Tuesday, November 16, 2010

to Margo (@Margo79)




I have always written to become invisible. To refuse believing that all we need are things, documents attesting our existence, degrees scaling positions that are not existent at all but a delusion on the part of this or that one. It equals looking at reality without pretending its unity as a condition to its beauty; looking at the other —  whomever it is — without wry smiles or smarmy self-importance; and being sure that we do not have to pulse in synchrony, as though we share the same beliefs or have the same interests.
Becoming invisible by the very act of writing means also refusing all the technical resources for the armed struggle, the machines dictating rules, the dominant corporate market, the terms of deprivation, the imposed one-sided look (of mistrust) at those improvident brothers and sisters, the celebrities into spotlight, the “red carpet”, and all that life’s forward motion that makes us feel so drowning by brands.
In any event, I write to die away myself. The deeper I go along my characters, their secrets and personal failures, the more distance I keep from a “desirable” visibility those — who are in the position to write our histories, control our present, and forecast our future — insist to recreate and indoctrinate us in, as if reality cut across the image and likeness of their own preponderant logic, that means we just have to keep up with all the “necessary” delusions — created to forge our own responses to reality — or with pseudo-needs being imposed to reinforce the image of a way of life considered to be tuned to our own affairs…
I have always written to disappear. To look at and have empathy for those deserted men and women with nothing to show but their frightening, waving existences; those homeless people, the garbage men, the construction workers, the chauffeurs-driven limousine, the freelancers, the cleaning guys, the laundresses, the waiters, the black and white and yellow and blue ones with their exhausting journeys…
If there is something that cuts across all our realities it is love, the bridge between all our differences. So becoming invisible by the act of writing means this is the one-and-only way I figured out all over the years to refuse tearing down that wondrous bridge. To look at the other and realize there is much more that meets my eyes. To walk on a crowded street made of concrete pavement trying to go beyond the asphalt itself, and looking around and over that aggregation of men and women restless in their movements, with their gestures of impatience, endurance, from pusillanimity to resolution, upright or misled into their everyday connections…
This is what I especially believe we are so up to capture from our own transitory lives and immediately convert into language, even though things are not all so tangible and sayable as people usually have us believe.
One of the most precious things I have learnt by reading literature, by having literature and arts in general so close to me all over these years, and making an effort to understand that strange power coming from the words of fiction, is one of that I have just learnt from Rilke, the poet, that talented and sensitive alchemist of the words: indeed, “most experiences are unsayable, and they happen in a space that no word has ever entered.” But every word we express for not refusing black lies and one-sided answers, every single word that makes us recognize that our mysterious existences endure beside our own small, ephemeral life is a word of generosity to the others. A word, in short, being so about to make us share with, feel with, and contact with humans being humans ourselves…
My invisibility does not even echo the opposite sense of showing off itself. However, this is a way to wake up in the early morning, breathe, leap forward, look around, get out of the bed, and not go nuts when we face so much turmoil, so many excruciating events, so many arbitrary decisions in the world we just live in right now. This is especially a way to convert all this into love. Although it seems such an invisible love springing from an invisible person who writes to disappear, it is a feeling that guides me throughoutas I try to transform any of my zigzagging words into the intention to carry myself and other persons — whatever! — on to realities down the lines, in-between, and on to a broader endeavor to perceive of, grapple with, and quest our multi-faceted reality.
When I write to become invisible, to continuously have that splendid impression that I am finding myself transformed into an invisible woman (with no external traces, no fingerprint, no profile(s), no degrees, no remarkable positions, and whatsoever!), I just intend to reach persons or personas, from this or that realm, those who do not feel like they are in the position to make their interests prevail over all the other ones’; who act as if they can be brothers’ keepers; those who have a hope for humanity that we thrive and strive to provide everything necessary to everyone…
And so for it, I write this one to a very enlightened, special woman who I do not even know in person (yet)… I am sure she feels invisible in this sense I also do. Weird the fact that we have only corresponded with each other virtually? No, definitely not! Every single sweet word she writes me is so ready to be considered to enhance my own shot against the world’s greed, corruption and selfishness… and rich and enriching as to show me that we are visible in this life not by design, but by Love.
MARGO, Margaret Kargbo — this is her name, soft and beautiful as I see her, notwithstanding from a far-away place. I also feel passion in your words, dear Margo! I also look forward to our paths crossing one day. And I especially grow more invisible in words and in my deep-down feeling of tenderness, love, and affection for the others when I see you here and there, supporting Persons. Artists, creative ones, lost ones, unbacked...invisibles. Almost everyone turns into invisible souls ourselves, as if we do not have voice, choice, hands, throat, fingers, sweat, eyes; not even some active role in running their general affairs. But then, kaboom: we just do; you show us that we just do. You believe in humanity this way, and that's more than magical, rare, ineffable...
Margo, the enchanter! Margo, the sweetest! Margo, the one who will never spoil our amazement...even in front of a brutal world. And Margo, who always makes me feel like I am coming home!
I bow to your superior sensibility, dearest. And I hope you like my zigzag words of love to you.
With all my admiration,
Carol.

______________

P.S.: With much-much sadness, I knew this week of Margo’s passing. I'm not going to change lines, phrases, paragraphs from this text I wrote for her almost five years ago, when we met, even though there are myriad other words for me to say about her, our writing-each-other-letters-messages-what’s-more-for-fun-and-joy social-engaging motion, her universe of smiles, generosity, and (com)passion. This beautiful photo of her was inserted today, 05/26/2015, as I missed her very adamantly and sincerely, and just thought of her, and come over to ask all of my friends, readers, partners, acquaintances, dear ones…to support her: http://www.gofundme.com/v5anj8. Thank you!  


2 comments:

Larissa said...

OMG!! Honey, what's this? Such a beautiful text! I'm enticed and lured for these wonderful words. I just don't know what to say. You said everything here, sweetie. Luved it. Luved your words. Luved your sensibility. I love YOU! That's all! Kisses of your Pretty Alliteration.

Carol P. said...

Oh my dear! So nice to have you here, reading up a text by me written in such a moment of all my admiration for those who just make us believe once again in the redemptive power of love and art! Thanks so much for you sweet comment - you, my one-and-only Pretty Aliteration! :) Love you too, a lot, you know?