some publics can’t be public. being public transmuted us into lightning rods. toilets. bruises. punch lines.
so even before “social distancing” we were grasping at each other through fungal-brokered exchanges, electric prostheses for our thirsty roots. and even before “social distancing” our learning was a prison, a factory, a narcotic, a buttress in the almighty edifice of racial capitalism. we tried to chisel out of calcified colonial upbringings, meeting through screen like sugar through phloem. i began to sing then.
today, i sing for the others like us, dispersed by windy chance, aching for home and making new ones over and over and over. i sing because its vibrational force can mold the thick fog of our future. i sing for the givingness of it, the relationality of it, the companionship of it.
i sing to find you, public or can’t-be-public, and that you may find me.
Featured Image: tree dance by Andrew Niess.