully, despite you, and your predation; the racist, classist, internationalist conventions, and even then-despite your state mechanisms of social control that virtually attempted pre-emptively and without warrant at every point to codify her, and her body–to entrap or ensnare her thoughts and distill them into forms that morons like you can profit from?; and that body containing the thoughts about itself, and its lived, loved anecdote of existence–into obscurity?
Nope. Not on my watch.
AND, I found other mistresses who could help fight the battles that I thought I needed to fight-like state mechanisms of thievery at the highest levels, and thought control that mediates the individuals right to self expression against the states hunger for tax dollars, or other oppressive mechanisms that combat human truth, deliberately, and without shame.
And in doing so, I forgot for a time, a true love. Zora.
And even today, I feel her inside of me, like a caterwauling muse, yet, motherly and whispering voice, that encourages me to seek poverty, and to seek the senses beyond the ritual fictions of social norms, social traps, and then, the mechanized destructions perpetrated by those statists, and minor mentalists upon me, as a mere human animal.
She and I shared secrets, one time.
Like lovers-like friends, both of us down on our luck, and destitute, but running into the face of hurricanes, and emerging unscathed. AND, both of us unfortunate at having been born in one of the most racist, classicist cultures in the world–and both of us, having been at one time or another, accused of witchcraft, and whoring around.
Yeah–there is joy, even, in destitution. I am no fan of poverty, having grown up just above it–but I did my best to overcome it. And it is rarely if ever “over-comable,” because the anecdotal experiences of those of us born into poverty, and raised unwittingly, and then, in a hyper aware sense that we are targeted people–as the anti-thesis to the ‘local cultures’ that seek our demise? We manage, even then, because we are the salt, and you are the boiling water that seeks to consume us.
Yet we flavor the dish, don’t we?
And then, I discovered what those before me had also discovered: the secret. And the secret is: read Zora Neal Hurston, because I am a poor explainer.
AND, I will kill you, murderer, if you step in my path one more time, slap my fourth cheek, and try to stop me from feeling the brunt of a hurricane on my face. Because, between you and me? The wind, wins the moment–but they who experience the wind?
We live forever. Because our eyes–two, not five, ARE watching God, and God–those who purport to speak for it/him/her needs a reality check, and that with hurricane force.
After al–only those of us who accept life as diminished in it’s capacity; who are aware of your threats against us; and those of us who know that your threats are mere petty jealousy, enacted through social rituals of projected shame?
We knew you, before you knew yourself–and we lived despite you.