Oscar Zeta Acosta writes, "Somebody still has to answer for all the smothered lives of all the fighters who have been forced to carry on, chained to a war for freedom just like a slave is chained to his master. Somebody still has to pay for the fact that I've got to leave friends to stay whole and human, to survive intact, to carry on the species in my own Buffalo Run as long as I can." --The Revolt of the Cockroach People
That end to which we seek, that we desire, doesn't exist. It's the end of something; the end of the road, the end of civilization, the end of the end. But we are here now, moving, on the move--already now. Our desire doesn't end; our desire for utopia--a terminal point after which all debts are paid, all sloppy manner of forgiveness manifest, all brokenness healed. This desire cannot be filled. A promise only uttered by a Wall Street bankster looking to cheat yet one more. Our desire will never die. And so, on the move it moves, we move in and around it toward an open space yet determined and yet determining in us. A place where we are/not ourselves, but mountains more, oceans beyond oceans, waves beyond sand, sand beyond measure.
Fit now we. And fit we are. And so together we move with hands enclosed in hands yet known and unknown, foreign and familiar, foe and no-foe, mo-fo.
A pedagogy of the oppressed? An undercommons? -- surely a thing without a thing and yet everything--a Buffalo Run indeed. A Buffalo Run.