Christmas 2005

And so on another year we are called upon to reflect. Aah, to reflect; that moving motion of existence, so human, so uniquely human. I think of my life in stages, never wanting to retrace the same ground twice. I am satisfied by growth, by this movement; yet, when I reflect upon some of my momentary darkness of the past year I recall images of times when life seemed much less complicated. But these reminiscences are doctored visions, brightened by forgetfulness and sprayed with rose petal perfume. Life Is, and this truth, so often antagonized by religious, philosophical and fearful theories – mere comfort candy – is what makes life worth living. “We are (magically), fearfully and wonderfully made.” We are not governed by lists of dos and don’ts or imprisonments within commandments. These serve as vehicles of disorder, stripping us away from the authentic gift of the Giver: joy shelled within destruction, order within chaos. Jesus’ birth was not an entirely glorious night for Mary and Joseph. It was centered around rejection and loneliness, fear and questions, three wise men and a dirty manger. His royal entry was anything but a royal entry. Still, this is where the miracle is: within the darkness, there is light. The two are dependent upon each other. I see my life much in these terms.


I am thankful for the gift of life, for the days that feel endless, but must one day end; for laughing children, despite their hunger, their pain; for “a wife who really loves me . . . and a little baby daughter who plays games around my feet”; for family, the good and chilling; for a mother, who in her simple way, just believes; for a father, so complicated, who tries to understand; for a brother attempting to remember the tune (“God knows the tears that you have cried . . .”); for a sister who is a mother laughing to make me laugh (I sometimes hear the laughter in my aloneness); a sister who I’ve always adored, always loved to see her growth (you are no longer two – and I am thankful for this – your mind and heart); my brother who I never met until I was in my 20s, but who holds so many similarities to me; for my dear cousin Kimani and our ability to make amends and peace, despite both feeling hurt by the other; for all my friends of the past and present – for those who never give up on me: who stand there with me when I fumble on the edge; for friends to whom I speak no more (you have shaped me as well); for a God who understands my heart (“And the Lord’s people said, ‘Amen!’) – who has standards that are so much more complex and grey than our linear thinking – a God who knows that none of us will ever get it right until we die, yet still loves us despite our lack of knowing the movement of the wind. I am thankful for this and so much more.



I am thankful for all who read this.

I send you warm love on this Christmas day.



cherished,

Michael

I recently read an article about my show. I found it to be one of the most thoughtful and thought-provoking I have ever read about my show. There were two criticisms in the article that I found to be useful. The one I would like to highlight at this moment dealt with a section in my show where I give the audience three challenges: 1. Find themselves beautiful 2. Find others beautiful 3. Smile and say hello to at least 10 new people. The article thought my suggestions were too simple, especially considering the edginess surrounding the rest of my show. I agree. My three suggestions are nice as far as nice goes, but I could take it up another level -- especially for upper high school, college, and adult audiences. I've been doing a lot of thinking about this . . . I still like my third challenge, however, I want to make some amendments to the first two suggestions.

We (human beings) take for granted our lives and the business of living, but what happens if we are told when we are to die? What happens if our date with death is much sooner than we anticipated? What if we were given a year to live? 6 months? One month? What do we do? What do we complete? What do we start? If you, my friend, were given one month to live, what five things would you like to complete, start, or do before your time was up? Well, what are you waiting for? Make that list -- today is the first day of your last 30 days . . . or 31 days. So, for the next 30 days, I challenge you to live as if it is your last days. Not only am I challenging you, but I am challenging myself.

You don't have to share your list with anyone, but I will share mine with you.
1. Begin learning to speak Spanish
2. Do a photo shoot of my cousin Kimani and my friend Lori
3. Complete two chapters of my book
4. Organize my fun room (It's a train wreck!)
5. Show Tessin my complete love, though we may walk separate ways.

These are the five things on my list. I'm taking a deep breath. I realize that some of these may not be completed, but I will make every effort to tackle these goals. Let's begin, my friends. Today is December 18, 2005. I will let you know how it goes on January 18, 2006. Whew!

The second challenge to audience members is this: Think of one small thing you can do that can create a positive change for others in your school, workplace, or home.

This is what I've been thinking about these days.

I just saw the movie -- RIZE. Highly recommended. On the surface, the summary can seem like just another inner-city movie that utilizes some form of art to save the youth from self-destructive paths. This is not the case. Yes, it is about inner-city youths and young adults who transform the pain of their lives into something healing, spiritual. The movie is a documentary set in the roughest parts of Southern Los Angeles. It is about Clowning and Krumping -- two forms of dance birthed out of the Rodney King misadventure. It's not just dance, though. It is an art form, an expression. African ancestors are called upon through their movement; the tribal movements that express the pain, the anger, the loneliness, the struggle.

I was deeply moved. The film was beautiful. I give a shout out to all you Krumpers and Clowners! Express yourself. Transform your negativity into positive energy. Live the dream . . . and rize!

Aah! What a disturbingly wonderful day I had yesterday. I did two performances in Cedar Springs, Michigan, a historically blue collar, farming town. Ethnically: Mostly hodge podge American white or Western European dissent; socioeconomically: very poor to middle class. I knew going into it that there would be tons of stories . . . I spent six years in a town somewhat similar to this one when I lived in Massachusetts. Bellingham! Oh, Bellingham! Wherefore art thou, oh Bellingham?

Bellingham was historically a mill town that sat on the Blackstone River. The people in my neighborhood were mostly blue collared workers, from the postman to the factory foreman, from the policeman to the construction worker, from the fireman to the woodsman; to our family. My dad was an engineer. On some theoretical, social level he had the most prestigious job of the lot . . . but, he was black. The first question he was asked when we moved into the neighborhood came from the postman (who later became very warm to my family): "Why do you people want to move into our neighborhood?!" -- Reminds me of a song -- "Oh, the postman is a person in your neighborhood . . ." Mr. Rogers, where were you then?

And in these neighborhood, lots of secrets happen behind closed or not-so-closed doors. Most of the kids I knew, including the Fowlin clan, were getting smacked around by their parents, and I don't mean the occasional spanking either. I mean punches and belts and brooms and walls. You get the picture. You didn't blink your eyes to this . . . and you didn't really talk about it either. It just was. It was normal. And there were the other secrets, too; the sexual ones. The secrets we never mentioned in broad daylight: the 10 year olds having sex with the 13 year olds; the boys with boys -- purely attempting to understand how boys are supposed to be with girls; the brothers with sisters; the fathers with daughters; the forced sex play of neighbors with neighbors; the 17 year old boy molesting the 11 year old boy. And the list goes on.

But back to Cedar Springs. Yesterday was a flashback of Bellingham. The many stories that were shared were disturbing in a way that I have not felt in a long time. So many kids who had been hurt. I probably spoke to at least 100 different kids in this high school, 95% had been abused in one form or another. Four separate girls spoke about their brothers forcing them to have sex. One girl got pregnant by her brother. She had an abortion at age 14. The other stories of fathers raping their daughters; girls pregnant at age 14, not knowing which of two guys was the father; seventeen year old girl pregnant with her second child -- so strong, so beautiful, wanting nothing more than her mother's approval and love. The physical abuse. Awful. Just awful. Is there hope for people who have suffered so much? Is there hope for them not to repeat similar patterns or be with men who resemble their perpetrators?

I spent the entire day just talking to people. I was emotionally exhausted, yet oddly, I felt satisfied. I had helped begin the healing process. I was deeply touched by all the stories, all the hugs, all the tears. I prayed with a group of students. We prayed for God's strength for a student who had to tell her parents that she had been repeatedly raped. And God wept. We were all bonded together by our stories of pain, and it was painfully beautiful.

So, thank you, Cedar Springs, Michigan. You have made my life more beautiful. You are BEAUTIFUL!

I think it's the written words of others that helps me the most. When I feel dark what helps me most during those times is reading: poetry, essays, epitaphs. This morning I was reading excerpts from the book, The Little Big Book of Life, a wonderful collection of poems, short essays and stories, and different quotes. It really helped lift my spirit. As many of you know (those who read my blogs), I have been in a dark place as of late. It's all so complicated, but I feel as if I'm rising slowly. I need to visit a cemetery soon. I always feel more alive after looking at tombstones. I love seeing what people have written on them. Most people have the typical stuff, but every once in a while there are some amazing maxims carved in these tombstones that serve as a source of strength for me. I am still in a tough place, and will be for a while, but whereas only darkness was visible, I am starting to see shadows . . . light must be somewhere around the corner.

The Incident

This past Monday I was traveling from NJ to Maryland. I had to leave in the evening time because I had to pick up Tessin and Saskia from the airport. As I was traveling down, I got tired, so I pulled off at a Rest Area, took a two hour nap, and started driving again. At about 3am, I was tired again, and thought about resting for a half hour. I pulled off at this rest stop, and before shutting off my car, I noticed this man who was walking towards my car. I immediately put my car into reverse, only to see this man stop in his tracks, holding up his hands, asking for my help. Apparently, he and his friend had run close to empty in their car's tank. He asked me for any help I could lend his way: money, gas. He told me that I could even look at their tank meter if I didn't believe them. Needless to say, I felt unsafe; instinct kicked in: leave, go, don't look back. Fear kicked in: What if he has a gun? What if I'm being set up? If I step on the gas right now, I'm a dead man if he has a gun. Compassion stepped in: What if they really do need my help? How would I feel being stranded without gas, no money, and two more hours to drive? Confusion stepped in: What do I do? Logic stepped in: get to a well lit area.

I told this guy to get back in his car and follow me over to the gas pumps. I chose this option for two reasons: 1. the area by the gas pumps were well lit; 2. it would give me more time to think.

When I got to this area he sat in his car talking to the driver. Then the man who got out originally stepped out of the car. I told him to stay by his car because I wasn't feeling safe yet. I still needed time to think. Within a few seconds, I spotted some truck drivers heading back to their trucks. I have to admit, I have never in my life been happier to see a bunch of truckers at 3am. I told the guy who was waiting for my response that I was going to get additional help because I wasn't feeling safe. He looked confused. I drove over to the truckers, told them the situation, informed them that I had decided to help these guys, but I wasn't feeling safe by the whole situation. In turn, I made the truckers feel unsafe. I assured them that all I wanted from them was their presence, nothing more; I just wasn't sure what was about to go down. The truck drivers agreed to walk halfway and keep a lookout.

I drove back to the gas pumps, told the guys to stay in their trucks and I would give the attendant, (who was behind a bullet proof glass), the money. They cooperated. I gave the attendant $20, (poor woman was a little bit freaked out), was thanked by the guys; in turn, I thanked the truckers, and I drove off -- VERY AWAKE.

Reflection

I was scared. I thought about many things on the rest of the trip. What if he had a gun? What would I have done? I was ready to die, spiritually speaking, but I was not ready to die or be injured for that matter. And although nothing happened to threaten my safety, there was something shady about the whole situation. Two grown men, out of gas at 3am, with no money, no ATM/Credit card, no AAA. Nothing. At the very least, one can assert that these men planned poorly. At the very height, they run scams.
I felt vulnerable, insignificant. If they had a gun, I had no option but to drive away. I didn't have my taser on me; I couldn't lure them over to my car without some equalizer. I had to put everything that I believed into practice. Could kindness and peace quell a potentially perilous situation? In this case, perhaps that was the difference. I will never know, but I must believe that there is something to say for compassion winning over fear. I recall that during my most intense moment of fear, I issued a spoken question to God. I did not ask for protection or some miracle, instead, I gently asked for wisdom, and out walked three truck drivers from a rest stop.

Gender

A few days later, I was struck by this thought: Tessin (with her black belt skill set) would have been better equipped in that situation to make it out alive than me or most men in general. Why? I think that gender responses would play a role in this scenario. For instance, if the man who approached me had a gun, he would be more likely to be on guard by my presence than Tessin's. In seeing me, I am just a victim for money or car or valuables. In seeing Tessin, there may be the additional thought of rape, which would require a closer interaction. Tessin would get the additional chance to perform a lethal move on the guy to which I would not be privy. This was just an afterthought, nothing more.

Conclusion
I am happy to be alive, breathing, healthy, and thankful that my work on compassion was my lived work at 3am on a Tuesday morning.

"When the winter wind blows cold upon my window, and the mood

I'm in is darker than the deep blue sea . . ."

Patty Larkin, "Winter Wind"

I just can't seem to write very easily these days, though I have tons of thoughts. My thoughts haunt me; they are the persistent headaches that pound their voice in cadence with my sadness.

I am in a funk! I am in a funk, and I do not know how to deliver myself free from this darkness. I am unmotivated, restless. I want to write -- books, poetry; learn languages, speak new tongues; love, fall in love; connect with all those from my past who I have lost along the way.

What is the source of my spinning? So complex . . .

The toughest time for me on the weekends are the moments before my baby Saskia awakes. I dread it because she wakes so early. However, the most happiest moment is when she is awake, alive and buoyant, bringing smiles and laughter.

I wouldn't trade my daughter for the world, but I still remember the world.

My mood is dark like the deep blue sea and I just want a little bit of light.

"And I found that all the world could love you save for one. And I don't know why it is, but that kiss will be the haunted one. You'll pine and weep and you'll lose good sleep and you'll think your life has come undone, until you learn to turn and spurn that bitter wind." -- Ferron, 'Cactus'

There is an intense amount of pressure placed on teens today, on teens always. They receive this pressure from parents, from teachers, from coaches, from self, and from those love objects. My heart really goes out to those students who come to me after a break-up, whether they are the initiators or recipients -- love is a painful thing. I particularly feel deeply for those who were the initiators, but now feel trapped by the threats of those who were the recipients. I'll illustrate this.

A girl came up to me after my show the other day and she was frustrated because her ex would not leave her alone. He kept calling her, telling her how much he missed her and how depressed he was without her in his life. During these conversations she would stay firm, telling him that she cares for him, but she cannot romantically be with him anymore. It was getting out of control for her. He then increased the intensity of his messages, telling this girl, that without her, he was unable to function and now felt suicidal. He started making suicidal threats, if she would not be with him. She still refused, but was now living in constant fear.

Oh, love's jungle! Unfortunately, this desperation is not just relegated to the teenage wasteland; it is equally dispersed in the grown-up fairyland. What do you do if you are confronted by a former lover in this manner? That's a toughie. Create some distance, without rudeness or coldness. Also, telling that former lover, in direct terms, that threatening suicide is not o.k. -- this will not get the job done. Be angry, but be gentle -- you are dealing with a heart.

For those of you who threaten ending your life, YOU ARE BETTER THAN THIS. You survived before you met your love object, and you can survive without him or her. Screw Romeo and Juliet (that play sickens me). See love as pathways of growth -- "the world owes us nothing; we owe each other the world." -- not as a destination. Within this life are many destinations, within your love there are many vessels. Love must flow free or it fails to be love. Possession is never love. We cannot possess each other for we are each the wind.

I leave you with the words of one of my favorites, Kahlil Gibran. This is what he says on love:

"When love beckons to you, follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden. For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure, Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor, Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears. Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; For love is sufficient unto love."

This is the post from my friend John Morello's blog. Pass it on!!

http://www.johnmorello.com/2005/08/find-or-loot.html

It happened on Friday, September 9. I was preparing to perform at Freehold Intermediate School. I was in the Cafetorium waiting for the elementary kids to clear out. I just sat observing all the wild, fun energy of K-5 graders, thinking about my own daughter, and her venture into this realm within a few years. It spread oodles of smiles upon my face. At one point, there were these two brothers walking in, holding hands. One looked to be in the second grade and the other one appeared to be in the fourth grade. The older one continued to hold his younger brother's hand until they could identify where the younger one needed to be. Once that was established, the older brother watched as the younger one scurried across the floor to meet a new friend, then he (the older brother) found his own seat.

I was struck by how beautiful that image was, the two brothers taking care of one another; the older one assuring that his younger brother was going to be safe. I pondered how quickly siblings can forget how to take care of one another; how in time those two boys may never be as close as they are now. It made me think of my brother Roy and how he used to take care of me. He was my protector, my hero growing up -- no one could harm me. He was my big brother, my Bunny, and I was his Wingy. He watched to see if I sat in the right seat. He allowed no harm to come to me. He got angry with me when he found out that I drank a beer when I was 11. He told me that he would beat me up if he ever heard that I drank again. He protected me against neighborhood kids who wanted to beat me up because I ran my mouth so much. He told them, "You gotta come through me first," and then they walked away. I remember one time how he took the brunt of a beating from our father who tore into us with his belt; he covered me with his body as my father's heavy hand whipped and whipped. I did the screaming, my brother took the welts that time. I remember crying when he ran away from home for a week during high school; I remember crying again when he left for the Navy, hoping that I would see him again. I recall feeling scared when we hadn't heard from him in months while he was in Guam. Then there was my senior year in college and I had broke the security codes of my college's phone system, and called my brother. I completely broke down when we spoke because I hadn't heard from him in such a long time. I lost it. I was inconsolable. I was going through so much -- graduating, the memories of what Dan had done to me, my future, my past, the whole package. I wanted to tell him that I just wanted to play baseball with our baseball cards again, smacking around pieces of balled-up foil as if we were the true heroes on those cards. I wanted to be so much younger again.

Then he was kicked out of the Navy.

He came home for a short time. He didn't tell me not to drink anymore, because he was drinking and smoking frequently, but he was still my brother, and he was still "cool". Then my first year in grad school, he started to do Crack-Cocaine, and Crack cured him of his alcohol addiction, and it took me years to realize that I had lost my Bunny, my big brother --

These days, I guess I'm the older brother, the rescuer, and I never got the manual to read when I was younger. So, I'm winging it. He lives in two extremes nowadays: an addict of the streets or as a religious fundamentalist zealot. It's tough sometimes for me to choose which one I prefer. I just want him to be out of his pain, to forgive himself, to forgive Dad, to move on. He left when he was 17 and never grew a day more in his relationship with our father. He's still a teenager and he turned 36 this summer. I didn't call him for his birthday this year. I wanted to call, but it's too much sometimes . . . just enough to put you in the space of a dark winter night with no warmth around, and I wasn't ready to make that trek right then.

I was preparing to perform at Freehold Intermediate School on Friday and I saw two brothers holding hands, taking care of each other, and the older one watched the younger brother walk to his seat, making sure he was going to be safe.

And I started to cry uncontrollably, and I had to cover my face and walk away.

Headline: Robertson Suggests the US Assassinate Chavez


You can't make this up! Pat Robertson, the founder of the Christian Coalition, influencer on thousands of Evangelical Christians, right-wing, conservative, God-fearing pundit -- has encouraged the US to assassinate Chavez, the Venezuelan President. Allow me to repeat: a presumed messenger of God and Christ is calling for the assassination of another individual. Since when has that become the Christian message. I do not speak these words as a secular individual criticizing what I do not understand. I speak from the perspective of a person who knows all too well the message of Christ, of one who spends time reflecting, meditating, and praying on those things that are spiritual. What is going on in the mainstream evangelical church? Many of these leaders, as well as their flock, scare me to no end. They are making moves politically that have become the antithesis of Biblical endorsements. They are influencing and pressurizing the political powers in hopes of creating a new world order -- and this, my friends, concerns me. I know the wielding power of this movement, the narcissism that is coursed like rabid blood in dying veins. And it's only going to get worse.


I pray for the love of God to invade all of us. I don't pray for war or violence or assassination or any of these political messages so desperately infiltrating our minds, our souls, our solar plexus'. We need to move away from this religiosity that is disguising itself as being from God; we need to find our spiritual selves and question everything -- authority, presumptions, and those insidious messages of "I know the TRUTH." It is messages like Robertson's that will set the atmosphere for discord, for disdain towards Americans, for more attacks. This atmosphere is becoming tenuous, and it is starting to reek of times that have passed.


In all fairness, I realize that Robertson has apologized for his comments, as did I when I was caught for burning down a park and shoplifting when I was younger. So we'll forgive him -- he is human. We'll just have to watch and listen very very CAREFULLY.

Quote of this Blog: "I play Wheelchair Rugby. What's the worst that can happen -- I'll break my neck? Again?" -- Mark Zupan, quadriplegic, rugby athlete.


To fight against the odds. To live in spite of death's taunts. I am blown away by all who can strive to live when peril is all around them.


Knew about a girl in a Michigan high school who had no arms or legs. She wasn't born that way, but when she was an infant and toddler, her parents thought that it was a good idea to throw her out of windows when they were upset. Eventually, she lost the ability to use her arms and legs, and they had to be amputated. If you could have met her, you would not know she suffered such abuse and pain. She gave back peace to the world which gave her pain.


I know of others so consumed by their pain -- or their imagined pain -- that they do nothing but cause disharmony to all those around them. Or they invest in causing additional woes within their own lives. I am so saddened by this inauthenticity. I have friends and loved ones involved deeply in drugs, in alcohol, in depression, in self-hatred, in anger, in the awkward loneliness, in disconnection; they are my friends and loved ones; I do not reject their presence, their lives; I surround myself with all shapes and sizes in hopes that my love will be a link to a higher love, a connection to a life unfulfilled.


The beauty of this life often shrouded in mystery or under some sandy lot or locked away in a remote canyon alludes all of us at times. The mountain blows its message, yet we fail to see the sun's voice, the wind's shadow. We fail to know love, not our creation of love, tattered and bruised with ego and jealousy and possession; love -- one on one, one soul touching another. To risk it all -- broken neck or not; to be fueled by this passion that does not quit because of hurdles, because of brokenness -- that is this life. That is this love.


"What you dream in the mornin', may you dream at night
May your love light be so bright it diminish the darkness
That comes without warning and in no particular way
And threatens to blow you away . . .
I wish I could tell you all the pain's in your head
That it all would be better if you'd just do what they said
But if the voice that is talkin' is never your own
There's no one to tell you that you've finally come home"

-- Ferron, Never your own

Quote of the day: "Since the American broadcasting system has more restrictions against sexuality, you can get away more with amplifying violence than you can with amplifying sexuality. It results in this weird sadistic element. Putting women in these sexual situations is a backdoor way of getting more flesh in." Jeffrey Sconce, associate professor at Northwestern University


I read this quote in Entertainment Weekly. It triggered a few thoughts that I would like to share with you. This quote, along with the larger article about violence toward women appears to be a theme that is being played out in much of my reading lately. I am currently reading this book called, "Because I Remember Terror, Father I Remember You" by Sue William Silverman. By far, this book has been one of the most unsettling books that I have read in a long time. It is the autobiography of a woman who survived sexual abuse. It is a tough book to stomach, not because of overly graphic details, but because of the nature of the material. And if the material were not enough, add Saskia, my daughter, into the equation. It's hard to comprehend how or why a father would invade, dismantle a life he partly created, yet it happens too frequently, and girls are the overwhelming target of this tragedy. Humph!


Why so much violence toward the female gender? Why does this hunger for power over girls and women exist in so many boys and men? The networks are increasingly having story lines where women are raped or tortured. Why? Is there an unspeakable sexiness about putting women "in their place," by any means necessary? Even in the most purest and noblest forms of our society -- RELIGION -- we are besieged by the overt sexism and patriarchy that exists in the texts. Look at Christianity, Judaism, and Islam -- look at their texts: the Bible, Torah, and Qur'an -- all subtly and overtly make harsh distinctions between men and women, with women on the losing end most of the time. If the holy books do not bring about true equality amongst gender, what's that to say for everyone and everything else?


I listen to bar talk from men about women. I have heard sermons preached about women submitting themselves to their husbands. I have seen female friends stay in abusive relationships because they justify their man's behavior. I know of a guy who spoke openly of his fantasy of tying a woman up . . . then putting her in the trunk of his car -- (and this is the fantasy that I can actually mention in my public blog; there are more disturbing ones than this one). I watched my parents embrace this gender atrocity. Growing up, I benefited by having a later curfew than my sister, strictly because I was a male.


I get tired of men, of me, being male. I hate the fear in a woman's eye when I walk past her during night time, if she is alone. I'm tired of the women who don't have the strength to leave when they are being abused -- because of commitment, or love, or religion. I understand fear. I know women who stay because they fear for their lives. I understand this. I am not tired of these women who stay for this reason, but I am sickened by the men who make these women feel this way; who threaten out of their own illness and weakness. I'm tired of men making women feel less than what they are. I'm tired of my own voicelessness, my own loud silence.


O, men! We are so pathetic, so pitiful. We believe we are greater because of physical ability. We believe we are greater because we are ordained to be the head. We are nothing but a pathetic lot.


I pray for women around this world. I pray that you will be able to stand against us; fight back, and like Sojourner Truth speak it with passion. "Sojourner Truth: ex-slave and fiery abolitionist, figure of imposing physique, riveting preacher and spellbinding singer who dazzled listeners with her wit and originality. Straight-talking and unsentimental, Truth became a national symbol for strong black women--indeed, for all strong women." She once addressed a man who was trying to put women in their place by saying: "That little man in black there! He says women can't have as much rights as men: 'Cause Christ wasn't a woman.' [Sojourner] stood with outstretched arms and eyes of fire. "Where did your Christ come from?"
"Where did your Christ come from?", she thundered again. "From God and a Woman! Man had nothing to do with him!"

To all my friends and family who are girls or women, I say -- Stand up to the fathers and brothers, the uncles and bosses, the boyfriends and husbands, the religions and governments who have tried to steal your souls, who have tried to make you less than what you are: a Princess, a Queen, a Brain, an equal, a Goddess.


much love.

It's Sunday. My mood is elevated. I'm in Atlanta until tomorrow. I have a show this evening for a Foster Care conference. Oh, no! I've come full circle. When I was in grad school, I worked as a foster care counselor for three years. At times, it was a rich and rewarding experience. I am thinking right now about what "tricks of the trade" I will use tonight. I love doing things differently each time. Repetition breeds contempt; not always, but often enough.


How are you today, friends?


I received an email the other day from an individual who was asking me how they should handle the situation when a friend just stops communicating with them. No rhyme or reason. A complete cease fire.


That's a toughy. I've been in that situation a good few times. What do you do? It depends. If you think that your friend is just going through a tough stint and needs time to sort things through, let them have their space. Make a reasonable amount of gestures, but learn to let go. I do not say these words lightly. Trust me. It is one of the most difficult things to do. I struggle with it. In fact, if I make frequent attempts to communicate with those whom I love, and if they fail to remotely give something back, it P's me off! Not right away, but if the communication ceases for months upon months, after numerous attempts of phone calls and emails, I get charged. I have a mean streak; not so much directly belligerent, but more torturous, more subtly annoying; mono as opposed to pneumonia; an aching back as opposed to a fractured skull; dripping faucet as opposed to finger nails on chalkboard; stink bomb as opposed to hand grenade. I'm much more innocuous, than vicious. Yet, I am well skilled at getting under someone's skin. In another life, I must have been one of those "special" agents trained to relieve individuals of information. I truly believe this, but I digress.


What should be done? For starters, be above their behavior and reach out to that individual, if they say that nothing is wrong, accept it . . . at first. If this condition of ignoring you persists, challenge them on that theory. If they still refuse to be honest with you, begin that slow process of letting them go or at least giving them enough space. Hopefully, if you give them their space, they will start to recognize their behavior as being dysfunctional for healthy relationships, and at the very least, give you an honest response to your inquiries. Or maybe they won't. Or maybe your friendship or love relationship has come to a transitional period. Adapt.


There have been friends with whom I was much closer at one time, but because of life we have gone separate paths. At times, it was my choice to separate, and at times, it was the other individual's choice. What frustrates me is when the other person assumes that I'm an idiot and gives me garbled answers of, "I'm doing well. Everything is o.k." or "Nothing's wrong. I'm just busy." or "I'm fine." And I do not need to tell you what F.I.N.E. stands for. At least, I won't say it on my public blog.


My response to people's evasion becomes very calculated when I feel unsafe. I do not take life very lightly. I think most people do. I think we divide ourselves over stupidity and nonsense, then when death hits us, it's "I wish. I wish. I wish." I can't take my relationships with that level of flippancy. It irks me to no end. I understand that people are busy. I do, but please don't insult me when I call you on something and I'm correct. Ugggh!!!!! I don't have much respect for that.


As I write this response, I realize that there are four individuals who swirl in my head. They withdraw without warning. They leave me clueless. I can confront, but if they don't respond truthfully, what am I supposed to do? Aah, we're back at the question.


Here's are a couple of successful stories. My darling kindred friend, Jennifer has been disconnected from me for quite some time. About a year ago, she had a daughter. I knew that this would create flux within her core, and it did. I must have called and emailed her more than a dozen times. No response. The only response I got was mass emails. (This action, by the way, for all my friends who think about doing this in the future, is NOT the best direction to go with me. It doesn't count as a response. In fact, it counts as a negative for me.) I figured, if you can write a mass email, could you not write a line to me? No such luck for months upon months. Then I had an epiphany -- let Jennifer go. Contact her no more. Withdraw. Create safety within yourself again. And I did. I withdrew. I refused to call or write, then one day (very recently) she wrote to me and explained. She's been struggling with adapting motherhood into the other pieces of herself. I wasn't surprised by this response -- like I said, we are kindred souls. I've struggled with the same issue. We just handle it differently. I need to write it out or talk it out, not always, but certainly more often than not. Today, I sent her a copy of my blog reflecting on fatherhood. I told her that I still have deep love for her. I can't wait for her to emerge. I miss her.

The other success story comes in slight reverse. It involves me less frequently touching base with this dear soulful, kindred friend; a true d-girly for sure. We would communicate through email almost everyday at one point, then my schedule got more hectic, and the email exchange cut back to couple times a week, then to once every other week, mostly because of me. The communication has picked up lately, which is beautiful, especially since much of the disconnect was due to me. She continued to pop emails over to me, and I would at times leave a message on her work machine. The success of this story is what I did. I did not totally disconnect with her and I let her in to what was happening in my life. I refused to totally disconnect. Being busy or my personal life problems were not enough to disengage completely. Not good enough as an excuse for me. D-girly let me know that she understood, but I know that she understood in part because I did not shut off completely, and I made her feel safe to know that it was not her or my rejection of her as a friend. Very critical.

So, I understand this struggle my friends about what to do in these situations. I live it. Every day. Jennifer is a success story -- relatively speaking, of course, but there are others who still perplex me and withdrawing is the only avenue I know. Ultimately, I don't feel safe with them, though I have a lot of love for them. And it makes me wonder from whom do I withdraw? Have I made those people feel unsafe because of my conscious or unconscious withdrawal?


Hmmm . . . I need to call my older friend today. He's a good soul and sensitive like me.


PEACE.

That I could go this long without even whispering a desperate word . . . now that says a lot. Truth be told, it is not that I haven't had plenty going on in my life (for believe me, I have), but where does one start when one is buried underground? How does one dig up when up is as relevent as time is in death? My soul, deep in its cavernous state, searching for meaning amongst a whole host of hurdles and doubts and questions and emotions, all with teflon durability, has been clawing for peace; but peace, comes in stillness, and stillness is one wave that has only erratically visted my shores.



But today I begin a new leaf, I am not completely to the surface, but in my stillness, I am emerging.



Fatherhood
Why is it that people often glamorize (to a fault) or pessimize (not a word, but you can follow my meaning from the root pessimism) a given event, tradition, or experience? This reaction shortchanges the gestalt of the experience. Take fatherhood. As you are aware, if you've read my blog, I am a father. My baby, Saskia, is 13 months today. I love her deeply and desperately. I do, but when I listen to the rhetoric of many parents it follows some drafted, mundane script: "It's the greatest experience ever." "I think everyone should be a parent." "I've grown so much as a person by being a parent." "Having children is the greatest thing I've ever done." "The early years are the best years, before they hit their teenage years and just drive you crazy." And so forth.

What people cower to say are the things they don't like about it. As if by uttering any disagreeable word, they will jinx the experience, or they will somehow be less worthy of parenthood. Bullochs! My intention, right now, is to do just that. I am about to qualify, because some of you readers need qualifications to calm your qualms. Qualifyer: I love Saskia deeply. I would not trade her for my previous life. She is a wonderful blessing, and for however many years or days she is given to me on loan, I will do my best to institute love in all my actions. Now the meat. I don't like what fatherhood has done to me, thus far. I have become more anxious as an individual. I have more nightmares now than I did as a child. I worry about her constantly. I have dreams of her falling down stairs; of her being murdered; of kidnappings and rapes. I am nervous most days when I am around her; my breathing is altered. I am more disconnected with my friends. "What's the use?" I say to myself. "I won't be able to go to there or here with them, without feeling chided in my spirit for leaving her solely with Tessin." It is easier not to call my friends, (though I've refused to adopt that principle completely). I know how to be a father; there exists no awkwardness in my comfortness towards Saskia. I enjoy my connection with her, but there exists a schizm within myself. Parts of Mykee gets lost. I am less integrated, and I do not like this. I know time will take care of many of these concerns, but then I ask, "But will it?"

I look at my father and I see him as a father or a religious man, but I do not see the child in him anymore. Where did it go? Is this result the culmination of years of fatherhood? Where is the spontaneous man? Where is the boy who travelled to Scotland? Where is the youthful man who hid in the closet to scare his children when they came home with their mother? Where is the teaser? the prankster? Where did he go?

These are the questions I have today. This is only part of the soil which has choked me, and I share this with you my friends who seek to know me beyond the stage.

The Rise of Propaganda for the Sake of War

I've had quite a few discussions with friends regarding the Red Lake incident that happened most recently. Inevitably, the question is stirred: "Is it just me, or has the media covered this incident far less than Columbine?" I will respond that it is not just their imagination. The media did fail to focus on this terrible tragedy. I will follow up their question with my favorite three year old question: "Why? Why did they cover it less? Why was it less of a tragedy (for others) than Columbine? Why? Why?"

There are certainly factors that pull for Red Lake, MN to be less of a focal point than Columbine, but as a nation, are we discussing these issues? What are some of the pertinent issues involved in this mass cover up?

For starters, I will acknowledge that the media had a much more difficult time accessing the Red Lake community because of its placement. The Red Lake community is a reservation; cameras are not as readily allowed to intrude on this sacred ground. The media was more restricted by the laws governing the concentration camp . . . I mean, the community . . . than they were in Littleton. So, I acknowledge that much. However, this is not the whole of the story. Dig and you shall find gold.

When Columbine took place we were not in a war. September 11 had not happened. The nation needed to make its outcry of violence. Government powers needed to institute violence prevention/anti-bullying programs. There was a great outcry to decrease the pain, increase the peace. My business soared. My phone was overwhelmed with schools who wanted to stop violence. Sadly, we are not in the same state now. How can this nation focus on Red Lake as a tragedy when we are GUN(ho) supporting war? How can we with serious face scream "stop the violence!", when we don't care about those being killed daily? When a government justifies its action as defense against terrorists? Jeff Weise was terrorized as well. Kids routinely picked on him. Pushed him around. Called him harsh names; ostracized him. Did he not have the right, (according to our governmental policies) to defend himself against these terrorists? What makes the attacks by adults any more legitimate than those delivered on children? And ironically, it is our children who we are sending to fight our adult battles. Remember, there are a great number of children, (no more removed than a couple of years from high school), fighting on our front lines, dying daily. I speak of our American troops. I speak of the Iraqi lives. Why is our government outcry concerning violence not heard? Why are there no peace programs being instituted. It is NOT a liberal or conservative agenda. THIS IS A HUMAN AGENDA. And I know I know -- it is unpatriotic to speak out against the war because it is not really violence; it is defending our God bless(ed) America(n) freedom. It is defending the faith against the Evil One. It is engagement (like marriage) and friendly fire (like water guns) and bad guys (like Hitler and Kunta Kinte and Leonard Peltier) and good guys (like Clint Eastwood and Superman and W [pronounced Dubb-ya]). It is about never showing a soldier with exploding bullets screwed into the head, because we mustn't think about such things. Their sacrifice is just another name for being reborn. They shall never be forgotten. And I truly hope to God that they are NOT forgotten.

But before I start sounding like a raving lunatic or a flower child or a bohemian or a peace advocate or a descendent of Martin and Ghandi and Mother Theresa (their loins birthed me), let me just breathe. Let me realize that peace is more of a figment of imagination than the reality; that war is real and peace is only the time to prepare for war; that war and death are lascivious lovers, where peace is only the flirtation; and death is Life's greatest certainty.

I recently completely a book called, A Terrible Love of War by James Hillman. This was a powerful, erudite book discussing the truth about war. How we as people need war. How war is inseparable from our existence, our mythology, our faith. I found it to be humbling, because though I am actively seeking to bring about peace in the world, I am entralled by great action flicks, fight movies, photos of war's remnants. I shake my head by the images of pain that human beings do towards each other, yet I seek out the images, through photos and videos, of the same destruction that so offends me. I will visit Og****.com to view the latest in pain. What does this say of me? Am I not a product of the very structures I fight? Perhaps it is in this knowing why I desperately wage war. Perhaps it is against my very essence that I fight; that "waging war" and "fighting" is infused in my language, because we are nothing without war, those who support it as well as those who oppose it. War brings immortality for our mortal minds. Hitler as a painter would have buried his work with his bones, but as a warrior, he sculpted a canvas that few will discredit and the destructive montage of lives will be forever added.

I have two quotes to share with you. I got them from the book. The first one is by Mark Twain: "next the statesmen will invent cheap lies, putting the blame upon the nation that is attacked, and every man will be glad of those conscience-soothing falsities, and will diligently study them, and refuse to examine any refutation of them; and thus he will by and by convince himself that the war is just, and will thank God for the better sleep he enjoys after this process of grotesque self-deception."

The next quote comes from Hermann Goring. He was a Nazi leader with Hitler. This comes from his trial at Nuremberg. "This is easy. All you have to do is to tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in every country."

I don't know about you, but those two quotes are rather frightening to me, especially to know that these men were not talking about America's present situation. Hmmm . . .

More later on other factors affecting Red Lake.

Valuable

(after reading two paragraphs in a newspaper.)

by Stevie Smith

All these illegitimate babies…

Oh girls, girls,

Silly little cheap things,

Why do you not put some value on yourselves,

Learn to say, No?

Did nobody teach you?

Nobody teaches anybody to say No nowadays,

People should teach people to say No.

Oh poor panther,

Oh you poor black animal,

At large for a few moments in a school for young children in Paris,

Now in your cage again,

How your great eyes bulge with bewilderment,

There is something there that accuses us,

In your angry and innocent eyes,

Something that says:

I am too valuable to be kept in a cage.

Oh these illegitimate babies!

Oh girls, girls,

Silly little valuable things,

You should have said, No, I am valuable,

And again, It is because I am valuable

I say, No.

Nobody teaches anybody they are valuable nowadays.

Girls, you are valuable,

And you, Panther, you are valuable,

But the girls say: I shall be alone

If I say ‘I am valuable’ and other people do not say it of me,

I shall be alone, there is no comfort there.

No, it is not comforting but it is valuable,

And if everybody says it in the end

It will be comforting. And for the panther too,

If everybody says he is valuable

It will be comforting for him.

Just a thought . . . I was numbed by the amount of
coverage the media held around the death and
burial of one man, and though a holy man,
the coverage took on epic proportions of a
typical media frenzy that made events bigger
than the reality. All of the hoopla made me
think about Jesus' words in Matthew 8:22:

"Follow me and let the dead bury their own dead."

Just a thought . . .

One more thought concerning my brother. He goes through a lot of guilt about what he does. There was some irony I experienced on the Saturday after Good Friday. I didn't find out about my brother until Easter Sunday, but Saturday I was listening to KORN's song "Alone I break". Here are the lyrics:



Pick me up
been bleeding too long
Right here, right nowI'll stop it some how
I will make it go away
can't be here no more
Seems this is the only way
I will soon be gone
these feelings will be gone
these feelings will be gone
Now I see the times they change
leaving doesn't seems so strange
I am hoping I can find
where to leave my hurt behind
All this shit I seem to take
all alone I seem to break
I have lived the best I can
Does this make me not a man?
Shut me off
I am ready,
Heart stops
I stand alone
Can't be on my own
I will make it go away
can't be here no more
Seems this is the only wayI will soon be gone
these feelings will be gone
these feelings will be gone
Now I see the times they change
leaving doesn't seems so strange
I am hoping I can find
where to leave my hurt behind
All this shit I seem to take
all alone I seem to break
I have lived the best I can
Does this make me not a man?
Am I going to leave this place?
What is it I'm hanging from?
is there nothing more to come? (am I Gunna leave this place?)
Is it always black in space?
Am I going to take it's place?
Am I going to leave this race? (Am I going to leave this race?)
I guess god's up in this place?
what is it that I've become?
is there something more to come? (more to come)
Now I see the times they change
leaving doesn't seems so strange
I am hoping I can find
where to leave my hurt behind
All this shit I seem to take
all alone I seem to break
I have lived the best I can
Does this make me not a man? [x2]



These lyrics were playing on the night before I found out about my brother. I thought about him when I heard these words, wondering if he wanted to give up on this life; me feeling at times that death would be a release for his weary soul.

And then there was a moment when I wanted to stop caring, wanted to give up on him as well, and the next song I heard was Bob Dylan's song "What Good Am I?"


What good am I if I'm like all the rest,
If I just turned away, when I see how you're dressed,
If I shut myself off so I can't hear you cry,
What good am I?

What good am I if I know and don't do,
If I see and don't say, if I look right through you,
If I turn a deaf ear to the thunderin' sky,
What good am I?

What good am I while you softly weep
And I hear in my head what you say in your sleep,
And I freeze in the moment like the rest who don't try,
What good am I?

What good am I then to others and me
If I've had every chance and yet still fail to see

Bridge: If my hands tied must I not wonder within
Who tied them and why and where must I have been

What good am I if I say foolish things
And I laugh in the face of what sorrow brings
And I just turn my back while you silently die,
What good am I?


I was humbled. Can't give up on him. Won't give up on him, because what good am I if I do?

Concerning the Pope

a moment of silence . . .

may all our lives be like that of the Pope's

may we come into this world crying and screaming
and others rejoicing

may we leave this world with others mourning our absence
while we rejoice

Thank you for being a messenger of peace Pope
In a world filled with hate and war,
thank you for creating balance.

Brotherman on the run

So, for those of you who don't know or haven't heard about my family. Here's the deal. I have 2 older brothers and 2 younger sisters. However, today I would like to talk about my brother Roy, my protector as a kid.

When Roy (who I called Bunny as a kid) was younger he had many conflicts with my parents, specifically with my dad. My dad was rather physically abusive to Roy when we were kids, though my dad excuses himself by saying that it was what he knew. I believe that. I got to see my parents grow as parents as I got older. I had the wonderful opportunity to experience their change. I have a little sister (Little Boo or Joy for the rest of you turkeys) who is almost 12 years younger than me, and she was only spanked one time. Roy got the worst of it. I got seconds, and Michele (two years younger than me) got thirds. Except Michele may have moved into a tie or passed me when I went away to college. I was no longer around to protect her.

In any case, when Roy went into the Navy he went wild -- drinking, smoking (cigs and pot), and wilding out sexually. He broke the rules in the Navy consistently, as he broke the rules in our house when he was growing up. He was more traditionally oppositional than I was. He ran away from home, got into heated conflicts with my dad, cut school, failed classes. Me? -- I would burn down parks, shoplift, torture animals, etc. Eventually, Roy got kicked out of the Navy. He refused to follow the rules, testing positive for pot, missing duty, amongst other things.

When he got out of the Navy he was introduced to crack-cocaine. He got hooked -- fall of 1993. I'll never forget it. It was my first year in grad school. Stressed me out because he went missing for a couple of weeks. I had no clue why until he came back. Then I poured all of my energy into trying to find him help. This is what happens naturally the first time family members try to deal with addiction in their family. It took me years to learn that until the individual truly wants help, they will consistently return to the streets.

I would like to fast forward you to present day. My brother had been clean for about 5 months. He was involved with a Christian group that offered up support, shelter, and a vehicle for his use. On Good Friday, my brother decided to return to the streets. My mom has gone into a slight depression. She's tired of believing in his change only to be let down again. I understand this, but I also have not let myself become too emotionally invested in him during recent times. After the 10th time of being burnt, one must learn other means of adapting to the situation.

Most people believe that my brother is crack addicted and that's what keeps him going back. I used to believe this as well, but the more I look at it I see something that others seem to have overlooked. Crack, like alcohol, are symptoms of my brother's larger problem: SEX.

My brother is a sex addict. It has never been officially diagnosed, but from my clinical assessment, (I have to use my doctorate in psychology for something), sex is the reason he returns to the streets. In fact, he has told me more recently that when he's been back out on the streets, he will rarely use crack because the high is not a high anymore. Yet, the situations he finds himself in sexually -- I couldn't even write about it on a public blog. He has some strong unresolved sexual issues that are being overlooked due to people's hang-ups about sex. I, amongst others, have missed the boat for years. When he's not out on the streets sex is a dirty thing for him. He denies his sexual self, praying that God will take away any sexual desire he feels. He punishes himself if sexual thoughts arise. He has no clue how to embrace his sexual self without allowing it to rule him, and because he attempts to lock down his sexuality under some puritanical and self-afflicting guideline, it lashes out in pure ID form with no EGO or SUPEREGO to control it.

I believe that until he addresses this significant part of himself, he will continue to return to the streets. Certainly, my brother is an addict, but crack is the sub-addiction to his sexual cravings, and in the home we grew up, I am not terribly surprised that sexuality would play such an important role in his demise.

In our home, (I suppose like many homes), sexuality was not discussed, it was condemned at best, yet when i was 16 I found out about a brother that I never knew I had. At 21, I figured out that my mom was pregnant with Roy before they got married. My understanding about sex from my father was three fold: 1. it wasn't that good 2. didn't last long 3. and one does not know when they will climax. Quite frankly, it scared me to death. However, though I have a healthier view about sex than my brother, I see as well how it plays out significantly in my life. I love discussing the topic, I debated before going into grad school if I would pursue becoming a sex therapist, it played an early role in taking away my innocence when I was 10, I have scholastic books discussing the theme, I am drawn to art films that involve the issues of sex and gender, I have hundreds of books and DVDs (NOT playboy magazines and porn videos, you pervys:) that deal with the many facets of sexuality. I am certain that my upbringing plays a role with my fascination of the topic, and I am certain it has played a destructive role in my brother.

My focus in helping my brother now will be to help find him find help that will address this larger addiction of sexual appetite, a terrain many Americans are afraid to openly address.

Terri Schiavo

Terri died the other day, and family feud still goes on with husband and in-laws and society. We are a beast. Are we not? Trying to pull all our efforts to play Judge and judgment. It was a fascinating ride on many accounts, and none of them had to really do with the simple issue: a woman was dying; a woman had died.

Terri had three deaths, one took place 15 years ago when she went into her altered, faded state; another death happened when the battle between parents and husband and government commenced; and the final death was more of a release from this world and all our silliness.

I do not feel sad that Terri has died. In truth, I rejoice. I can't help but to place myself in her position and what I would want. Beyond a shadow of doubt, (and let this serve as a living will), do not perform any extraordinary means to keep me alive. Allow me to pass from this life into the next. Death is not the enemy; it is but a passage way into a rebirth or at worst: silence. "Living" in Terri's condition is not living at all, and I hope that my loved ones will have enough love to release me from that prison. I am not just a heart beating, a brain flicking, uncontrolled smiles, eyes fluttering. My essence is in my aliveness, my passion, my voice. When these are no more -- I am no more. Do not fear death, my friends, though sad, it is Life's last signature. Life's way to begin again.

That being said, the process at which Terri had to pass from this world into the next was not very humane, whether she could feel pain or not. After the judgment was made by the courts to not reinsert the feeding tube, they were in essence passing a judgment of death. So be it, but let's make it smooth and painless. Why not give her a lethal dose of morphine? I did not understand that. Were we pretending that by not reinserting the tube that we were not responsible for her death? Make no mistake: the sentence was death when it was ordered for the feeding tube not to be reinserted. Why not make the death gentle? We, (i.e., the courts), show more respect for inmates on death row than we did for Terri, at least the ones who die by lethal injection. We show more respect for horses with broken legs, than we did for Terri. I did not understand this.

I have to admit, it was rather humorous when the president made some statement about erring on the side of life rather than death. Was anyone else laughing at this two-faced idiocy? Come on! His spokespersons should have cautioned him gently about what to say and what not to say. Did George Bush look at his own record? Did he realize that he was responsible for 152 death row murders when he was governor of Texas, including the murders . . . I mean . . . Executions of the mentally ill? Did he forget that he is ultimately responsible for all the "Friendly" fire and killing of innocent civilians in the war he started in Iraq? Have some dignity -- REMAIN SILENT. Don't insult the American intelligence by babbling some political rhetoric that holds as much truth as a colander of water. The saddest part about his statements is that I don't think many of his supporters realize the irony, or will acknowledge the irony.

Finally, on this Terri Schiavo case, I hope that the husband's motives were as pure as he stated they were. I hope they were not just spiteful. I fear the worst. I believe that he loved her, but what made him not relinquish his rights as a husband over to her parents? Was it just to protect Terri's wishes not to be kept alive on life support or feeding tubes? I've heard some ramblings that he refused to divorce her because of his faith beliefs. I hope he did not say this. For if this is true, then his faith would include not living in sexual union with a woman outside of marriage. Michael is currently engaged and has two children with his fiance.

So many issues . . . So convoluted.

Keep an eye out. I have much to write about in the upcoming days. Schiavo. A Terrible Love of War. My Brother. H.L. and the weight of the world. I will be back shortly.

with breath,
m

Quote of the Day.

"O my friends,
the greatest americans
have not been born yet
they are waiting patiently
for the past
to die"

Saul Williams, from ", said the shotgun to the head."

Support our Troops.

In many ways that sign has become the signature phrase to suggest your level of patriotism. I struggle with those words, not because I do not "support" the troops, but I question what exactly am I supporting? Am I supporting the slaughtering of innocent civilians, the rounding up of Iraqi men and boys, whether guilty or innocent, the war we should not be fighting, the evil of war, whether it be for "democracy" (they hate our freedom) or some other religious/political end, or am I supporting the troops who are victims of a coursing evil that is festering in their bloodstream? What exactly am I supporting?

I think I'm supporting the troops by wanting the war to end -- IMMEDIATELY -- wanting the troops home now. That's support. Getting them out of harm's way. Getting everyone out of harm's way. That's support. Support is NOT cheering them on when more and more Iraqis are being slain. Support is NOT feeling thankful when only Iraqi death numbers go up. That is not support.

And what about how war and boredom seize these young men and women? How do we handle that in our support? How do we deal with the abuse our soldiers afflict on Iraqi prisoners? How do we support the deterioration of life's value during war times? How do we support innocent lives, human and animal, being slaughtered?

I am enclosing a quote from a soldier who is describing what he and other soldiers did for fun when they weren't being shot at by Iraqi soldiers.

"Hi my name is M. D. Formally of A TRP 1-10 CAV 4ID and while in Iraq we had a sport of killing dogs whenever the Iraqis werent shooting us. So when I shot this one at about 50 yards with my M4 and it ran yelping to lower ground, we had to finish it so my friends and I went to it and started shooting it. I ve never seen a dog take as many shots to the head at least 4 as this one did and then after we thought it was dead we dug a hole and when I picked it up with the shovel it came back to life, so we shot it a couple more times....its pretty funny."

This soldier is making reference to a video clip shot with him and other soldiers shooting a dog, a harmless dog. I have been privy to the video, but I will not disclose the source. It's too disturbing, too tragic, NOT "pretty funny." I suspect that these troops would not be shooting dogs for sport if they weren't in a war setting, but war has an insidious nature, robbing individuals of moral fiber. There is no morality in war. War is savage and because you may dress it with elegant language, it does not remove its festering deterioration of humanity. I do not speak these words as judgment, I would be subjected to the same disregard. I would kill and torture for sport. I would pluck eyes and noses. I would carve my tag on dead bodies I have killed. I would do all of this because this is WAR. I would be no better or worse than anyone involved. I avoid war because it is impossible not to be affected by its viral transmission, its disease. Beheading is no more evil than shooting someone in the head or heart. Rape is no more evil than sexual humilation, testicles attached to electrodes. And be assured of this, it is only a matter of time before we start hearing the reports of soldiers raping Iraqi women. Mark my words. Only a matter of time.

And please don't insult your intelligence by suggesting that these men are only doing what they are doing because of what is being done to them. Don't you realize that just because you've been oppressed, that it will never give you the right to become the oppressor?

I support my troops. I support them in their journey of becoming evolved. In their journey when they will put down their weapons and realize their responsibility to humanity. I support all troops in this mission. I support all troops in missions of peace. Those are the troops I support.

THIS IS MY SUPPORT

It's 1:06 am this Monday morning and Brian Nichols is in custody. Brian Nichols who murdered the judge, clerk, agent, and officer. There was a host of people who applauded his capture, some out of relief, some out of anger. And sadness filled me once again.

I heard some people who knew him say that they were shocked by what he did. They didn't know how he could have done what he did. There were no warning signs.

In days to come, I am certain we will be made to know all of the supposed warning signs, from security to shanks; from rape to restrictions; from imprisonment to feeling free. How could it happen?

It started a long time ago. Long before his jail time for rape charges. Long before he turned 21. Long before there even seemed to be a trace of this calculation. My heart goes out to all on this Winters night.

I am truly sad and cannot sleep . . .

Brian Nichols' story goes back. How could it happen? It could happen because of all the times he fought to be heard, and was met with criticism and silence. It happened because people failed him along the way. Because the system failed him. Because family failed him. Because he bought lies instead of truths. Because I failed him. Because we all failed him. Because he was destined to meet Ashley Smith. Because God loves him, and God's compassion goes beyond our mere sensibility, our limited capacity.

It happened because we live in a world where messages are confused, and tragedy and patriotism are discrete lovers. Because Brian Nichols believes he's a soldier and soldiers kill for a higher purpose. Because Brian Nichols was under orders. Because war is savagery. Because war is noble. Because that's what he was told by WE, you and me, those friends, those loved ones, our president. Because we are all prisoners, and sometimes we just want to feel normal; to have pancakes baked for us; to take a shower; to put down our guns; to feel loved; to feel normal. To live.

Because Ashley Smith showed more bravery than hate, more love than fear. Because she reminded us of what it means to be human, stripped from the right and wrong, devoid of judgment, free to touch heart to heart, soul to soul. Because Ashley Smith cared. All the guns in the world, all the snipers on tall buildings, all the manhunts, all the hate fueled bullets being chambered could not bring that kind of redemption. Because Ashley Smith cared. Because Ashley Smith gave a damn.

I am saddened tonight because lives have been lost and prayer is a foreign sound on my tongue, echoing repeatedly in the passage ways of my mind, because I need to care, and cry for Brian Nichols. Cry for that small child who dreamed about one day being something great, something beautiful. Cry for that small child: so bright, so aware. Cry for that teenager who started to harden, made aware of imperfections, fitted on the masks, adjusting them into a smirk, a scowl, false resilience. Cry for the man who questionably raped. Cry for his prison self, forgotten by all of us who pray and don't pray. Cry for the man who sat in Ashley Smith's apartment, not recognizing the man who did those horrible killings. Cry. Then cry again. Cry that he was once held as a screaming baby, so much potential, so much innocence. Cry that life raped him. Cry as I cry now.

And once the tears sting, once when you can taste the salt pellets, once when you can feel some softness in your heart, once when you are ready to recognize that there but for the mercy of God and Life's arms go you and I, once when you see yourself in Brian's sad eyes, once when you can see his pain, her fear, his life, her wisdom, his desire, her daughter, his hope, our life, then shall you pray. Not just for the families who lost loved ones, but pray for all. Pray for the trial. Pray for Brian. Pray for Ashley. Pray for the laughing children of today. Pray for the terrorized children of tomorrow. Pray for this country. Pray for this world. Pray for peace, for we have enough soldiers dying and killing for projected, honorable and dishonarable wars. Pray for you. Pray for me. Pray for us all. But above all else: PRAY. With chants like weapons. With love like bombs. With hope like a new dawn caressing us, like dust to dust. With a simple thanks. With pleas that hang like the small chatter of spring mornings. With the words: I love . . .

How I felt on My 34th Birthday . . .

Perhaps the simplest way to describe how i felt on my birthday would be the lyrics of Billy Squier.




Billy Squier Lyrics - Nobody Knows Lyrics


I may get around...I may laugh alot...Now you'd think that I'd be happy with the life I got
Nobody knows...nobody sees

Ain't nobody really knows the inner side o'me...I may seem secure...I could have it made...You might think you see a lucky man who made the grade

Nobody knows what dreams I see

Ain't nobody really sure just who they wanna be...But everybody has a place and time...A chance to live...a need to find

We all got somethin' that we care aboutI propose you find it out...It's not in a book...or a magazine...Or the stars who guide our fortunes on the silver screen

Nobody knows...it's up to me

Ain't nobody who can say it like it outght to be...I see my future at the rainbow's end

Happy hours...timeless friends

And if I ever chance to find my way

Rest assured...I will stay...You may see your life as a compromise

You may live to find the promise dancin' in your eyes

Nobody knows...it's meant to be...Let the magic of the moment say it all to me

Happy Birthday!

To Me!

Happy Birthday,
to
Me

Happy Birth Day
ToMe.

Love,
me

Night falls fast
and sleep buries my eyes

i burst through this scene
reckless, desperate

to save the he and she
him and her, alone

they sit, alone
together, in circle

she has bruised eye
from dad, twice this week

he perfect circle tee shirt
for his perfect circle burns

and the chanting of Jesus
by young preacher boy

seems so out of sensibility
or sensitivity or sense

and they come for the warmth
13, 14, 15 years of age

and the pain keeps coming
but for one day

this day; we stand connected
circles broken only to be reshaped

into a broader circle
and exhaustion takes hold

of my spirit; and i'm just
taking it all in

knowing she might not cut
tonight and he might not

burn tonight; and Jesus
will heal all of us tonight.

I saw this on a website today. It was an anonymous site for secrets, and I thought I'd share this with you. If any of you have an anonymous secret that you would like me to post, you can always send it to my email address: meawicked@yahoo.com. I will not post anyone's name, but I will post any question or issue that I feel I can adequately address. Here's what I saw:

My Beautiful Little Sister, Joy.

Not so little anymore, but still my baby, almost 12 years younger.

Truly Beautiful. I love you Little Boo!
Picture Dis Homey

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