Perhaps the World Ends Here by Joy Harjo

Perhaps the World Ends Here by Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

in between

Capturing only the monumental moments makes me think that my life is made only of grandiosity. But how did I arrive there? In moments like this. Togetherness. Ordinariness. Holding your hand walking down the street (for no more than a minute at a time). Admiring the fancy Firehouse with all the Seattle-hipster-Firefighters sipping lattes inside. The trip before the trip. The excitement of what’s to come, but more so, the excitement of being right there. And these photographs that bring me right back.

the abduction

On this night, the final night of 2022, I was abducted by aliens on the 600 block of South Street, only doors down from Olympia II Pizza (assumed sequel to the very, very successful Olympia I). Although I look worried, I was really more surprised— I had just enjoyed a very lovely night, eating soup dumplings in Chinatown and walking home in the rain with my girlfriend. As I beamed up towards the spaceship, it occurred to me just how many dumplings I had eaten, and it struck me that I was sort of a human soup dumpling myself. I couldn’t help but wonder whether this made me more appealing to the extraterrestrials.

still no Leica

I drove down to Hope alone one day to hike real high up a mountain and a guy saw my camera and offered to take my photo. He had a camera himself, a Leica actually, and I had a strange thought, what if he gives me his camera? To keep…

He didn’t—instead he took my photo, with my camera (not the Leica) so here’s me, without a Leica (but still hoping he’d give me the Leica).

city lights

The buildings in cities make us feel small, but the stars would make the buildings shrink to nearly nothing. If only we could see them.

looking out

From Ross Gay’s Book of Delights

_______________

I suppose I could spend time theorizing how it is that people are not bad to each other, but that's really not the point. The point is that in almost every instance of our lives, our social lives, we are, if we pay attention, in the midst of an almost constant, if subtle, caretaking.

Holding open doors. Offering elbows at crosswalks.

Letting someone else go first. Helping with the heavy bags. Reaching what's too high, or what's been dropped.

Pulling someone back to their feet. Stopping at the car wreck, at the struck dog. The alternating merge, also known as the zipper. This caretaking is our default mode and it's always a lie that convinces us to act or believe otherwise. Always.

(Mar. 2)