I Don’t Know

I don’t know if I’ll keep posting things here.  I stumbled on this site the other night trying to download a plug-in so I could see the videotaped interviews of people Manning Marable interviewed for his remarkable and shattering recent biography of Malcolm X:  A Life of Reinvention.  http://mxp.manningmarable.com/

I never succeeded in downloading the plug-in but I was assured by copywriters for WordPress that I could set up a free blahg in a matter of seconds.  It was true.

So, while Manning Marable died literally two days before the book that was his life’s work for decades was published, I was alive and punching in names for this exercise in vanity after learning that some clever, early-to-the-party bastard had grabbed the name “blahg”.  

I don’t mean to sound peevish, living in this moment in time when literally any idiot can wax philosophical over them internets, but I probably am peeved.   I have hard work to do, and I need a bit of luck.   Thomas Jefferson noted that his luck was multiplied many times over by his constant hard work.   I wonder, listlessly, if he really worked harder than most of his 300 slaves on the inherited plantation where the master worked so hard improving his luck, and the cause of human freedom.  It is beyond doubt that his luck was much better than their’s.

Marable’s biography of Malcolm X really shook me up.  I have been aware in recent years of time growing short to become the change I want to see in the world.  The world’s time may be short too.   Malcolm X, with no credentials but intelligence,  talent and a burning need, turned himself into a dynamic agent for change, electrifying packed crowds on the street and at Ivy League schools.  

Tragically, he also entangled himself with murderous fanatics whose self-hatred was never quite alchemized as it was purported to be by the self-worshipping idiot pseudo-scientist who ran the lab.   Reading voraciously and running ahead in a rage to change the things that enrage, perhaps not the most effective way to move ahead, but there is inspiration to be taken from his tragedy too, and less and less time to waste.  

Posting things here among the artists, marketing and branding specialists, curators and so on, reminds me of Thomas Jefferson’s passionate correspondence with a woman named Maria Cosway.   In the end she wrote him off as a bastard and a tease (although Wikipedia contradicts my memory, saying they corresponded until Jefferson’s death and each kept the others’ letters until after death) .  A long one about the debate between The Heart and The Head strikes me in particular, the self-involved fretting of an eloquent, preening, sphinxlike narcissist.  Not that he wasn’t capable of taking what he needed in the real world, ask the beautiful, almost white looking teenager the age of his daughter, a young woman he owned who would bear him six children over the years.

I don’t know.  Just writing to say that.   Next to these words, beside handy semiotic icons,  are Write a Post, Post a Quote, Post a Naked Picture of your Mother.

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