Part 85 (1/2)

HOW IT WHISPERS UNTIL WE ARE DEAF).

Once the subconscious begins to crack, to break, then eventually, to burst, a sudden stream of awareness makes its way into our thoughts, and we are, understandably, overwhelmed. In order to function, the conscious, newly burdened, creates for itself a helper (a hindrance), which manifests itself in a voice we soon come to hear. At first the voice is quite reasonable (afterall, it was created to help us); however, over time, as reality makes itself know (for now it bares no masks, and we are entirely exposed), the voice becomes too honest, and guides us towards escape, by this I mean, suicide, which was an option previously unrealized before reason made it known.

To extend beyond this point: The spirit is separate from the mind-moreover, the spirit is separate from the body, the world, the universe, and is free to explore all things. The spirit, unlike the mind, has no stake in our being, that is, it exists beyond us, despite us, and will do so long after we are gone.

(ON THE SPIRIT'S SELF-INTERESTED DESIGN,.

AND HOW WE SUFFER FROM IT).

The spirit, however liberated from the body, is, nevertheless, trapped; for as long as there is a body, and with it a mind, it (the spirit, the soul) is deprived of omniscience, which occurs because of us, who are but anchors of the soul. And so, the spirit has as its design a complete and total separation from its jailer, man, which it accomplishes upon his death; and since the spirit is impatient, it hastens our end by twisting logic and altering reason, which happily a.s.sures us that, to be free of torment, death is the only way.- These are just a few of my notes on the subject; I do not wish to burden you with more, which would, because of volume, bring you to the floor.-Keep healthy, by strengthening your mind: suffer books, endure symphonies, so that, like me, you will be able to resist the voice which so often calls our name.

Sincerely,

Me Too

Having ended with these words, ***** named and sealed each envelope, then slid all beneath his door, unconcerned if any reached their destinations, for his mind was consumed by other things. The correspondence had taken its toll; the notes, each of them (but especially the latter two), had freed emotions which had, he thought, long been restrained, held down, and put to rest; but before him now was Sorrow, Anger, Grief, and Despair, who had come for conversation.

Chopin played, beautifully, and as the notes descended, so too did the listener, whose mood grew dark, whose pleasantness faded into shadow; for suddenly, before him was the truth, uncut and pure: he was pathetic, he was alone, he was afraid . . . of gravity.

Slowly, cautiously, he began removing from his pockets all that they contained, and, moving for the window, felt his body rising from the floor, his soul smiling from the heavens (for soon it would be free). Shortly after, ***** was no more; and though he had long believed it to be his enemy, on this day, Gravity was his friend.

FROM The Queen of Harlem.

BY BRIAN KEITH JACKSON.

Yo. Yo wa.s.sup?” asks a young man, planting himself in front of me. Though the temperature hardly warrants it, he's already wearing his new black parka, with fur tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the hood. The coat is his business suit, different from the one I wear but a business suit nonetheless. ”You cool?” That is all he says, and I fully understand the nature of the weather report.

I smile, somewhat tempted by the offer, but I pa.s.s with a simple lift of the hands. The moment does find me cool, so the young man, with a swagger and a sway, pushes off on his way. He doesn't take it personally; in his business, and in mine, a no is a yes, an offer away.

”Great day, huh?” says a guy walking by with a briefcase.

”Yeah,” I say. ”Can't complain.”

”I hear ya. Have a good one.”

”You too.”

Autumn has alwyas been my favorite season. It's when time turns back on itself, if only for an hour.

Spring forward. Fall back.

I sit on the stoop of the town house, checking out the refurbished Marcus Garvey Park, which has been renamed Mount Morris. The leaves, going through their changes, sway with the breeze in the air as though Billie Holiday is singing ”Autumn in New York.”

I cherish the moment because I haven't been back to this street, haven't been back to New York, in four years. But here I sit where it all began.

A group of kids on the sidewalk across the street are double-Dutching, maybe hoping to one day take the crown back from the j.a.panese team. They are screaming with delight and the sting of the frayed extension cord they use goes unnoticed. They are used to its touch.

I bob my head to the sound of the cord slapping the concrete; my dreads swing to its cadence, almost as though my turn is coming up. Watching the kids, I'm loving their natural high.

An old woman tosses bread crumbs for the pigeons, and their velvet coos attract a swarm and they settle on the sidewalk at her feet. All the pigeons look alike to me, but I'm certain the old woman can spot a few of her favorites, her ”babies”; perhaps the ones that most resemble doves. The pigeons begin to scurry as a car pa.s.ses, but the little girls across the street double-Dutching never miss a beat.

”Mr. Randolph?”

”Yes,” I say, standing, closing my journal.

”Diane Turner,” she says, sticking out her hand. ”So nice to meet you. Sorry I'm tardy, but this area is booming and I've had to show four other town houses today. Of course, this one is the prize.”

”That's fine. I was having a great time just sitting here checking things out.”

”Yes. The neighborhood has changed drastically in the last several years. This town house is a jewel.” I suspect she knows what time it is, but she takes a look at her watch. ”I actually have another client coming to see it in an hour. Shall we?” Diane Turner walks up the steps. I follow.

”Didn't that park used to be called Marcus Garvey?” I ask.

”Yes. Well, actually it was Mount Morris Park first, then it was renamed Marcus Garvey Park in 1973, but due to the current changes in the area they thought it would be best to again call it Mount Morris. Full circle, wouldn't you say?”

”Yes. It seems so. Malcolm X Boulevard hasn't been renamed, has it?” She smiles but gives no answer.

”After you,” says Diane Turner, opening the door. ”As you can see, fabulous.” She places her hand behind her ear. ”Just listen. You hear that? That's the sound of history.”

Though the place has been renovated it's still as familiar to me as a childhood scar.

”I see you've brought a notebook,” says Diane Turner, glancing at my old journal. She looks like a fancy black doll in her tangerine designer suit and matching suede shoes. A black and gold silk scarf covers her neck, and her lips are painted into a permanent smile. ”That's wise. It's amazing how much people forget.”

”Yes. It's just something to refer to.”