born from light
for Joe C.

the insidious judgment procured by feeble boxed minds
leaves me askew, dismayed
spiraled into disorientation
gasping, then choking on this same fury
a vindictiveness so godlike, so child-fueled
clawing and slashing
in perverted supplications
hoping to wound and gloat
and I concur: this venom is poison
good for nothing except the solipsistic fantasy of vengeance

but vengeance is His
and judgment is His
and I am His

frayed by this contention, but now restful
and recalling this truth:
the gloomiest of shadows is born from light

msf
3/28/06

I was asked to post one of my poems that I perform during "I am not the Enemy" and sometimes during my show, "You Don't Know Me . . ." This poem was inspired by a girl who battled anorexia. She was about 5'10" and weighed approximately 105-110 lbs. I met her at a poetry reading. Her poems were amazing, a cacophony of pain emblazoned with masked words that concealed truths from her life, so dark, so ominous you would believe that she came out victorious. I wrote this poem after she shared a poem about one of her demons.

Seven Times

Dedicated to all the girls and women who have said no

but were never heard.

He must've not heard me

he must've not heard me

though i said five or six or seven

times

no

And it was true

he did take me to dinner

and he did take me to a play

and it was true too

he paid

he paid

but

He must've not heard me

he must've not heard me

though i said

five

or six

or seven times

no

And upon completion of that play

ovations roared

and i cried tears of happy wonderful joy

and he wished to share the moment with me

on mountains overlooking

seas and cities

and i said "Yes!" most cheerfully

but

He must've not heard me

he must've not heard me

though i said five? or six?

or seven?

times . . . no?

And in his car i took silent pleasure

in tasting the desire held within his mouth

and he savored my excitement as well

however, contentment was not his cousin

and he placed his hands on my breasts

i became surprised,

but i remembered the bumper sticker: keep calm

because to him, he must've felt like the king

recapturing his castle

but when he placed his hands

on my thighs, moving his hands up my legs

towards my castle

i closed my kingdom with awesome strength

to guard what was solely mine to give

and said, "please please, no."

but

He must've not heard me

he must've not heard me

though i said five-or-six-or-seven times

no

And to him he thought i was a tease

and he believed that my no meant yes

but i know my no meant no

but obsession took the best of him

and indentions took the best of me

as he tore apart my panties

unbuckling his belt simultaneously
punching me, punching me, punching me

and forcing himself on me

while forcing himself through me

and "No!" I screamed

(i know i screamed)

but it was already too late

he had already entered through the gate

and i cried a voiceless narration

with the pain of thousands of generations
with the rage and terror

from the grave of every girl and sister and woman
in every nation

and i did say,

No

no no

no no no

no...

and yes

He did take me to dinner

and yes

he did take me to a play

and yes, i wore a short, short skirt

and yes, officer,

i wore a tight, tight top

and yes,

i paid
i paid
i paid

because

 

He must've not heard me

he must've not heard me

though i said five

or

six

god knows

i said

seven

times

No!

My wife and I have been through a lot in the past year, trying to make sense of it all, trying not to give up on each other, but wondering still . . .

I feel like we've come through something; seeing a little more clarity, a little more direction, seeking the help we need. Me putting my shoulder to the wheel and saying, "Let's roll." Knowing that we have so much beauty between us and sometimes we get stuck. And I get stuck because I don't see a box or I'm trying to redefine the box. And she gets stuck because she wants some of the box she's been told about, in ancient tales and silences.

Our daughter is so beautiful. She is a sensitive soul. I try to have Daddy moments with her. Just Saskia and Daddy dancing together. But if Tessin is around, Saskia reminds me what it's all about -- she doesn't want to just dance with Daddy; she wants Mommy to join us, too. All of us dancing together, like family.

Like I almost forgot.

This is about boxes. and how they can [[[confine]]]. and like how they don't like s t r e t c h very much. and how you can only take out so much from them and putonlysomuchinthembeforetheyripap
art. and how most people live in boxes and are afraid (boo!boo!i scared you) of seeing outside the sideout the touside eht edistuo or the outedis because then they are not in the box anymore and they are outside the box so . . . what? and it's scary if you see the box and you're not in it?!?! but who said that the boxbrains were right? what if there is no BOX! and you've been stuck in your imagination for too longgggggggggg, like keys pressed repeatedly. what if i told you that there is no box and i don't see any boxes and my mind is always on the roam and universe is connected to infinity and we are all scared anyway outside or inside? the? box? and we are all like god, the little g, and that's what scares us. because God, the big G, created us to b in some image of God. enter: little g. and last time i checked, we weren't doing a good job at little g talking to big G and we (are you ready to laugh? are you ready to rumble?) put God, big G, in a box and the box was too small. so it broke. and we killed God like we kill each other, but God can't die, but sometimes it can seem like God is dead or just a god because we do so many boxlike things in Gods name like blowing ourselves up and hating homosexuals (because it's fun!) or like judging everyone or just judging Amy or just hating everything or pretending that women are less than men or just thinking that we own anything. my friend says she can't be friends with me anymore because she lives in a box and her box is full and her box runneth over. and i think it's funny and dummy and saddy that she is so stuck in a box.

I bought a boxcutter today and i'm looking for some boxes. to. cut. with. myboxcut.ter.

My sense of humor.

I know my sense of humor can at times border the strange or disturbed, and though I know that, it's difficult for me to describe to people my sense of humor exactly. I mean I approach some of it in my shows, but I have to be somewhat restrained in my shows. Movies or t.v. shows can get it right away, at times. Have you ever seen the t.v. show called DEAD LIKE ME? It was cancelled some years ago. Very funny. Very offbeat. Have you seen the movie Schizopolis? Or maybe I should ask if you've experienced that movie? Some comedians hit it on the nose. Emo Philips is probably the best at this. And then the other day I picked up a t-shirt that nailed my sense of humor. It said this:

I put the FUN in FUNERAL

You either get this or you don't. If you're not laughing or if you're offended, you don't get it. If you are wiping up the spittles from your computer screen, then welcome to my brain!! I've worn it twice so far, and there are a lot of people, most people, who don't get it, and that makes it even funnier to me. I guess I'll just have to put my other shirt back on:

I live in my own little world, but it's o.k., they know me here.

I guess I would like to tell all of you: laugh. Even if you're the only one laughing -- laugh! We'll all join on this journey at some point.

Unknown White Male

Last night I saw this movie called, "Unknown White Male." It was a documentary about a handsome, British man named Doug who woke up one morning on the Subway line in NYC without knowing who he was or how he got there. He had no recollection about anything in his life, not his name or a single memory. He went to the police, they sent him to a psychiatric hospital, and the hospital told him that unless someone came to claim him, he would have to stay in the hospital. In his backpack was a note that had a woman's name on it, but she didn't know who he was. Fortunately, she told her daughter about this, encouraging her daughter to call the hospital to see if she recognized who this man was. The daughter did recognize his voice immediately -- she was a former girlfriend and close friend. She went to the hospital to claim him.

The documentary, filmed by another close friend, Rupert Murray, took a journey exploring how Doug rebuilt his life and identity after such a rare occurrence, focusing on the re-establishing of relationships that do not exist for the amnesiac individual.

It was certainly a fascinating film, to say the least, allowing me time to reflect upon who I am. How much of me, what I know as Michael Fowlin, is shaped by the events of my past; how much of ME is hard wired?

Doug certainly suffered greatly, at first, trying to ascertain aspects of himself, but in the end he appeared almost comfortable at being given a clean slate, the ability to re-create one's self, without playing the role of being who people know, without wearing that subconscious mask. More fascinating was the fact that he got to a place where, in many ways, he cared little about ever regaining access to the old self.

It was his close friends who had the most difficulty at adjusting to Doug's amnesia, having to establish a different connection with Doug, getting to know the "rebooted" Doug, and ultimately worrying if this "new" Doug would even like them.

I also thought about my own connections and how many of them are built upon events and happenings, shared experiences, if you will. I wondered if I would have a better chance at re-establishing a relationship, if it were not built on the "Remember when we did this . . ." principle, but rather, if the relationship were forged on more existential concerns. I think about this because questions such as: Who are we? Why are we here? What are we? -- tend to be questions that change throughout time. We re-learn each other as time moves on. Shared memories of events tend to be fixed and only slightly altered.

I suppose what I am really asking is if it is possible to maintain our core selves in spite of amnesia? The quandary: how many of us really know our true selves, deep behind all the masks?

I spend a lot of time in my car. I put on about 40,000 miles/year. I listen to sports radio stations, morning shows, and my CDs. I always need driving music, songs that keep me awake, and songs that hit me deeply because of where I am. My latest driving song is a classic -- Have You Ever Seen the Rain. Here are the lyrics:

Have You Ever Seen The Rain?

(J.C. Fogerty)


Someone told me long ago
There's a calm before the storm
I know
It's been coming for some time
When it's over so they say
It'll rain on a sunny day
I know
Shining down like water


I wanna know
Have you ever seen the rain?
I wanna know
Have you ever seen the rain?


Coming down on a sunny day
Yesterday and days before
Sun is cold and rain is hard
I know
It's been that way for all my time
Till forever on it goes
Through the circle fast and slow
I know
And it can't stop I wonder


I wanna know
Have you ever seen the rain?
I wanna know
Have you ever seen the rain?


I wanna know
Have you ever seen the rain?
I wanna know
Have you ever seen the rain?

Yesterday, I was in Barnes and Noble buying books, one of my multi-addictions. One of the books I picked up was Post Secret. I mentioned this in a past blog. The idea was simple: Send in an anonymous postcard with a true secret that you've never shared. This project started as an art project, but grew into a national fascination. The book is a compilation of many of the postcards Frank Warren received.


I am so drawn to this book, in all of its realness and sadness. The book is brilliant in its revelation of our human condition. The secrets people keep out of fear, out of pain, is outstanding and familiar. Don't get me wrong, there are a number of postcards that bring about a smile or a big laugh. We are sneaky people, hiding what we can, when we can.


Here is a sampling of some of the revelations:


"I wish I would have spent more time with him . . . When he remembered my name."


"I still believe my childhood bear is real. I am in college. I still talk to her . . . . When no one is in the room."


"I tell people I'm an atheist, but I believe I'm going to hell."


"Since September 11, 2001, everyone I've ever known thinks that I am dead."


So, there it is. What anonymous postcard would you write? What would I write? Why are we so afraid? We are so afraid, and I'm tired of living in fear, of clinging to whatever comforts.


Find laughter today, my friends and release that which holds you back. I encourage you to get this book. It may release your spirit a little bit.

Much love.

the way it was

before the apple, before that taste

we were all of equal worth

eve and adam, partners

no submission

no superiority

the earth was ours in harmony

with life, with each other

food was from the plants and trees

no blood breathing creature

was endangered

we were free to roam, to create

without shame, without godlike knowledge

understanding without wisdom was the downfall

our eyes were open

but we were too small to see the beauty

so we clung to the shame

and sewed ourselves, closing our minds

and slowly

but certainly

we chose death

over all things that are living

msf

3/12

Thirty-five, and doing just fine

Today is my birthday. I am 35 today. I feel no older than 25. True, my back is a little stiff (bouncing nights on a big ball to put Saskia asleep), but I still got my energy and my desire to create all sorts of shenanigans. I think of my father at this age and how much older he was than I am. He seemed like an adult. I don't feel like that. I play video games, I collect baseball cards, and I love creating voices and characters for tele-marketers. I love seeing goofy movies and I prefer not listening to political diatribes. I don't feel like a high school kid, but I do feel like a junior in college, before that intense senior pressure of "What's next?!?!?!?"

I woke up this morning with praise on my lips, thanking God for life, for being a part of this great, naughty dance. It is true, when I was younger I thought much of my own demise, for I was certain that I would not make it past 25; not because of some suicidal fantasy, but I believed that whatever I was supposed to do would be life-threatening. Who knows what will happen in the future, but for now, I am alive and thankful; breathing and aware; hungry and vivacious. I thank God and the beauty of life (even in its terrible motion) for this day, for this moment. I am 10 years past 25 and I'm doing just fine . . .

"Lately I love to drive
Into the countryside
The many ways that I've tried
To get things off my mind
But there's nothing by chance, indeed
And you need not wish me well
Just don't tell and I won't tell
Or sound the broken bell
On the last time I left
I locked doors and forgot the lines
Now I'm fading the blues
Drawing circles on classifieds
I'm twentysome and doing just fine
But I don't want this
I don't need this
I don't understand at all
I don't take time
I don't make time
I don't answer every call
And I don't feel right
I don't sleep tight
I don't love it like I should
Am I halfway gone?
You know I don't feel right
I don't sleep tight
I really don't love it like I should
But I'm halfway back to feelin good"
Grey Eye Glances, 'Halfway Back'