Now Politics: the Political Opinions of Thomas Sarebbenonnato

A Friend of the People Opposing Elites; Social and Political Commentary of Thomas Sarebbenonnato; Publishing and Contributing Editor, Jay V. Ruvolo [Copyright (c) Jay Ruvolo 2018]


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Sitting quietly on a train, as I have, as I do, will do, repeatedly the things I do day in day out the same way I never notice, a creature of habit, I am, you are, I think I see that you must be too. We are no different when it comets our politics, how we are engaged or not engaged.

Here I am riding clink-clank across the Manhattan Bridge spanning erect across these waters, East River waters flowing mutely in my eyes fixed on the below, all prepositions have potential nominal status; just insert a determiner. As I look to the lower Manhattan night-time skyline I notice out of the corner of my eye undulant dots of light off each wavelet cap, an incandescent sonata, I had wanted to say, would have been more likely to say openly than I am now at my age, why should my age have anything to do with whether I say something as I have said herein openly?

Light layered in form, what form, all things seen have a form, intended or imposed, what it is we do with what we see, the actual or the virtual, what it is then we make out of what has been seen; I see cream in a Napoleon in a shop on Amsterdam, other layers I could have noted.

I do see you and I sitting there, how long ago now, acoupleof decades was it; having visited Saint John the Divine. Yes the pastry ripples, I see once again as I remember them, recall them, am able to recollect una sfogliatella open, cut, warm and flaky on a plate next to espresso after Easter lamb, whose table was it? Mine? Yours? Whose? Which Easter—how many Easters ago? What else is there to say about one or another revery of times gone by . . . recollecting our politics about as well.

The past is the past someone says, who says, I say, you say, another and another says. I am sure I realize in the many ways we are different. And another says that the past is not past, that it doesn’t even exist except in how we remember it. What does that mean? I am not willing to abandon the idea of Truth, nor am I willing to admit that knowledge is impossible.

Do we remember when? What did we remember then?

I remember you, I say, I remember having said, think I can recollect one time or another . . . your skirts, your legs, your eyes, the world itself unbearable sorrow, how it was I said that the world seemed to bear its sorrow in your look, a gaze I stood amazed by; what is there that I could or that I would say to you about you, how you affected me, how anyone affects me, each of us is the other’s keeper, no? Today that has grotesque connotations of collective imprisonment.

Other words for you, suiting action, you know–the words I say about what was are the only was that is. Words and actions do not meet; I must try desperately to make them do so. We maintain such delusions about our politics, about our government, about our politicians, about Power, about the State. 

To remember, to recall, to recollect, all of them–each one of them–different from the other; each one related, but not mutually interchangeable in every context of use. 

I recall a friend telling me something of what she had written in a journal one time how long ago now I forget, something about how she  “never explained to you why the reasons of course why I did not could not speak to you after or again; and how I left you without so much as an appeal to destiny or vanity–you were the world for me that night into early A.M., over the latticed shadows of the blinds across your chest I lay my head down to sleep, I prayed–what did I pray for, could I have prayed for that night that room your room from which I left for good for once for all to come again another evening, a cab home?”

I remember she said she had asked. And I do wonder now recalling how she said she had “wondered why there was nothing I could have desired above all else,” I remember she said she had said. Yes, and “what else was there,” she wondered. Yes, “there is no was only what is,” I remember she said she had said. “This was, that was, is neither flesh nor blood, nor the bones shaken to the marrow,” she said she had said. “Yes,” I’m sure I remember correctly that she said she had written, “you shook me to my marrow, I did not tell you.” Yes, “you were too fucking haughty for me to tell you how I felt, actually–virtual reality has been our modus for a long time, but then, these recollections are not exactly in tranquility collected. I have lost control? Have I ever had control? What is the necessity of control? Control is not what it has been misunderstood to be,” she said she had said in her journal. She was remembering, not reading.

“If my soul is a chariot, where then are the reins?” She said she had asked in her journal. I do wish I could have been reading it.

Written by jvr

June 5, 2019 at 12:13 pm

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