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Compassion asks us to go where it hurts, to enter into the places of pain, to share in brokenness, fear, confusion, and anguish. Compassion challenges us to cry out with those in misery, to mourn with those who are lonely, to weep with those in tears. Compassion requires us to be weak with the weak, vulnerable with the vulnerable, and powerless with the powerless. Compassion means full immersion in the condition of being human.
How can you raise the level of consciousness on this? How can you get the federal government to take the responsibility? Florida does not have a foreign policy. This is a federal policy or absence of federal policy. It’s so clear that we’re not being treated fairly. We have to come up with a solution. It hurts your head trying to figure out what to do.
My last name is Szekely. Sounds like Saykay. When I was a little kid I had an instructor in camp who called me Shnizneckely. He would make fun of my name and it hurt my feelings because I was a little pussy and I cried. He said, ‘Well, how do you say it?’ I said, Seekay. So he wrote ‘C.K’ on my jersey and everything. He made my name ‘C.K’ and I just stuck with it.
I actually enjoy that I never really needed to be hanging out with every celebrity in Hollywood; I just go home and hang out with my cousins, my best friends. I’m not treated like royalty; they love me to death, but they don’t treat me like royalty. So it’s easy for me; they’ll tell me the truth, whether it hurts or not. And I need that; I’ve always been given that.
Someone asked me…how it felt and I was reminded of a story that a fellow townsman of ours used to tell–Abraham Lincoln. They asked him how he felt once after an unsuccessful election. He said he felt like a little boy who had stubbed his toe in the dark. He said that he was too old to cry, but it hurt too much to laugh.
Images flicker, each one bringing its own sorrow or its own smile. Sometimes both. At the very worst, an impenetrable and sightless black and at best, a happiness so bright that it hurts the eyes to see, coming and going on some unseen projector perpetually turned by an invisible hand. One, then another. The hollow click of the shutter. Now stop. Freeze this frame. Pluck it down and hold it close and be damned by what you see. Henri always said: the price of a memory is the memory if the sorrow it brings.