2003-03-20
11:23 a.m.
what the hell do i know
It's not for me to well up, to console, to feel shaken, to write dramatic entries about suffering (what the hell do I know about suffering?) It's not my problem, it's not my tragedy - except in that it's everyone's fucking tragedy because we're living without memory. Without reason. Without justice, without democracy, without love, without compassion. This is the whirlpool we like to swing ourselves over, when, with some hard work and some hard work and some hard work, we could find soft earth to stand on. But who doesn't love this rush and bubble of collapse? The man who runs the produce store a block away sends money home to his family, he says. I ask where is home. Palestine, Iraq, Kuwait. His sister there gave birth to twins a week ago. I blink. It's not for me to write dramatic entries about suffering, because what the hell do I know about suffering? about anything
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