These are excerpts from The Book of Jim, texts written in homage to the poet Ray González, my former poetry teacher at The University of Minnesota. I imagined both what would make Ray slightly smile or what might make him write a very large exclamation point on the page as a response to a prose poem; I have tried to reach toward that imagination. What emerged has the feel of postcards from Jim to Jim, a current self to a former self, which serve as a site for social commentary, for following the movement of memory, and for learning from those who have taught us through the clarity of their own words, namely James Baldwin, who is quoted from Letter to My Nephew on the One Hundredth Anniversary of the Emancipation, in this selection (41).
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You think you are ready for anything, she said, the flicker of an almost dead bulb in her eyes. I don’t know what he told you, but this is the real story. And she leans in to the kitchen table she has so recently taken the shellac off of. It was too sticky, everything stuck, she said.
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16
For those who were afraid of sudden sounds, there was the padded room. For those who walked in circles, there was a square table. For those who had no money, there were food stamps. For those who couldn’t bear the shame of applying for food stamps, there were freezers unlocked on back porches. For those who couldn’t leave their houses, there were curious Vietnam veterans who drove down the small roads and stop off randomly to ask about buying an old car. For those who couldn’t visit a brother because he was too drunk to know them, there was the sheriff’s welfare call. For those who had to convince the sheriff, there was the perfunctory visit. For those who have to clean up after the messes of the lives of their family, well, if you know that, then you know enough.
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27
There’s a ghost in the scene and she keeps dialing the only number which used to ring in your kitchen, that old yellow rotary phone it took my fingers so long to fit in the holes of. Ten numbers for international calls. Out of habit, I pat my own cheek, tell myself to notice my feet on the floor. Is the ghost still here? Is your old kitchen still standing?
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30
I made a dog’s head out of old papers used to wrap bread. It was a good resemblance of my friend’s rat terrier Manny, in fact, it accurately captured the tiny bend in his left ear, which he cocks when he’s listening for any semblance of chickens. The noise or the packaging of chicken. The feathers or the smell. Or just the sound of his owner saying, chicken. I tried also to make an octopus out of old papers too. I wasn’t sure about the tentacles, so they hang down out of old shredded pieces of newspaper, under the bulb of the head. There’s a twist in one which reveals the lines, “their expertise is acute,” and “official time with the Self.” The octopus hangs above man’s best friend, both completely still.
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38
Should we wait for better people or wait for better gods. I heard a guy say that and scribbled it down. He seemed legit. Dandelions in the cracks of pavement that run down along the house. This was a small transformation, not this, not that. I was late to the nettle this year. My arms were flying around sockets. The walnuts fell again and comforted me. Sowed seeds that I would not harvest or eat. On the wall in this room the light stays at the top half and makes visible the large webs there, stuffed with prey.
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41
I suffered a lot Jim, but I can still be logical. To act is to be committed. It’s joy that really messes with you. The people who can and cannot afford comfort. You have to make it cohere, otherwise, there’s nothing. They called it a fixed star, and then mistook it for the truth. The last time I saw you was like that, you were almost manic with excitement over Christmas and the contents of your cabinets. Then your dogs started howling outside. I told you this before, but I write it again in case you can’t remember. You were in a little room, trying to peek out of a window. Other people came in and out but you could not. This is really about nothing, Jim, and nothing takes time.
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55
This was my mission Jim, to go back and forth between two things until a pattern arose, such that I could entice a third or fourth thing to also rise up. A puppy starts howling and then stops suddenly. In the beginning was Jim and Jim was good, and the words were good Jim. But Jim was lonely and Jim needed Jim, and Jim needed a sea to swim in and air to breath and food to keep the cells circulating. And Jim saw all this and it was good but not as good as it would have been if Jim had had a banana, say. And like I said before, the evening and the morning were the third day.
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Laressa Dickey is a dance artist and writer (born in Tennessee, based in Stockholm) whose recent projects explore the politics of care, the effects of state violence on the human body, and space junk. She’s the author of Syncopations and Twang.