I woke thankfully, from a dream in which I was inconsolable. I could not stop crying. I was witness to a strange collage of human activity, war, massacre, heroes, sheroes, leaders, criminals, vagabonds, drifters, crusaders and the nameless mass of humanity. I was alive during the time of Malcom X and walked through the streets of Harlem, witness to the fresh graffiti on walls proclaiming his mark, his dangerous ideas. I walked through the streets of Washington and nearer to the figure of Martin Luther King and sang in a crowd swayed by hope. In an instance I watched him gunned down. I swam near dilapidated houses where hungry dogs could not feed their pups, where young pregnant girls smoked in reckless abandonment dreaming of getaway cars. I witnessed a million hands plunged into a red sea, bringing up indiscriminate bodies–their shapes morphing like digital chimera. I screamed inside a silent glass ball as a I watched the atomic bombs fall on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I kept walking with a thin scraggly breath as I looked into the eyes of a Romany Gypsy whose gaunt face fell behind the wire of a concentration camp.
And then…I was propelled backwards by a force, and my lungs ached from the speed. I was crawling on the ground near a battlement. And I knew of the war hound and I knew of the world’s pain. And I thought ‘yes, how could I stop crying…I shall cry forever, I cannot stop’. I saw to the horizon countless figures–zebras, bees, turtles, androgynous creatures, all waiting, waiting, suspended in a silence in a miasma, in a suspended moment, just waiting. I looked through a stone grate, still on my knees, my eyes dry, my heart heavy, but my curiosity awake. ‘what were they waiting for?’