Do Not Call Me, Father.
Russian poem from 1942
(Son to Father…)
Do not call me, father. Do not seek me.
Do not call me. Do not wish me back.
We’re on a route unchartered, fire and blood erase our track.
On we fly on wings of thunder, never more to sheathe our swords.
All of us in battle fallen – not to be brought back by words.
Will there be a rendezvous? I know not. I only know we still must fight.
We are sand grains in infinity, never to meet, nevermore see light.
(Father to son…)
Farewell then my son. Farewell then my conscience.
Farewell my youth, my solace, my one and my only.
Let this farewell be the end of the story,
A solitude vast in which none is more lonely,
In which you remained barred forever and ever
From light, from air, with your death pains untold.
Untold and unsoothed, never to be resurrected.
Forever and ever an 18 year old.
Farewell then.
No trains ever come from those regions,
Unscheduled or scheduled.
No aeroplanes fly there.
Farewell then my son,
For no miracles happen, as in this world
Dreams do not come true.
Farewell.
I will dream of you still as a baby,
Treading the earth with little strong toes,
The earth where already so many lie buried.
This song to my son, then, is come to its close.
21 Mar 2021
漫谈电影之 The Pursuit of Happyness
"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." ---US Declaration of Independence
13 Mar 2021
Weight：漫漫长路上的负重前行
Weight
BY JACQUELINE WOODSON
When I was a kid, there was this song that played on the radio all the time. It talked about a road that was long and a brother who had to be carried on it. The singer said the brother wasn’t heavy. That he was, simply, his brother. And that line repeated again and again—He ain’t heavy. He’s my brother. And something about the way the singer’s voice hugged these words, proclaimed them to the world, caught in the back of my throat. Making it hard to move. To swallow. I didn’t know then—at nine, ten, eleven—that this was love. That this was community. That this was about a greater good. If the road is long, it doesn’t matter what you weigh—I will carry you.
As a child, I loved the stories inside of songs. And the poetry. I loved how the music existed as air and water around the words—an energy to help them move deeper and more beautifully into our minds—and from there, our memories.
The road has been long. As I sit down to write this, I am so grateful for each of you on it with me. As I read through the selections in this journal, I am carried back to that place in my childhood—where words stopped me, made me have to remember how to swallow, said Don’t forget to breathe.
And now—here we all are—at this moment, past the many we’ve lost who weren’t able to breathe into this new day. Past the beginnings of a revolution that is now a movement we have chosen to walk beside, to raise our fists up into. Past a country that feels like it’s losing its mind. Past a moment before we had to remember to grab our masks when we grabbed our wallets and keys. And still—ahead of us, the road keeps winding into a place we cannot yet see.
So on we go.
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