More than a decade ago, the world had a great laugh as amateur poetry authored by a young 20-something Jack Dorsey surfaced on the web right before Twitter went public. Not only did some media find his words very corny, but his writing style of all lowercase letters created a certain impression.
Turns out, Jack’s style might have been all an act. A newly recovered journal entry authored by Jack in 2003 shows an entirely different side of his writing skills and it turns out he’s actually really good. Here’s an entry he titled F15:
There are things I did, and things I thought about doing. The shame is only in the lack of translation from synapse to hand. The lack of action. I won’t tell you that worldly forces descended on me and forced me into inaction. I won’t say that because I tire of blame. Instead, I will tell you of immobilization by my very own fear. Fear of what? Fear of myself. Fear of those around me lashing out in ways I’ve fully thought through and played out in my head. I’ll begin at the beginning. Or, the beginning of today.
I started my walk, as I do all of my walks and actions of late (late being the entirety of my life), alone. Not for a conscious solitude mind you, but for lack of companionship. Even that is much my own fault. There was ample time to get together a few people, however unknown and foreign to me, to walk with me and make our attendance together. These thoughts were the ones that raced ahead of me, ahead into the next pack of colorful humans approaching the church.
I must tell you that I came very close a day ago to buying a 4:30am train ticket to Chicago and attending the rally there. Mostly it was to escape my current surroundings a bit. Near the final hours though, I felt a real need to stay in the place where I currently live. To listen to it as it has let me breath here for so very long. It was a good choice.
As I write this, I am suddenly hit with that unmistakable feeling of déjà vu; steps I have lingered on before. Was it the walk? The action? The motivation? This writing? This life or a past? I will let it reside here and break the flow, for it has broken my own and refuses to provide me further understanding (yet).
I will fully admit to carrying a lot of secret hesitation, this being my first large concentrated rally. I was hesitant of feeling co-opted by the ones who preach non-co-option. I was hesitant of the loud voices that refused to listen to the subtle, smaller ones. I was hesitant of the contradictions, of the grandstanding, and of the EVENT as only an EVENT. Mostly, I was hesitant of being boxed into a kennel of like-mindedness with no way out. I was afraid of losing my voice and having no one to talk to.
The first thing I noticed was how hive-like we found ourselves behaving. We knew where to go. Where to sit. When to stand and sing. Who to look to, when to laugh, and when to hold our voices up in song. We slid into the little church, all 2200 of us with an excess of 200 guarding the outside, and found our seats and participated in a small “follow-me” prayer. The banners contained a bright purple and yellow voice that everyone shared. The seats were a warm brown. I sat on the red carpet at the side of the center aisle. A classless people surrounded me and all had loving faces and a focused energy they were willing to share. Just ask. Unfortunately, I didn’t ask enough.
We listened to a preacher. We listened to a labor head. We listened to a civil-disobedient mother of one. We listened to reports of millions of friends before and after us participating in their own cities for our same focused cause. We had a sing-along to powerpoint slides. We gave money and learned how to create food and supply kits for Iraqi people. A baby broke silence with a “yes!” at just the right time. We were all given index cards to write down our commitments to making change; all had to leave one before exiting. There was not one mention of fear. Not one mention of how to protect your house. How to protect your finances. What to do if terror struck again. Not one. Instead, we talked of action. We talked of becoming a functioning whole again. We talked about what needs to be done in this shortest amount of time we find ourselves with. We talked about talking, and the need for more, and so much more. Yes, we listened, but listening is not a passive act. It is an action. An action that demands just as much participation as that of speaking, and sometimes more. For to listen, you have to silence your own inner voice and really hear the silence in-between the words of another. And, I can safely say, that all present around me did just that. We all loved that very silence.
Yes, there were a lot of students. Yes, there were a lot of middle class white kids. Yes, there were anarchists in black masks carrying even blacker flags with strong voices and chants. But there were others. I can safely write that there was a representative aspect in each person to cover our entire little city of 3 million 2 times over. WE, that WE, were represented and were able to speak.
The rally came to a close with further announcements of other cities (London: wow and thank you) and we all marched towards the door full of energy and cheered voices in union. I was left with a feeling of emptiness though. I wanted to do more, right then and there, and continue throughout the day. My first regretful inaction came when I learned of the canvassing effort over the city earlier in the morning. My second, and biggest, came near the end. People were filing out the main entrance and there I stood, only to watch every single face as they went back out into the world. This is part of what I wanted, to capture it with my own mind and face, not hindered by a camera. But, I wanted so much more. I wanted to take the hand of every one passing me and thank them. And smile. I managed the smile, but something stayed my hand and voice. It’s that same something that always plagues me, and I am determined to overcome it. That’s what I wrote on my commitment card. I signed my name.
The church was emptied, but a few of us floundered about, again going on in hive like behavior to do what needed to be done. I picked up left cards, gum wrappers, trash, used tissues, pamphlets, and other assorted mess from the ground and the inbetweens of the church and brought them to the front. I threw away what needed to be thrown out, and sorted the rest. Others joined me, mostly older women of the church, though a few closer to my own age showed up later. We poured over the commitment cards looking for fallen ones, recycled the unused ones into a bin where they will later become postcards. We talked of how amazing we all felt, we rifled through and binned the pamphlets so they to could be reissued and reworked, we talked of future action and how cold the weather became. Nothing was contrived or forced. Nothing but a true compassion I saw. Not one spec of errant ego. It was wonderful. I believe we were still vibing on the silence we were asked to observe. The worldwide energy we were urged to feel.
The work was done, the church clean, and we all left in silence. Me in my walk, others in their cars and vans. The energy was still evident in my step. And, as I look back over these words, still flowing through my hands. I will maintain it. I will expand it. It’s what I must do. It’s what I want.
Tomorrow I will attend a candlelight vigil. Marches have been planned. And if war does come, we will meet at Keiner Plaza that night and lie down in peace.
~
I felt a sense of real comfort and love today. It was really good and supportive. There was some great energy, and I feel I was able to flow on it all.
I have a new hat. This hat manages to cause all sorts of strife for others looking at me, I suppose because it’s from Nepal. Nepalese hats are not a welcome thing in Saint Louis. Nor are Indian shirts, clogs, checkered shirts, anything on a man that may look like it should be on a woman, shaved heads and red beards, sticks in your jacket pocket, dead flowers in your other pockets, rope belts, big socks, fingerless gloves, picking up things that were thrown down in waste by others, round glasses, big heads, bigger hearts. I have been made fun of for all of these by those who love me and those who are just speeding by in their pickup trucks. Yes, I have learned to pay less heed to these attacks, but, as you know, words and writing are so much easier than action. In any case, I learned today of further care around me by complete strangers and from the very same.
This is the part where I get offtopic (like I had one to begin with?) and disparate in thought (like I wasn’t already?).
I feel that this whole “blogging”/livejournal thing doesn’t serve me all that well. And I think it’s the whole ability to go back to past entries. I’ve figured out, that for myself, I really have one voice and one ultimate thing to say. Every day, every entry, I am saying that one thing in a different way, but the undercurrent is the same. It’s true of all my “unique” projects. They all are threads, aspects, of the same one whole. So, for a long time, I’ve been thinking of something that only allows my last current thought. My last entry with no ability to revist the past. I figure that the one passage you see, may very well wrap up everything I am and am not. And if it doesn’t, then why the hell doesn’t it? It should.
I think there are worries by some that some part of oneself might be missed. I made this really stellar entry a while ago and I have to allow people to see that, to see what I was and am. I now have to disagree with that. I feel that your past, everything you have written and said and done, can be neatly figured out and implied by what you say RIGHT NOW. After all, your entire life is one giant build up to this ONE MOMENT. How will you spend it? What will you say, and how will you act? This constitutes much of my new philosophies on life. Not philosophies, so much as: strokes. The interpretation of my current strokes. However those strokes may manifest themselves. This is how I should be living my life, and why the hell am I not? I have no answer for that.
I have no answer to your question: “what is that very one thing you are trying to say, trying to verbalize?” The seeking of that one thing, the stumbling, the mistakes, the stutter, the whispers and screams, the steps, the finger clicks and brush strokes. The seeking. My life is to seek out my one thing, through speaking and acting and doing through this one. To think, that I am living through it right now, but I am not the least bit conscious of it. Wow—that’s exciting.
So, this is me at this moment. Who are you?