So, tribe, how are you doing? We might be the only people who can ask each other that and just tell the truth. No pretence, no sinking feeling, no feelings of guilt when the truthful answer is, “up to shit” more often than not. Here we all are, intense and extreme people, people who other people often think have our heads up our asses, but here we are and we’re so fucking compassionate. There are days when this tribe – you – get me through it without me melting down completely. There’s a lot more I could say, but I won’t, because I’d fuck up my reputation for grouchiness. Seriously though, thank you.
This one’s for us:
Self Portrait (Osip Mandelstam)
A hint of wing in the lifted
head. But the coat’s flapping.
In the closed eyes, arms’ quiet,
there’s nervous energy hiding.
Here’s one who flies and sings,
and the word, in flames, hammered,
until congenital awkwardness,
by inborn rhythm’s conquered