things just ain't ready to change yet
so you go to the familiar confluence of river and sea
and sit
with the friend you wouldn't have had the sense to appreciate a few scant years ago
before all this happened
and you were changed.
The river's course changes
over eons
it took humankind an age to learn to walk upright
and you're just trying to learn to love in this tiny lifetime
so you sit
with your friend
and let the ocean wind clear your mind
and let the sun kiss your cheeks with autumn warmth
and let a black dog sniff your shoes
as you stroke his sleek coat
To see the progress
To note the change
you sometimes have to look back
You see how blind you were
You know how mute you sat
You never went to the place where the river meets the sea
You didn't show your face, free of fraud, to a friend
The moon was black
the sun, a burnt out light bulb
You groped along in the reeds
and fell on your face in the mud.
And even now, when you can see the path in front of you
You only see a hint of open water
You get a brief whiff of salty air.
Stuff--what?
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Monday, October 15, 2007
truth
I watched Dr. Phil tonight, trying to forget a headache--his subject was O.J.'s new book, which I call confession. I remember an article in "Esquire" soon after he was acquitted where the author says, "Eventually, he will confess." And so he does, in this book. Dr. Phil spoke with his ghostwriter, Pablo, and Pablo believes that details are revealed in this book that only someone who was there would know. It's no surprise, really. The Goldmans were on, too, talking about why they took over publishing the book so that O.J. wouldn't profit from it. People don't understand why he was acquitted, but I do--because the jury was predominately Black and because they have seen the kind of police brutality and racism that was alleged during the case--it was a reaction to two hundred years of history, not a reaction to his fame, and not reflective of the prosecution's case, though I think the defense did a great job of creating reasonable doubt.
I used to work with this accountant, Barry, who thought I was an expert on all the things that he didn't understand about being Black. We stopped working at the same company and lost touch, but, a couple of weeks after the OJ verdict, he called and asked me out to dinner. We sat down, and he began quizzing me about why this jury had acquitted someone who was plainly so guilty. I, naively, tried to explain it, but there is no explaining something like this to a narrow-minded jerk from the 'burbs who thinks that the only Black person he knows (from the 'burbs) represents an entire race of people and their collective opinion, if there is one. Besides, he took me to a bad restaurant where there were peanuts on the floor. Cheap bastid.
Psychopathology is psychopathology. O.J. wrote (or had ghost-written) what he knows. So, in a twisted way, this has brought something into my awareness--I've struggled to write about different eras of time, different parts of the country, totally different people, but maybe what I should be writing about is what I know. And, of course, those are the scariest things to write about, and certainly what I've been doing in this blog. There is research, of course--there is metaphor, and method, certainly--but the stories that live in me are about relationship, shame, madness, elation, giggling about body emissions in church, loss, sadness, abandonment, a sprinkle of paranoia, the agony of word choice, finding something fashionable to wear in the array of tent-like clothes offered in my size, finding a way out of no way, climbing over walls when you barely have the strength to stand up, failed friendships, mis-communication, late blooming, fear, compassion, loving in the face of neglect and indifference, laughing at funerals, pushing limits, inanity and emotional arrest and lust, damnit, lust. A love of chocolate that borders on the pathological. Almost daily headaches that make me want to de-brain myself with a spoon. Occasional thoughts about the bliss of not being in this life anymore. What if heaven is just one giant shoe sale? Yum yum.
And the fact that we live with un-punished killers among us. Vice-presidents, sports heroes, our own cars and consumptions. Make sense of that shit.
And Condelezza Rice. In the mid-East. Do the Israelis and Palestinians give a damn about what she thinks should happen? I wonder what goes on in her big ole brain. Does she lay awake at night, after G. W. has been and gone, straightened hair a fright wig on the silk pillows, thinking about all of the youngsters she's consigned to the human slag heap? Trotting along obediently behind men who wouldn't notice her twice if it wasn't so politically incorrect? Giving her life over to chaos and destruction? I want to see Condi's MRI, please. I'd like to see that area of her cerebral cortex that belongs to Evil.
And so we come back to O.J. A man so out-of-touch with reality that he thinks it's ok to slaughter and rob people and get away with it--oh, wait! That's what we're doing in Iraq, and Dafur, and Roxbury. He and Dick-less Cheney should hang out, maybe shoot each other in the face. Can you dig it?
Dick: Uh...er...welcome to Texas, O.J. You like huntin'?
O.J.: I'm familiar with it. The car chase, you know.
Dick: Heh heh heh. Gun or knife?
O.J: I'll try the gun. I'm sick of knives.
Dick: (shots ring out) Whoops! Sorry. Had a slight heart attack. You okay?
O.J.: Damn, man, you shot me in my pretty face! I'll kill you, mother******!
Dick: Here, let me hold your gun while you staunch the bleeding.
O.J: Hold on! You think you can take my ****?! This ain't Vegas, mother******!
Dick: Just calm down, Mandingo. Think how much sympathy you'll get with a face full of buckshot. (snaps open cell phone). Hello, Condi? Got a situation at the ranch...one of your people. Yeah, the Simpson fellow. Get him a book deal, will ya? That'll calm him down. (closes cell phone). Hey, O.J., how about $600,000 and a fake Rolex?
O.J: I'll take it!
Fin
I used to work with this accountant, Barry, who thought I was an expert on all the things that he didn't understand about being Black. We stopped working at the same company and lost touch, but, a couple of weeks after the OJ verdict, he called and asked me out to dinner. We sat down, and he began quizzing me about why this jury had acquitted someone who was plainly so guilty. I, naively, tried to explain it, but there is no explaining something like this to a narrow-minded jerk from the 'burbs who thinks that the only Black person he knows (from the 'burbs) represents an entire race of people and their collective opinion, if there is one. Besides, he took me to a bad restaurant where there were peanuts on the floor. Cheap bastid.
Psychopathology is psychopathology. O.J. wrote (or had ghost-written) what he knows. So, in a twisted way, this has brought something into my awareness--I've struggled to write about different eras of time, different parts of the country, totally different people, but maybe what I should be writing about is what I know. And, of course, those are the scariest things to write about, and certainly what I've been doing in this blog. There is research, of course--there is metaphor, and method, certainly--but the stories that live in me are about relationship, shame, madness, elation, giggling about body emissions in church, loss, sadness, abandonment, a sprinkle of paranoia, the agony of word choice, finding something fashionable to wear in the array of tent-like clothes offered in my size, finding a way out of no way, climbing over walls when you barely have the strength to stand up, failed friendships, mis-communication, late blooming, fear, compassion, loving in the face of neglect and indifference, laughing at funerals, pushing limits, inanity and emotional arrest and lust, damnit, lust. A love of chocolate that borders on the pathological. Almost daily headaches that make me want to de-brain myself with a spoon. Occasional thoughts about the bliss of not being in this life anymore. What if heaven is just one giant shoe sale? Yum yum.
And the fact that we live with un-punished killers among us. Vice-presidents, sports heroes, our own cars and consumptions. Make sense of that shit.
And Condelezza Rice. In the mid-East. Do the Israelis and Palestinians give a damn about what she thinks should happen? I wonder what goes on in her big ole brain. Does she lay awake at night, after G. W. has been and gone, straightened hair a fright wig on the silk pillows, thinking about all of the youngsters she's consigned to the human slag heap? Trotting along obediently behind men who wouldn't notice her twice if it wasn't so politically incorrect? Giving her life over to chaos and destruction? I want to see Condi's MRI, please. I'd like to see that area of her cerebral cortex that belongs to Evil.
And so we come back to O.J. A man so out-of-touch with reality that he thinks it's ok to slaughter and rob people and get away with it--oh, wait! That's what we're doing in Iraq, and Dafur, and Roxbury. He and Dick-less Cheney should hang out, maybe shoot each other in the face. Can you dig it?
Dick: Uh...er...welcome to Texas, O.J. You like huntin'?
O.J.: I'm familiar with it. The car chase, you know.
Dick: Heh heh heh. Gun or knife?
O.J: I'll try the gun. I'm sick of knives.
Dick: (shots ring out) Whoops! Sorry. Had a slight heart attack. You okay?
O.J.: Damn, man, you shot me in my pretty face! I'll kill you, mother******!
Dick: Here, let me hold your gun while you staunch the bleeding.
O.J: Hold on! You think you can take my ****?! This ain't Vegas, mother******!
Dick: Just calm down, Mandingo. Think how much sympathy you'll get with a face full of buckshot. (snaps open cell phone). Hello, Condi? Got a situation at the ranch...one of your people. Yeah, the Simpson fellow. Get him a book deal, will ya? That'll calm him down. (closes cell phone). Hey, O.J., how about $600,000 and a fake Rolex?
O.J: I'll take it!
Fin
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Caged bird sings
I watch and absorb
Maya Angelou
on a giant video screen
in a room full to bursting
with women, with hope, alive with goodness (and gas from the bacon)
I am in the same room
as Maya
breathing the same rarified air
as the woman who made me know to write
who's writing made me love Black, southern, and erudite
tall, majestic, and elegant
Dr. Angelou of the 60 honorary doctorates,
and one incredible inagural poem "on the post of morning"
and my favorite poem "Phenomenal Woman"* (below)
(and my favorite line from "And Still I Rise"..."does it come as a surprise that I dance like I've got diamond at the meeting of my thighs?")
Yes Lord. I was in a room today
with Maya Angelou
I listened without effort
Her words, her wisdom, her wit poured into me
Her presence honed me to a new shine
Her wizened face, deep honey colored, heavy African features, salt and pepper curls,
her lavender dress and her double string of pearls
she said that we were all rainbows in the clouds of someone's life
we'd all helped someone, known or unknown, through our volunteer efforts
through our smiles at strangers
through our being as women
through our continuing to make a way out of no way
in that way women can and do
through our faith, intuition, grief, struggle, and, most importantly, laughter.
I sat, in that massive ballroom, with Ms. Maya, entering her 80th year
I floated in the clouds and flew around rainbows
My dear friend, Rainbow Ruby, brought me to sit in a room with Maya Angelou, knowing how much it would mean to me
She turned to me and said, "I'm so glad I'm here with you."
Me too, my Jewel.
I sat
on the bus
on the way home
knowing how magic can make the mundane so sweet
thinking of you
my rainbow in the clouds.
You.
Do something for me, men and women. Look at yourself, for at least a minute today, or for as long as you can stand it and think of the blessing you are to somebody in your life, to people you haven't met but have touched, to the strangers you smile at as you walk down the street. Hold that joy for a moment. Let it wash and fill you. Let it embrace you as I would do if I were with you now.
Maya Angelou
on a giant video screen
in a room full to bursting
with women, with hope, alive with goodness (and gas from the bacon)
I am in the same room
as Maya
breathing the same rarified air
as the woman who made me know to write
who's writing made me love Black, southern, and erudite
tall, majestic, and elegant
Dr. Angelou of the 60 honorary doctorates,
and one incredible inagural poem "on the post of morning"
and my favorite poem "Phenomenal Woman"* (below)
(and my favorite line from "And Still I Rise"..."does it come as a surprise that I dance like I've got diamond at the meeting of my thighs?")
Yes Lord. I was in a room today
with Maya Angelou
I listened without effort
Her words, her wisdom, her wit poured into me
Her presence honed me to a new shine
Her wizened face, deep honey colored, heavy African features, salt and pepper curls,
her lavender dress and her double string of pearls
she said that we were all rainbows in the clouds of someone's life
we'd all helped someone, known or unknown, through our volunteer efforts
through our smiles at strangers
through our being as women
through our continuing to make a way out of no way
in that way women can and do
through our faith, intuition, grief, struggle, and, most importantly, laughter.
I sat, in that massive ballroom, with Ms. Maya, entering her 80th year
I floated in the clouds and flew around rainbows
My dear friend, Rainbow Ruby, brought me to sit in a room with Maya Angelou, knowing how much it would mean to me
She turned to me and said, "I'm so glad I'm here with you."
Me too, my Jewel.
I sat
on the bus
on the way home
knowing how magic can make the mundane so sweet
thinking of you
my rainbow in the clouds.
You.
Do something for me, men and women. Look at yourself, for at least a minute today, or for as long as you can stand it and think of the blessing you are to somebody in your life, to people you haven't met but have touched, to the strangers you smile at as you walk down the street. Hold that joy for a moment. Let it wash and fill you. Let it embrace you as I would do if I were with you now.
PHENOMENAL WOMAN
by Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I'm not cute or built to suit a model's fashion size
But when I start to tell them
They think I'm telling lies.
I say
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips
The stride of my steps
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please
And to a man
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees
Then they swarm around me
A hive of honey bees.
I say
It's the fire in my eyes
And the flash of my teeth
The swing of my waist
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say
It's in the arch of my back
The sun of my smile
The ride of my breasts
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say
It's in the click of my heels
The bend of my hair
The palm of my hand
The need for my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
ass face
I don't like getting that angry. I pretend that I do in the re-telling, but it's so stressful, makes things so meaningless, lessens my ability to communicate effectively. Why did I have to yell to make myself heard? Grounding out the words through clenched teeth, tethering the curses that naturally sprang to mind...but you, you monosyllabic cretins...did any of you say, "What do you need?" No. You each acted as though you were doing me a favor. I pay through the pores for your services, and you are doing me a favor. So, after 45 minutes of ridiculousness I got loud. Did you hear me? Probably not. Did you get me what I wanted? Yes, you did.
Impotent rage. So unfashionable, so unacceptable, and yet, how can the modern being (and HMO patient) endure without feeling it? How can one ride public transportation, watch dozens of people picking their noses and not offering their seats to the elderly, or hear local teenagers abusing each other and anyone who is different outside the CVS not feel the rise of a palpable ire? How can we hear that one C. Thomas, the original "long John Dong," has written a tome full of allegations of his own victimization and not experience that rush of adrenaline that precedes a spot of bitterness and bile? How can we hear about Buddhist monks being beaten and imprisoned and not raise a fist at the sky and do some primal screaming?
Impotent rage. So unfashionable, so unacceptable, and yet, how can the modern being (and HMO patient) endure without feeling it? How can one ride public transportation, watch dozens of people picking their noses and not offering their seats to the elderly, or hear local teenagers abusing each other and anyone who is different outside the CVS not feel the rise of a palpable ire? How can we hear that one C. Thomas, the original "long John Dong," has written a tome full of allegations of his own victimization and not experience that rush of adrenaline that precedes a spot of bitterness and bile? How can we hear about Buddhist monks being beaten and imprisoned and not raise a fist at the sky and do some primal screaming?
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