Meet me. I come from a land that has streets with no names. Well, the little path that goes from my father’s village to my mother’s village is called the little path. Was. The little path is no more.
My father’s father was buried by the path half way to my mother’s people. He is no longer buried there; A government thief built a mansion over my grandpa’s bones. Our people did not name the streets of our village because they saw the coming of smartphones, e-mail and Facebook.
In the land of my ancestors, people don’t venture far from the earth. There are no mortuaries, when they die, they practically fall into their graves themselves. I have ventured far, very far from home. When I left home many decades ago, no Blackberry chats charted my way out of Customs and Immigration and into
Nothing stays the same. Not even in
Books. Life is war and we were all born into a war that we did not ask for. And people write about life, sometimes it is mostly gory. Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, they belonged to a certain era when one had no choice but to concentrate all of one's creative passions on one medium of expression - the book. I read a lot of books, mostly about the condition we find ourselves as people of color in a white man’s world. However, I am first and foremost a writer of creative stuff, whatever that means. Lately though, I am known more as a book reviewer than anything else, which I find interesting, if not frustrating. I think that a critic's work in itself is creative work. We may not like it, but it is what it is. The critic clearly has a role to play and I would say we are in dire need of honest courageous tell-it-like-it-is book reviewers. Some people should really not be writing and they should be told that. Some writers are also full of it and they should be told that. Some works are fun to read and they should be celebrated. I guess we are talking about books, which is a shame because in
On Facebook, walls are colorful wrappers wound tightly around the new municipalities of ME. Facebook is Falling leaves, hearts fluttering, forlorn, and drying on yesterday's clothes lines. People are waving hasty goodbyes out the windows of indifferent relationships. It is complicated. Life goes on. There are no nations as we remember them. We have fled lands ravaged by thieves preaching democracy. Soon a generation will come and in their history books they will learn about something called a check and the gallant art of balancing a checkbook.
Facebook. The new frontier has edged into our consciousness.