Lord help to console hearts in this hour of grief on this day where hideous laughter comes too soon like junk to help us forget — not feel — pain. What is the word, this queer expression of thwarted happiness? Surely not ‘laughter,’ but as soon as I find the word, though long and poverty-stricken the lone journey, everything will be right and just. Madeleine L’Engle says that when our vocabulary is limited our freedom is limited (passive.) When we enrich it, we free ourselves (active.) In God’s holy name, dear generation, please do not allow this settling to hold power over you; to trick you into signing your signature; to bind you to contracts in “up-and-coming” neighborhoods; to tenure your truths and brand your fight the fight which they say matters; to bow down to a hollow and deconstructed word. True God from True God. You, friend, are the only one who knows your right, your fight, your voice. No, I do not have only one signature but I do have one Lord, and whether I capitalize it, what does it matter, in our pre-legalistic pure language? And for me ‘signature’ is not congruent to lord, so the fight against just hearts is vainglory. Suction.
2011, Amaya Engleking