Dear Val
(for VG)

Don't know if i ever told you
but i know a thing or two about bleeding hearts on sleeves
and how they stain clothing and skin alike
and how trust is just an empty hotel parking lot
whose toothless manager named honesty is about to expire
and how you want to cut it out from your skin
and hear your name be reclaimed by your own voice
and how the **** sword that wounded you
is the **** sword that heals you

Don't know if i ever told you
i know a thing or two about loneliness
and how the night goes on forever
and you stay up past reason
and you live to see sobriety come back before the dawn
and the shadows of night no longer scare you
because you've become their nightmare
last night i pulled 7 blankets over my head
just to make sure i could be buried in my own sleep

Don't know if i ever told you
but i know a thing or two about anger
and how it feeds off of life, taking days away from you
and how it makes you wish ill on anything noble
or of good cheer
and how you want to take that abandoner
and vomit into their mouths
so they'll know that bitterness can be passed on
when love or safety or trust has bowed out

Don't know if i ever told you
i know a thing or eight about love
and by vowing to love less, i learn to love more
and how light and darkness are joined at the feet
and how every ending is a beginning, so we begin to end
and how you will find a way to dance again
and how you will learn to leave the fear of the unknown
to those who fear the unknown
and it is true: love will set you free

The Oprah Request

I have had many people throughout the years ask me why I haven't been on the Oprah show. My answer is simple: I haven't put out energy towards that end. However, recently, I've been bombarded by a number of people asking me repeatedly. I tell people that I admire Oprah and work she does, and if they wanted to write to Oprah personally, they should feel free to send her an email.

I am certain that emails have been sent sporadically to Oprah, but I am also certain that a mass bombardment of emails have not been sent. Therefore, for the next month or so, I am going to keep this blog as one of the top five entries on my site. I encourage all of you who have seen my show to write into Oprah and let her know how it has affected you. And hopefully, if it is my destiny, then I will be on the show some time in the future.

Be well, my friends, and write. Write. Write!

http://www.oprah.com/email/reach/email_showideas.jhtml

God Spoke Softly

"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." -- Kahlil Gibran, On Love

I woke up this morning at 4:30am. I am in so much pain, so sad. I can't shake this which holds me, that which has left me, all that remains in me. I am shakey and my blood rises, aching my body, reminding me of this sickness, this great sadness I have allowed to consume me. I want to snap my fingers and let it all dissipate. I want to feel great again, alive! Why do I allow this to suck me, to feast on me? Why can't I just be stronger and "get over it"? What does this mean? Am I being selfish? Is she being selfish? Are they being selfish? What a selfish lot we are! All of us. None of us are worthy of anything more than the death which faces us. No smile, no mask can hide this despair. I am bloodless; my blood boils; my blood is lava; my blood is no longer blood.

I cried out to God, "Why? Please take this away!" And I heard God laugh that knowing laugh that transcends time. And God made an exception to God's rules: God answered me at 4:30am. God answered as only God can answer -- with questions, first.

"Why must I take your pain away from you, Michael? Do you not know that it is by your pain that you will grow? Do you not remember the days of your youth? Do you not remember the days of wandering, of wishing to die, of suicidal thoughts? Do you not remember when you were so desparately alone? Do you not remember this illusion? Do you not remember me being there even then? Do you not remember that without your pain and suffering there is no happiness and joy? Do you not remember that time is an illusion, and that I can no more stop the motion of your pain than I can unthink you? Do you not remember how I build muscle? It is only by the destruction of muscle and sinew and tissues that I build stronger muscles and sinew and tissues. Do you not hear all the people I have used to speak to you. Oh, my friend, my son, you are not alone. I have something great for you; your desire -- the things you cannot see -- will come through. It has come through, but you are only seeing the illusion of time. Do not ask me to take away that which makes you grow. Embrace this pain. This pain is for your pruning; this pain is for your growth. Just trust."

And now, I face my day . . .

"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." -- Kahlil Gibran, On Love

[The visitor speaks.] "I came to tell you that in the next life
you won't return to Earth."
Of course, Agnes knew in advance what the visitor would say
to them, and she is hardly surprised. But Paul is amazed.
He looks at the visitor, looks at Agnes, and she has no choice but
to say, "And Paul?"
[The Visitor speaks]"I only want to ask you one question:
do you want to stay together in your next life, or never meet again?"
Agnes knew the question was coming. That was the reason she
wanted to be alone with the visitor. She knew that in Paul's
presence she would be incapable of saying "I no longer
want to be with him." She could not say it in front of him
nor he in front of her, even though it is probable that he too
would prefer to try living the next life differently, without
Agnes.
Agnes gathers all her inner strength and answers in a firm voice:
"We prefer never to meet again."
These words are like the click of a door shutting on the illusion
of love.

Milan Kundera, Immortality

So the situation is like this: if you had a choice concerning who you would meet and know in the afterlife or next life, people who are in your life presently, who would you choose and who would you prefer not meeting again? I don't really expect outward responses to this question, because sometimes the people who you would prefer not knowing in the next life would be people dear to you right now.


I become sad when I think about that question as it refers to me. I think about some of you, my readers, who would prefer not knowing me in the next life, not because you hate me or dislike me, but because you would prefer not having me in your life again. It's a little depressing of a thought, but I couldn't help but to reflect upon this question once I read the passage in Immortality. It troubled and moved me. Just to think some of us would choose parents and lovers and siblings and soulmates. And if you know this answer now, does it make your relationship with these people less significant or more meaningless?

I don't mean to bring you down, my friends. I was reflecting upon it myself, and am completely afraid to travel this road of thought alone.

Any ideas?

Educating Saskia

"When I was four years old
they tried to test my iq
they showed me this picture
of three oranges and a pear
they asked me
which one is different and does not belong?
they taught me different
is wrong." --
Ani DiFranco, 'My IQ'

After one of my performances, an English as a Second Language (ESL) teacher approached me, sharing some valuable information. She loved my show and it reminded her how we are taught from an early age. She noticed that in her classroom children have been taught from an early age that difference is wrong, is bad. She gave me this example. When we were in our youth teachers would give us an assignment: there are four objects on the page, three are similar, one is different. Find the one that is different, and then, CROSS IT OUT.

We were conditioned early on to notice difference and abandon it, cross it out, destroy it, ignore it. We weren't taught to put a smiley face next to it. We weren't taught to celebrate it. Uniqueness was questioned, forced to come to a hault.

I don't want to participate in this game with my daughter. I don't want her to have to re-educate later in life. I want her to get it now. And she does. I think all children get it early on; they just learn how to forget it or unlearn it. They are stripped away of their brilliance by teachers and parents and friends and antagonists.

My daughter has three baby dolls. They have no traditional names. I see them as two white baby dolls and one black baby doll. To Saskia, her three babies names are Blue, Pink, and Purple. These colors are the outfits her dolls wear. And so they are Saskia. So they are.

Tessin and I have been teaching Saskia our names and her name. Now, Saskia says: "Daddy is Michael Fowlin. Mommy is Tessin Bozard. I am Saskia Bozard-Fowlin." She asked the other day why Tessin and I have different names. I thought about this for a second. Tessin kept her last name when we got married, and I wanted to tell Saskia that was the reason why, but then, I reeducated myself. I answered Saskia in this manner: "Daddy and Mommy both chose to keep their own last names."

I know some of you will say 'what's the big deal?' It's slight, but I wanted Saskia to know that as a girl, as a woman, she doesn't need to take on a man's last name for identity; and just as importantly, the man should think about taking on her name, or both sharing a new name. I want her to know that she has choice in all these things. I want her to know that she has choice in all of Life's decisions. I want her to know that any person she chooses to be with, man or woman, must walk side by side on this path with her.

In a sociological survey, fifty people, over the age of 95, were asked one question: If you had your lives to live over, what would you do differently? What a profound question for all of us to answer. I suspect that the answers change from time to time. These old people had a multitude of answers, but there were three that surfaced time and time again. They said, "If we had our lives to live over, we would reflect more, risk more, and do more things that would live on after we were dead." And it is this last one where I want to focus today.

These elderly people found that immortality was of critical essence. They were not speaking about the immortality that extended their physical lives; no, they knew such was not their destiny. They wanted the immortality of affecting this world, lingering on the pallet like a bold Cabernet Sauvignon. Are we, who are younger than 95, any different than these elderly people?

This thing called immortality is critical to our survival as a race, as a species. I used to wonder, (I'm ashamed to say), into my mid to late 20s why people start projects that they may never see realized. Why fund or invest into something that may take 50 or 100 years to mature? And I am not just speaking of finances. I'm talking about it all: money, time, energy. What is the point? I think these old people were on to something. We are all fading fast, a moment's breath in Life's nostril.

Look at my picture. I am adorable, strange; youth hangs in my eyes, though I am passing my youth. I am still young and energetic, willing to love again and again. But see me 10 years, 25 years from now, will I have the same grace? I most certainly doubt it! But will I see myself any differently than that boy in the picture who is 30-something or the boy who was 8 speeding up and down the street on a Huffy bicycle. I think about this all the time. I think that's why I've fallen in love so many times.

I have friends who have never been in love, or perhaps in love only once . . . Me? I fall in love frequently. The intensity varies, but each time there is a refuge I seek. I seek to make an impact, to be remembered. In short, I want to live forever. Immortality!!! My love has grown. Lately, I fall in love far less than usual, but that is another story . . .

I used to tell my former wife that I want thousands of people at my funeral, giving testimony to my life, the good and bad. I would tell Tessin (stupid me) that I wanted all the women who I loved to be devastated by my departure. These women would be more because of my presence in their lives, and slightly less because of my absence. I seek this realization far less these days. I am content with those I have already; I am content with one.

Sometimes while I'm driving, the thought of someone who died a year ago, ten years ago, hundreds of years ago, will cross my mind. I will wonder, if they ever thought that someone, when they were long gone, would remember them on some uneventful day, while driving through Autumn leaves.

"All our superstars are suicidal casualties
And our heroes die in motel rooms and motorcades
Oh it seems like all our dreams are only fantasies
And I wonder if we'll learn from the mistakes we've made."
Randy Stonehill, 'Through the Glass Darkly'

"There is a certain part of all of us that lives outside of time.
Perhaps we become aware of our age only at exceptional
moments and most of the time we are ageless." --
Milan Kundera, Immortality

I am currently rereading this book called Immortality. It's a wonderful book, one of my favorites. The book is difficult to describe on a linear, plot-driven sequence. It's a fascinating book exploring the concept of immortality. Much of what we do as people focuses around our desire to be immortal. We plant trees; we have children; we save financially; we try to take care of our physical selves; we feel guilty when we don't; we love the idea of creating memories with loved ones; we ignore each other; we hold on to arguments and fights far past reasonable expectation. We have fantasies of avoiding or bargaining with death. When we hear about someone being sick we lie to them that everything will be alright. We use aging creams, tanning salons (some of you), plastic surgery, adding and removing whatever it takes to bring us to immortality. We often avoid graveyards; we fear them for they are our destination. We crave the connection: we spread our legs wide, we push it in far, we hope to suck in and be sucked in . . . permanently. And why not? Perhaps there is still that tree, in the garden, long forgotten; that tree the gods had almost forgotten: let us banish mankind from this garden, in case they eat the fruit of immortality, because with the knowledge they have, they will be like us. You see? We have it partly right -- striving for immortality. Yet, like Eve and Adam, we are stuck on gorging ourselves, nakedly, with all that brings us shame. Our eyes are wide open, seeing everything clearly, increasing our knowledge, our fear, and hastening the river that brings us closer to death. And there stands, off in the distance, another tree with seemingly unnecessary fruit waiting with the silence of secrets. And once again, we've missed its whisper.

"And I thought about years...
how they take so long
and they go so fast."
Beth Nielsen Chapman, 'Years'

"Ask about me, they'll tell you
I don't play, n**a
And I don't smoke bullS**
I smoke HASH, n**a
For real, n**a
I don't shoot n**as in the leg
I shoot to kill n**as" -- Green Lantern, featuring Fingerprint

One of my pet peeves has got to be the ignorance of people, and their numb-skull arguments. I love seeing black people go into hysterics when they hear a white person use the term nigger or nigga. Yet, some of these same black people will have little to no reaction when a black person uses these words in their vocabulary. Now, when it is used in the former instance, 'nigger', by whites, black people have cause to be offended. In the latter instance, 'nigga', used by blacks or hip-hop whites, I just think it's silly to differentiate or get offended by the white guy using it, and have no reaction or understanding of its significance. In case you are wondering the difference, allow me to present two separate instances.


Picture with me, if you will, a white guy with a Nascar hat, confederate flag t-shirt, chewing tobacco dribbling out of his mouth, a tattoo tattered on his arm that says something mysterious like: 'One in the same -- my sister, my wife', and he has a name like Biff or Buster or Shooter or Cooter or Hunter. Ok, are you holding that image? (See above picture to the left, if you are having trouble). Good. Now, picture that same man seeing a black person walking down the street, and snarls as he turns to his sister/wife and says, "I wish I could shoot that nigger." See? That is the first usage of the word.

In the second usage, I would like for you to picture with me a black male, gold teeth, sporting excessive jewlery, baseball cap, oversized shirt(s) and jeans, with a mugshot snarl, and a mysterious tattoo that says, "Real Niggaz iz Thug Niggaz". .. Ok, are you holding that image? (See picture, above to the right, if you are having difficulty). Good. Now, picture that same man seeing another black person, not from his neighborhood, walking down his street, and he snarls to his boys, "I'm gonna shoot that nigga!" See? This is the second usage of the word.

Now, some black people get offended if white people use either usage of the word. In the first instance, it is just racist, and in the second instance, it is not appropriate, thus making it still racist. Black people who use the word will claim that when a white person calls a black person "nigger" it's racist, but when a black person calls another black person "nigga" it is a sign of mutual understanding and respect, a shared experience, commraderie.

And that's where I get stuck. See, I just heard this song on MySpace at 7:15 in the morning that said, "I don't shoot niggas in the leg; I shoot to kill niggas!", and I can't help but to think of the 41 shots into Amadou Diallo, the rising blood of Emmit Till, and the bullet that scarred our dreams at some Memphis Hotel. And strangely, the two usages of the word, no matter what color, has the same searing tones.

"I may be weary, but I am not weak.

I can sing a song of suffering.

Baby, someone's song is
dancing on the tip of your tongue." --
Brett Dennen, Someday

Lately, I've been thinking about conversations I've had with friends. I've been thinking about the cadence of these interactions: the revealation, denial, or disguising of an incident; the presentation of oneself as more noble or favorable than is true; the acceptance or denial of one's actions; the fear of judgment; black and white versus gray thinking; what I tend to feel versus what I say I feel. All of these thoughts have been a constant guest in my headspace within the last couple of weeks.

We, as people, are so quick to judge, dismiss, abandon, scoff at, or distance ourselves from the others. And you know who the others are! Don't you? Oh, yes, you do. They are the ones who sicken us, because they are not as noble as we are. They use drugs, have a new sexual partner every night, are the town drunks, pimp others, steal, lie, cheat, are abusive, completely selfish, shallow, and in short, they are no good! Corrupt to the core! They are not like me . . . and us.

So, I've been doing some self-reflection, putting things back into perspective, and finding myself humbled by the results. I have them all fooled. I am the worst of the whole lot, especially when I think I am so much better. I am devious; I lie. I have schemes beyond schemes, always plotting, far less noble than I may appear. I say I walked away when in reality the situation walked away from me. I tell myself to do one thing, and I find myself doing the opposite. I make escapes to avoid myself. I am weak-willed, always giving into temptation. I have secrets that I only share with myself, and that conversation happens all too infrequently. I am perverted in my concern towards others. I tell others to see themselves as beautiful, yet, I see myself as disgraced, God's nemesis. I reject love from those who want to love me, and I love those who can only reject me. I embrace shame, and have secrets that not even Vegas can hold. I am the worse offender: I don't hear the words you speak; they are mumbled, a cacophony of nails scratching on chalkboards. I wound you with my kindness. I tell you great tales of how strong I am, how things don't eat away at me, yet, I wonder what chemical treatment exists for my cancer, my poison. It's been chewing on my hope. I believe less and less. None of us are noble. You ask if I think less of you? I am darker than that, young one. I think the world of you, because that belief is about your potential. I can't think less of those I expect to fail. I am so confident of our failure. We are doomed. And when you move to or are moved by the grain, I don't trust you as far as I can throw you, and that makes me love you more.

And then along comes these others that say they see my beauty, my fear. You see nothing, but what I show you, and if I show you distance, do not think this is the way I operate at all times. I am distant to those who think they can solve this rubrick's cube. You claim, "I can no longer be invested in this friendship! We shared so much, and look at us now!" We shared only what I knew you needed to hear, to believe. I don't know the depths of my sickness, but I am certain, it will be the death of me.

My daughter will grow up with me as her father, and who knows what dark horses she will have to ride to take flight of my self-inflicting sword. In my path, I have left others feeling less after they have met me than they did before. And please, let me not hear the voice of your false comfort. The stench of vomit permeates your insincere words. They offer no comfort. Do you really believe you have it figured out with your fortune cookie ramblings? Do you think pretending these things are not our destiny is remotely helpful? Have you examined any of this and how it applies to your life? Am I the only one in this sinking ship? Is there not one tired soul out there who can slice away some of my skin and comfort me? These echoes are haunting me.

My daughter just asked why am I sad? Why am I crying? How do I answer her? What truth can sum up these ancient tears? I am sad, Saskia, because I don't know why I am sad.

All I can do, my friends, my daughter is to try to see the dawn, allowing it to rush over me stronger than these emotions.

"My salvation is ahead of me
I can feel it calling me
I know that I
I know that I will be ready."
-- Brett Dennen, Someday

Surviving High School (in the suburbs)

"Well, I know it isn't easy to be an adolescent
Patience is a virtue that just keeps you strong within
High school in a small town, man, could give you bumps
and bruises
The kind that could take years to heal
or even understand." -- Kevin Connolly, Marshvegas

I grew up in Toms River, New Jersey, a seaside town just off the shore. I lived there from ages 13 to 22. During my time in Toms River, I enjoyed my experience; I enjoyed the friends I had. My real friends were often the same souls that traveled with me in my church youth group, but these friends came later in my high school travels.

I saw myself as being popular, as being well known by many in my school. And though this was true to an extent, I was not in the "in" crowd. Did I believe I was a part of this group during this time? Perhaps, but I think I knew the truth deep down . I didn't fit in; my tan was too dark for understanding. It was not a summer bronze. It was centuries old. The darkness you accumalate from night, dust, and heat.

I went to a high school that had approximately 2000 students, spread throughout four grades. I was one of eight black students in the entire school. When I tell students or adults about this inequity of racial percentages I often get "oohs" and "aahs", but it really did not phase me very much . . . on the surface. My parents, (my mother more so than my father), raised me to see people as being people, good and bad, and all short of perfection. Yet, to say that I didn't take notice by the way I was treated by certain students, would be to say something false. Of course, there were students who saw my color way before they saw me. The majority? I don't know. During my time in high school, I didn't take much notice. I allowed myself to believe that most people were raised as I was raised to believe. Naturally, I lived in fantastical world, but how could I not? My teammates and others seemed to genuinely like me, while I was in school. Now, grant it, I wasn't invited to the parties, but I wasn't really interested in going to the parties.

Still, I would be willfully ignorant not to acknowledge the ways that I was made to feel different. In my freshman year (age 14), I kissed my first girl, T.R. She was a good kisser, and I had a strong crush on her early on in my young high school days. My friend Shawn set us up one night during a football game. That's the story I want to remember.

What I remember from "The Kissing of T" was that she was concerned about kissing someone black, and Shawn had to comfort her by telling her that I would be able to kiss as well as a white guy. What was she afraid of? Out of all the things I remember about my first kiss, her apprehension is what I remember best.

I will start off this next memory by saying, Beautiful Girl, I am sorry.

In my sophomore year, before my radical spiritual/religious transformation, there was this beautiful girl named ** who had a crush on me. She was a really cute, black girl who I saw as a threat to my integration into this white system of Toms River. ** and I would make the "perfect" couple . . . because we were both black. This was the pervasive thought amongst some of my "friends" who wanted me to stay clear of the white girls and date my own "kind." I've never really been good at following rules: my anarchistic thoughts are more suitable for chaos.

One night, at a football game, (are we seeing a theme here?), some of my friends wanted me to take ** into the woods and "use" her sexually because she was drunk and, according to them, "easy". I never did follow up on their recommendation, because my conscience was too shaped, in certain matters, even in my wild days, but more importantly, I chose not to pursue ** because it was what all my white friends thought I SHOULD do. In fact, the Monday following this football game, my friend Paul informed me that he and his mother had a discussion about me over the weekend. His mother told him that she thought ** and I should be a couple because it wasn't right for me to go out with a girl who is white. Paul had the audacity to tell me this.

The verbal lashing that I gave Paul that day was a build up of this underlying attitude I felt from others. Paul didn't deserve all I said, but I didn't know how to process all I was feeling at the time. It was building, and I wasn't acknowledging all that was happening.

** really liked me, but for every attempt of her trying to show me affection and kindness, I hurt her. I was cruel. I used her as a washed away game. I wanted to prove to everyone that I did not have to be with someone who was black; I wanted to show everyone that I was just as GOOD as a white guy. ** was my whipping post, my anger, my frustration at all those who wanted me to feel less than.

By the time I came to my senses the next year, she was gone, no longer attracted to me. I had hurt her enough to scar her. I heard sad news about her after I graduated, and I wonder if some of the emotional scars I placed upon her, contributed to her seeing herself less beautiful than she was. ** was and is stunning, a truely beautiful woman.

I can only say, "I'm sorry ** for mistreating you. I'm sorry for making you walk away feeling a little less than before we met. I'm sorry that I never allowed myself to be vulnerable with you. I'm sorry to fulfill the prophetic words: 'Youth is wasted on the young.'"

Years after I graduated high school, I started to believe that I fabricated my buried discontent in high school; things were not as bad as I had allowed them to grow in my brain. Then along came my high school renunion. It was a memorable experience. There were two incidents that stood apart from the rest.

I was interrupted from giving my welcome address to my classmates because J. O. needed to tell everyone that I actually graduated with the class and I wasn't the butler. Then later, Paul C. congratulated me for being married to Tessin, at the time, because she was white. If I remember correctly, the direct quote was: "Good job! We knew you wouldn't disappoint us; we knew you'd always go for the best."

What more can I say, my friends. I survived, but I still wince when I smell the fresh cut grass of football fields.

"Well, there's something about the suburbs
that will get you if you stay too long
Something about a small town
and how it keeps you in
Though every place is different,
and every place is just the same
and tension is alive and well
no matter where you live."
Kevin Connolly

Why Life Comes Without Instructions

Start with the wide end on your right. Extend it about 12" below the narrow end. Cross the wide end over the narrow, and back underneath. Bring the wide end around passing it across the front of the narrow. Pass the wide end up through the loop. Hold the knot loosely and pass the wide end down through the loop in front. Hold the narrow end of the tie and slide the knot up snug.

And that's just for tying your tie! Any questions?

Free Hugs Amsterdam

Here's my mission, as those who have seen me know as well. I love. And in return, I hope you will love as well.

On Those Days When I Doubt All That Is In Me

These are some letters from dear audience members who have witnessed my show. I am truly blessed by all of you. And I post these for you, but more importantly, I post these letters as a reminder to myself that I have been given an extraordinary opportunity to affect change; to put into practice the words of Gandhi: "Be the change you want to see in the world." Thank you all for reminding me of this lesson.

Dear Mykee:

I am a studen at D. High School (NJ). You performed at my house school last week and let me just say that you are EXCELLENT. You may or may not remember me but I came up to you after your peformance and I remember telling you that "I saw myself in those characters up there because people make fun of me and I feel that gives me a right to make fun of other people and that isn't right." And that is when I began to cry. Mykee, I haven't cried since my grandfather passed away in third grade and I am now a junior. Mykee, you made me see a totally different side of this world. I am now currently reading One Child by Torey Hayden and I am only on Chapter 7 and I can not believe the story line, how accuarate things are. It's horrible, it really is. Mykee you truly are an inspiration to so many people in this world and in honor of you I am writing a poem because I write poetry and as soon as I feel it is ready I will be sending it to you. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Mykee, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL.

Thank you,

Mykee,

I know you get this a lot, not just from the line of people waiting to hug you after your performance, but because you really did touch a lot of people in the audience: thank you. Watching you, a person gets the sense that you could make a character out of anybody because everyone has stories like that. You could have just as easily have played me, or the person next to me for all I know. Like so many people, I have felt alone for long periods of time even though I know I'm not a special case or that I am alone in feeling loneliness.

You probably don't remember me because there where so many people, but I went to Peck in Morristown for 7 years. I'm dyslexic, I'm a WASP, I'm a girl, a ice hockey player, and middle child among many things. In middle school I never really had close friends but I really became tormented in sixth grade. Boys where always cornering me, gross notebook paper porn dolls were even put in my desk and back pack, I was pushed down hills in the uniform shirt, girls would call me up at parties to let me know I wasn't invited,etc... Whenever my mom, dad, or I approached a teacher or head of school, we were always told "boys will be boys" and girls are naturally like that. (I'm a girl and I'm not like that)In seventh a teacher was trying to prove a point that the KKK want people in the world who are and blonde, have blue eyes, and are Protestant and it was quickly discovered that I was the only one with that description in the class. So to them, all of a sudden I was a member of the KKK never realizing I could help who I am as much as anyone else.

Even though I'm out of Peck now I'm still always labeled as the "Preppy WASP" which to me carries negative connotations of being snobby and exclusive. I go to Lawrenceville, so shouldn't everyone here be a prep? But apparently when they (the infamous THEY) talk about some one who's preppy, it only applies to those who are members of a yacht club. I'm a rich soiled brat? No. I actually sail competitively and I'm on financial aid here. Yes, I have had, and am very grateful for, a privileged life and great education but that doesn't make me any of those things I'm labeled as. (Not that I feel everyone should be overly PC) I love the line in the Breakfast Club where Claire says, "I have just as many feelings as you do and it hurts just as much when someone steps all over them." I mean, People tell me all the time that I don't listen to "black music", but in my favorite band (Dave Matthew's Band) 3 of the 5 guys are black. How are they any less "Black" then Jay-Z? And when I name Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, Toots & The Maytals, Desmond Dekker I'm told reggae isn't "black" enough. And apparently to these people Miles Davis and John Coltrane didn't make "black music" nor did Robert Johnson. And apparently, because I'm a white girl, Richard Wright can't be one of my favorite writers or Langston Hughes my favorite poet.

Plus, growing up, I always felt stupid because I had special English classes and tutors because of my dyslexia. Not being able to read and not having friends is not a fun combination. So all I really did was play hockey which lead to a whole other set of hurdles to overcome. Even though I know now that I'm smart, I can read (I'm on the editorial board of the school newspaper), I've made wonderful friends, and am the captain of the hockey team, all those years of feeling like crap are hard to let go of.

So I guess it's no surprise that I felt I really could relate to what you said and acted. I too befriended an enemy who became a good friend for years. I've been called names, been stereotyped, cried myself to sleep. But like your last character, I've been lucky to have people who cared: a dad who told me I could skate circles around the hockey boys, a mom to fight so I could go to school without being harassed, both who've sacrificed so my sisters and I can get the best education we can...which is why I was fortunate to be in the audience tonight. Thank you. Thank you.

hi dr.mykee-u performed at my skool 2day (Pond Road) and 1st i juss
wanted to tell u that u were amazing....even tho im not rly goin thro ne
problems, u still rly got thro to me and u totally touched me....also, i
just wanted to thank you with al my heart and soul becuz,.after ur
performence, my friend tlked to me.....she told me that i was the only 1
she could tell and she told me that she was seriuosly concidering
commitng suicide.....but, after ur performence, she totally saw that it wasnt
her last chance and she still had a whole lifetime to make things rite
again.......i want to thank you for that.....i also wanted to tell u
that......well, i dnt kno if this will sound rite and u mite think im a
lil crazy but im gonna say it ne wayz.....i totally think u were sent
her by god to tell these tales and let ppl kno that they still have a
chance......i think u were blessed by an angel.....an i hope u never ive
this up and keep saving ppls lives......becuz u certainly saved my
friends and possibly many others in the room today.....thankyou so
much.......
Emily

So how are you?

Winding down this long hard road.
Thinkin bout nothing and everything.
do they know
do they hear
the tears stream, never dry even when they've stopped
i move i breathe i speak but to who and of what
does it mean anything
at times I say yes and at times I know, no
but I keep moving if only in place
Wondering what it is like on the other side
I keep watch for the future
Knowing I must learn
Life keeps circling, waiting, hoping I jump
To a new life, a new way, a place where I don't just see, but feel
I don't just breathe, but experience
I don't just speak, but I am heard
What a day that will be
I anticipate its arrival and wait
Wait for my feet to fly

Love you,
T

Dear Mykee,

As an adult observer, I attended the Prejudice Awareness Summit in Richmond, VA in November 2004. You were the keynote speaker. You were fantastic! We adults in the cheap seats upstairs were laughing, crying, and were profoundly moved. Thank you for your message, and for keeping the tough stuff in.

I have a female-to-male transgender son. I guess now he is also transsexual, since he is taking testosterone and has had his breasts removed. This has been quite a challenge for our family.

Raising children includes a succession of smashed assumptions. We think our children will be smart, or athletic, or altruistic - whatever we value. We quickly discover that those were assumptions and that their personalities are their own. We assume they will go to college, get married. Sometime we realize those are assumptions too. Most of us don't realize that we are assuming our children are heterosexual. A few years ago we came to realize that for our firstborn, that had been an assumption.

So then we find out that we only assumed our first baby was a girl.

My son, now a freshman in college, wrote about his experience in his high school Personal Anthology. Attached is an edited version of what he wrote. I don't know if you have encountered trans teens; I suspect you have. I share it with you because you will understand. Few people do. And I share it because it is beautifully written and I am so proud of my son.

God bless you and the wonderful work you do.

Martha

Thank you all . . .
with love,
Mykee

When my stomach moves

it climbs and reaches
through and up
its usual habitat, replaced by a new location

my stomach is a mountaineer
always the climber these days
it feels like magic

the way it sneaks and appears
first in my heart, then in my throat
controlled by its own laws

but i've fooled my stomach
i can gain control over it
i can teach it how to move to my heart

into my throat
those winged butterflies who carry
this stomach

can fool me no more; they are under my control
i displace my stomach
with the slightest, most delicate

thought
of
you

Young Beautiful Man

This is dedicated to Shane Gooding, a man, a singer, a humanitarian who passed away in April of this year. My sister, Joy, was a year behind him in high school; they shared a class together: World Affairs. What irony! Discussing world affairs when we can't see our death sneaking upon us.

I never knew Shane, but something burning in me would like to remember him this day. This day when I think I am immortal, as do most of you who read these words. Death is amongst us. Death becomes us. And we, let death live.

I think about Shane Gooding today because he was a voice in the wilderness, cut short of the joys of mid-life crisis', the fear of old age, love accepted and love unrequited. I think about Shane, because he was straight-edge: no alcohol, no tobacco; standing for morality and ethics and peace. I think of the irony of his path towards death: CANCER. Throat cancer, to be more specific. What irony! He lived in such a way to avoid this vermin, and his life choices became the portal for this destroyer. Oh, life! You are queer; such odd ramblings and languages you possess. You, at times, attract greatness for the wicked, and harm for our prophets.

I think about Shane Gooding today, because that could have been me; that could be me. I think about you, Shane Gooding, because you possess the knowledge of what comes next, and we, all of us, knowingly or blindly remember you today . . .

Spring Awakenings -- The Musical

I've seen Spring Awakenings twice. The first time I saw it I went with two of my friends, and we ended up being late for the show because I took the jammed pack tunnel into New York. We missed the first four songs. I was disappointed, but I did not let that delay hinder me from trying to enjoy the show. I walked away liking, but not loving it. My two friends and I sat around after the show criticizing and praising the parts we didn't and did enjoy, respectively. There were parts where we felt that they were throwing in issues that had no backing or follow-up. It felt almost random. We couldn't understand why the playwright and director would put in some of these extraneous issues. My friend, Melodic Fairy (MF), and I were annoyed by the infusion of so many issues. We just couldn't understand the flow! Even more so, we didn't understand how this subpar musical won a Tony!

A couple of days after the show, I bought the CD to Spring Awakenings. I had the opportunity to listen to the CD a number of times with MF on a roadtrip we had. We fell in love! With the music. From Spring Awakenings. It grew on us. We wanted to see the show again. Unfortunately, she, like all fairies, vanished before my eyes, and I went to see the show a second time with a whole new group of friends.

The second time I saw Spring Awakenings, I was blown away. I loved it. I still had issues with some of the choices, but not as many as when I saw it the first time. I didn't feel lost as I did the first time. I understand much more of the director's choices and the playwright's script. It was wonderful, and I highly recommend it. Go see it. But this essay is more than just a recommendation. It's prescriptive. What contributed towards my varied opinions?

Firstly, to their credit, the actors had incredible energy last night. They were on. They were in the zone. That in and of itself will change the production from night to night. But there were other factors that contributed to my differing opinions.

As I stated earlier, I missed the first four songs on my initial viewing of Spring Awakenings. This was crucial!! So much information was delivered in that early part. Also, I was familiar with the music, the second time around. Finally, I realized that even if I didn't agree with the director or playwright's choices, it was now in context of the play's entirety, not just my limited perspective.

What a lesson on life itself! How many times do we pick up a book, or an album, or have a first impression about a person, or feel a briskness with a waiter/waitress, and we sum up that book, music, or person with our limited knowledge? I've done this, and continue to do this, but my drive is to do this less. This is not to say that one should not be critical; rather, we should have more of a learned scrutiny.

I try to do this. I am not always successful, but cutting off knowledge, before knowledge presents itself, is not wisdom, but ignorance. Apply this concept to anything and it is a challenge. It's easier when dealing with books, music, movies, or plays, but try it out with people. By no means am I trivializing the weight of this approach. It is not simple, but if we are able to change, to understand, to properly put into place a person's history, and not just what appears to be "random" behavior, we will do what is best for our world, ourselves.

running blind while coming for you

I'm running blind and my daughter
sees God
As a comedian who is not threatened
by a good joke.
And I am laughing at my daughter's
ability to make God blush,
While consumed by wolves who scream
for my soul's execution;
Yet, these two hands
are breaking jaws and gathering dreams,
In the north country, away from where the
wind blows, on my love, walking her dog,
On a rocky beach, less than three skips away
from the end of life's rainbow.
But she is part of another novella,
cut short from me without a period or semi-colon
So I continue to hope in this dark cell
for those faded, nuclear explosions, called stars.
I pray they will send down some angels strapped
to a pair of roaming buffalos,
For I am still young and wild
whistling a melody for the dream catcher.
And it's funny how clearly God's voice
echoes when I am most wasted and wounded
Humbled, homeless filling up my prison cell
with truth and defecation.
And you should know this, snake charmer,
it's the way we coil in heat, recoil in the chill
Of glassy, slippery eyes.
You see, it was all brought back to me
With my daughter's prayer,
thanking God for her bad dreams.
And that points to an exclamation, sleepy seducer.
We can do something
No God or gods could ever do;
good or bad.
We can dream, my love,
we can move in our dreams.
So, I wanted you to know that,
because I'm coming for you.

World without children

a world without children?
this could never be!
for a world without children,
would mean a world without me.

Seeing
(for up)

For a day,
I want you to borrow my eyes
and see how well they see,
and then you would see
how beautiful they see
you.

"And [Jesus] said: "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven." -- Matt 18:3-5

My daughter came to me and said, "Daddy, we forgot to pray this morning." I said, "You're right, Saskia. Let's pray right now." So, I stopped what I was doing and we prayed. I said, "Thank you God for my eyes that see, and my arms that work." And then Saskia jumped in and said, "Thank you God for making me have BAD dreams, and for giving me pee pee in my poopie butt."

If what Jesus said is true, I have a golden seat in heaven next to my daughter.

Amen.

why are there boogers in front of every urinal across america? what is it that makes a man (or some bold woman) pick their nose when peeing?

what is it about the release of sex that is so powerful, powerful enough to make people kill and become addicted?

why is falling funny to people? when someone trips or stumbles people laugh. what is it about our disaster that is a source of celebration for some?

why are men and women so different? genetics? socialization? why, in broad strokes, are gay men more colorful, as a subculture, than lesbians?

why is there embarassment in what our bodily functions do?

why war? why fear?

why do we remain angry with those whom we claim to love? why isn't death always present in our consciousness?

why do i lack the courage to fail? why do i attempt tasks that i know i will be successful in doing?

why does crying make me feel so bad? why does crying make me feel so good?

why are we afraid or drawn to falling? why do we seek death while running away from it?

why do we fall in love? are we hard-wired for this tragedy?

why is death so difficult to see as a part of life?

why did my mother teach me how to reach out to people, only to scold me when my giving was beyond her expectations?

why does my three year old daughter understand more about living than i can ever relearn?

why are goodbyes so hard?

why does God speak through silence? why are we as people so passionate about God's existence, extinction, or non-existence?

why not?

Dearly Departed

And so many thoughts run through my mind. They seriously do. Quickly. Like planes stuck on runways. And there were so many other things to be said and were held back in my head or just in someone else's song. Now that I've had time to think, I know I can jot a few things your way, my way. We did it! Here and now.

"And we both feel lost, but I remember what Susan said,
'Our love is bound in the things we've given up,
More than in the things that we have kept.'
And ain't it funny what people say,
And ain't it funny what people write,
And ain't it funny how it hits you so hard
In the middle of the night.
And if your home is just another place where you're a stranger
And far away is just somewhere you've never been,
I hope you remember,
I was your friend.
I hope you have the strength to just remember
I'm still your friend."-- Rich Mullins, What Susan Said

And then it's been cool here in Jersey for the past few days. In August!!! Are we heading for fall already. That's my favorite, you know. I know you know.

"each time you'd pull down the driveway
i wasn't sure when i would see you again
yours was a twisted blind sided highway
no matter which road you took then
oh you set up your place in my thoughts
moved in and made my thinking crowded
now we're out in the back with the barking dogs
my heart the red sun
your heart the moon clouded
i could go crazy on a night like tonight
when summer's beginning to give up her fight
and every thought's a possibility
and the voices are heard but nothing is seen
why do you spend this time with me
maybe an equal mystery" -- Indigo Girls, Mystery


And what if as time moves, we move to drums and violins and laughter and italian wine and cars driven from all sides. I'm still the ride, huh?


" Now here we are
We're licking skin to wipe us clean
Strike a match, pour gasoline
Ditch the scene and watch this city burn
Asleep, my life will be a pillow steering wheel turn

I'll be reaching for the stars with you (honey)
Who cares if no one else believes
So I, set fire to everyone around
But I told you
I told you
We'd do it

So ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha
Yeah we won

We Drive
To leave the past and clear the mind
to watch the sunset set its time
I swear you'll find
I'm your ride home" -- Blue October, She's My Ride Home


But don't be fooled, I'm so prepared this time. So, (shhh), I keep secrets, and they never can tell by my smile.

"When we meet again
Introduced as friends
Please don't let on that you knew me when
I was hungry and it was your world." -- Bob Dylan, Just Like a Woman

But that's all I wanted to say tonight. Sleep loose, and let dreams breathe through a naked wind.

with love.

Understanding

My friend was telling me why she became a dancer. She has a lot of pride in doing her job well. She used to be a teacher, but didn't find passion in that field. She didn't make enough people feel better. As a dancer, she loves making men, from all walks of life, feel better. And though it's temporary, it's real. They feel better. It's not for me -- frequenting strip clubs or dancing myself, but I understand my friend. I understand the need to make people feel better.

I met this woman in a bar the other night. She was 38, but looked no older than 23, maybe 25, if you pushed it. She was proud of her two children. She was married, and would freely talk about her husband. Yet, the stench of loneliness permeated her laughter. She clung to any attention that men would give her. And though she was very attractive, I wasn't in the mood to speak much that night. She bored with me quickly, (as perhaps I did with her), and she moved on to some other familiar face at the bar. I understand that loneliness. I know it too well.

My sister Joy was telling me about the controversy over that new film, Knocked Up. Appearantly, the liberal media (i.e., NY Times and the Politico) is offended that the movie doesn't mention the word 'abortion', but rather scurries around the word. In addition, they seem to be offended that the main character decides to keep the child and not have an abortion. Why is this CHOICE offensive? Is not the voice of the Pro-choice about choice, even if that choice means keeping the child? I mostly rant against conservatives, but I was speechless that liberals borrowed the tactics of their political enemies by turning fiction into friggin' reality! Knocked Up is a comedy, not a weapon of mass debate. Do you know why the movie skirts around using the word abortion? Because it's a reflection of our society! We skirt around using the word ABORTION! I understand little of this debate.

Last night I was telling this woman at the front desk of my hotel that I am an actor. She said, "I was going to be an actor once, but I decided to change my mind." I scoffed. It dawned on me. We artists don't choose our art; it is our art who chooses us. I can no more change my call to acting than I can change the essence of Michael Fowlin. I understood little of what she had to say.

afterthought

i prefer being a no thought over being an afterthought.
afterthoughts tend to remind you of your invisibility;
whereas a no thought just reminds you that humans,
unlike whales and elephants, tend to forget
once in a while. afterthoughts are like steven, who

was overweight, in my 4th grade class, and one of my
best friends. he was an afterthought. you couldn't miss him
in gym class, but he was always picked last. none of the
cool kids wanted him on their team. i always wondered
how he felt. you know. being invisible.
an afterthought. i bet it would have cheered him up

if someone had said, "oh, my god, steven, we didn't even
see you. we just forgot. were you hiding on us?" and then the
two captains got into a big fist fight because both of them wanted
steven on their team. i bet steven would have felt good
being a no thought. no thoughts are important, just temporarily
forgotten. and then there's always the famous no thought versus
afterthought birthdays. with no thought birthdays, the forgetter

can gasp, groan, gargle, or giggle about their stupidity
or hectic-tivity or flake-itude, and this momentary lapse
is readily forgiven by the forgotten. oh, but watch out, if you are
an afterthought on your birthday -- the 11:59 call, the five day late
card, the "ooh, i feel bad; i'll make it up to you" that never happens,
the queasy reminder that your hunch about your funeral is probably
accurate. this makes you want to be eight again when everyone
gave a damn about your birthday: the happy birthday over the

loudspeaker at school, the party, the new huffy bike that you
rode up and down your street, far past reason; the belief that you
are a forethought. yeah, i would much rather be a no thought,
because they're more fun or funny than afterthoughts. with no
thoughts you sleep peaceful, because you don't remember that you
forgot, but afterthoughts ruin sleep, whether you're on the receiving
or giving end. afterthoughts incur anger. you're almost back at the party then you remember that your girlfriend or wife asked you
not to forget the cheese fondue or that special bottle of pinot noir,

and you turn around, head back to the store, cursing that woman,
and cheese and wine and grapes and cows and that stupid party
with all her stupid friends and your controlling boss who kept you
late, because she was too lazy to do her own job, and you curse
the traffic light for turning red, and you shout to everyone and
no one, "i wish i just forgot!".
see? that's an afterthought. just pisses you off. if it were a no thought, you could feel sheepish when your girlfriend or wife gives
you that vicious glare. but you'll both laugh about it later, and she'll
forgive you, because you had a no thought. there is forgiveness

in the disappearance of thought, but no real forgiveness for afterthoughts. you just suck it up and move on. i guess i'm saying
all of this just to tell you, i prefer being a no thought for a day,
rather than some lonely afterthought that squelches sleep. yes, honey, i would rather be a no thought for a day, but just for a day.

World Perks

business men, suits and privilege,
leave me trapped in this time warp of imperceptibility
my skin, too dark to be seen in this bright light,
reflect glances of fear and questions; i am
extraneous to others, as are the positions of two numbers
being multiplied in an equation
some of these men think i am cipher;
but i am not the product of this multiplication
i am just a factor
and what i need them to note:
if i am zero, i have the power, with one touch,
to completely negate their value

Conversations I had with a Girl at a Bar

It was the music that had nothing more than an empty tune.
"I wanna be the best, but feel like the worst;
I wanna be the prettiest, but feel the plainest."
But that smile, lost within thought, had him wishing that
she would sing a verse or two.
"Living in the moment is so hard to do when I can't
stop freaking over what's next . . .
I don't know if I can do this baby."
I'm preparing for a storm on this sunny day --
she has the taste of love and disaster on dripping lips.
"You bring out the worst in me. My mind hops and skips,
my heart falls and remembers memories past and yet to come.
I can't wait till Friday . . . where we will be on this beach . . .
in May."

4:30am chants

(comforting myself)

i want to sing to you
but my voice is tired and strewn
like exploded tires on highway roads
it's 4:30am and I'm not breathing you in
your scent is all but faded on my pillow case
your body is not pressed against mine
and no touch or fantasy or liquor
can make me forget what i don't have at this moment

i want to write you a song
but my mind is paper chastised by rain
matted and useless until it can be dried
and you, my dear, are light and sun
when you kiss me i shiver
i am drunk and sober all at once
you make my rambling road find that easy silence
and with this thought, I hope to sleep

i hope to sleep

i hope to sleep
with you
waking next to me
in the morning light

haiku 603

tonight, my mood is
vomitting some loneliness,
and you seem content

The Riddle

Q: A man had to cross a bridge. The man had three boxes, each weighing 5 pounds; the man weighed 190 pounds, but the bridge could only support 200 pounds. How did the man make it across the bridge with all his boxes?



A: He juggled them. A box was in the air the whole time.

I was watching Joan of Arcadia when this message was brought forth. The message was not just about juggling; it was about how this applies to our life. At this point in my life, I feel overwhelmed. So many emotions running its course through my veins. As was said in the show:
"The bridge is life. The boxes hold your feelings: your love, your joy, your pain, your loss. Everyone is crossing the bridge with more weight than they can bear. So, you juggle."

I've already had a good few morning cries today.

And God spoke again . . .

Love,
me

Dear Saskia:

You are three today, and I want to take this time to say, thanks. Thanks for visiting me in this lifetime, on this strange planet. And though you were not planned, you are far from a mistake; you are purpose manifested. There are a lot of people who say to me, "Isn't crazy how fast those three years went?" And I say, "It didn't go fast. It seems like three years, or maybe longer." These people often look at me as if I'm crazy . . . and they are probably close to the truth, but these are my true thoughts. It does not feel just like yesterday. It feels as if I've lived a good few lifetimes since your birth. Why is this?

I think that people who have the same job, day in and day out, often feel a folding of time. As a maxim, I suppose one could say: if time repeats, time is not unique. Most people are very scheduled, robotic and systematic in their daily meanderings. They basically do the same activities Monday through Friday, and their weekends are no exception. Of course this is often interrupted with the occasional vacation or hospitalization or break-up. If there is anything true about my life, in the last 14 years, it's this: change is my constant.

From one day to the next, my life is appears different. I am in different cities, thinking different thoughts, breathing different air, and trying to live and realize moments. I wish the same for you, my child. Do not be a cog in this machine; march to the drum of your family: Whitman, Sojourner Truth, Thoreau, Dylan, Ruth (as in Biblical character), Cummings, Anthony (as in Susan B.), and on and on. Forget the pace of this wold, dear Saskia, march to your own drum. Most human beings never realize how wonderful life is while they live it. Do not be like most. There are things you know now that you must never forget. There are places you can go that I will never be able to visit . . . not even in my dreams (Khalil Gibran).

You already know that laughter heals. Do not let life nor death take this knowledge from you. Suck the marrow out of life and BE! Never define yourself by the job you do. "Our life is more than our work, and our work is more than our jobs." -- Charlie King -- I have gotten stuck on this as well. People ask me all the time what do I do, as if that question will answer my worth. Fight against this, dear Saskia. Wherever you are right now, is where you are supposed to be right now. But if you choose to be somewhere different in the future, then move towards that mark. Life happens on us, as we happen on life. Make your voice be heard, sweet warrior, precious angel.

"What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters, compared to what lies within us." -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

You were born before time. Do not allow time to confine your immortality. Breathe God in, for God breathes you in beyond the smallest space of time. Never be afraid of God's vision for your life; it is God who has delivered you to me. God's sense of timing and humor are extraordinary. Bask in it, but be aware of those who want to tell how to think about God; of those people who lock God in heavy chains of limitation. These are not prophets. They are just scared little creatures. Fear not their fear. The original sin was limiting God's vision.

And one other thing. Never stay in a relationship you want no part of, but be cautious of moving too soon. Gleam and grow from the lessons of pain. It is our pain that allows us to see more clearly. White light holds all the colors of the spectrum. Can you see it? For if you fail to see all the colors, you will see nothing but darkness. Do not allow my death to alter the brilliance of this life, of this light. Change is good, as is pain. Remember this: Solid rock is nothing more than sand and water . . . plus time.

I pray for your soul. I pray your soul finds the lesson of the eagle. Soar.

I celebrate this day with you, and long to kiss and hold you.

with breath and love,
Dad

Two Maxims

1. Yesterday, Tania and myself were performing in an elementary school in the Philadelphia area. There were three grades represented: 4th-6th. As I was perusing the audience, I took notice at how so many 4th graders have lost their innocence already. I started thinking about my daughter. She will be three in June. I felt panicky. Will Saskia look like some of these children so soon? Will all her innocence be faded by age 9? Six and a half years -- that's too quick. I don't have much time! Time is running out. I saw how much time I did not have.

The other day, I was waiting for a friend to arrive. We had set the time, and I knew I had three hours before he arrived. Three hours. I had plenty of time. I meandered around my apartment checking email, reading a book, watching a tv show, and just noticing how slow time was going because I had so much time on my hand.

Maxim: When you focus on how much time you don't have time will travel quickly; when you focus on how much time you do have time will move slowly. Focus on what you have, not what you do not have.

2. I went down to the deep south in North America a couple of months ago. I hadn't been to this particular state before, and I had some fear about how they would respond to me, because as a black northern fella, I have some deep rooted suspicions and prejudgments about white, southern males and females, and their reaction towards me. I thought I would be met with some obvious racism from these citizens; I was prepared. I was ready for my judgments to hold steady.

I'm happy to say, my friend lives in a large university town, and university towns tend to pull in a more liberal and open-minded atmosphere. This was true of this southern city. People were friendly, and genuinely so. They treated me kindly, without suspicion, and made me feel at ease. There was only one time that I noticed a different feel than my homeostasis. I walked into a restaurant with this lovely friend of mine, (who, by the way, I completely adore), and people stopped eating to stare at us, both black and white. Of course, I immediately thought it was because of how stunning my friend is, (which still could be the case), but the looks betrayed something else, almost as if people were looking at something very foreign. And they were.

Allow me to describe my friend. In the spirit of anonymity, I will call my friend GK. GK is white and her hair is blond. As I said before, I am black. In the deep South, I have noticed how few interactions blacks and whites have together, socially or romantically. The two don't mix as often as they do in the North. GK is a genuine exception to this rule. She doesn't describe her friends by their race or sexual orientation. This is also true of GK's best friend, who I'll code name, Trouble. They see people for people.

Nonetheless, outside of this minor staring incident, I felt happy to be proved wrong. I walked away from this southern city with less judgment. I learned that I shouldn't judge too quickly.

On Saturday, GK told me about a conversation she had with a peripheral MySpace person on her friend's list. He asked her, "Why did you come to the bar with a black guy?" She replied, "What?!" He said, "Why did you come to the bar with a nigger?" GK flipped, had a few choice words, and was restrained from hunting the guy down and killing him. Later, this same imbecile attempted to leave a message on GK's comment board with the following statement: GK is a nigger-lover.

I was stunned and speechless. This is 2007 and there are people who still use the word, "nigger-lover". It was laughable and almost unbelievable. For about 30 minutes, I kept thinking that GK was going to call back and tell me that she was just pulling my leg. She never called back.

I learned another lesson that day, and my trip to the South became a life's maxim.

Maxim: Do not be quick to judge; do not be quick to lose your judgment.

A Party invitation for Natalie Maines

"Just so you know, we're ashamed the president of the United States is from Texas." –
Natalie Maines, Dixie Chicks

Have you ever played the party game? It goes something like this – if you could invite 10 living/dead people to a party, who would you invite and why? On so many people’s list, Jesus, Gandhi, Mother Theresa, and Martin Luther King make the final cut. Not true for me, though, perhaps with the exception of Jesus, I much rather have the living at my party . . . at least this party.

In 2003, Dixie Chicks’ lead singer, Natalie Maines, while performing overseas made what seemed like an innocuous statement at the time, but proved to be a life-altering event for the group. Natalie said, “We’re ashamed the president of the United States is from Texas.” This statement was her outcry against Bush’s war instigation in Iraq. The Dixie Chicks did not realize that their measly words would cause such a tidal wave. There were many southern folks, particularly Texans, who were incensed by this sacrilege against a (self-professed) god-appointed president. Who did these chicks think they were? The intelligentsia of the southern community began protesting the Dixie Chicks in the most erudite manner. They burnt Dixie Chicks’ compact discs, held up signs telling the Dixie Chicks where they could burn (and we’re not talking about just in France), boycotted concerts in droves, radio stations refused to play their music, people made death threats toward Natalie Maines, and one classy individual came up with the stylish idea that Natalie should be strapped to a bomb then dumped over Iraq. Ah, the cream of the crop in America! I am ever so puzzled as to why other countries tend to hate Americans! Look how civilized and organized these people were.

The Dixie Chicks were branded as traitors for speaking out against a costly American mistake – (trickery at the polls in 2000 or the war in Iraq, you choose) – and they, in turn, loss most of their country music fan base. Was that really a loss? Do they really want their clientele to be of the mindset of potential murderers, obtuse tobacco-spitters, and blind sheep led by a blind shepherd? By no means!

The Dixie Chicks may have lost their country music fan base, but they gained a world of respect around the world, and they gained new fans. Like me. Natalie’s passion and heart won me over. I know what it’s like to fight against the norm; to be criticized for doing so; to be misunderstood. I know what it’s like to lose voices of support because the crowd can’t understand what’s beyond the matrix, what exists outside the box. I know what it’s like to feel scared, alone, and tired, but knowing that you must stand up for what you believe; you must sing truth, even when all other voices are fluctuating with nonsense. I know what it’s like to be told to just “shut up and sing” as if you are only a singer or actor or whatever it is that you DO. “Our life is more than our work, and our work is more than our job.” Shut up and sing? What an ill philosophy, a putrid testament to a tapered worldview. Sing, Natalie, and never shut up. Let your voice be heard, even if it means the sacrifice of your life. We shall live on. Remember this: obedient women have never been remembered in history! You, my friend, have lost bronze, but have been rewarded with gold.

If I were to have a party, inviting 10 people from the living and dead, Natalie Maines would most certainly make the list. She has made her bed and now sleeps like a baby. Thank you, Natalie, for showing fearful how truly to be brave!

Dear Natalie, I am having a party someday, and would like to formally invite you to come. I promise that the cast of characters at this event will be only those who have chosen the lesser trodden path. And like you, all have been misunderstood in some form or fashion. I hope you accept my invitation, and I look forward to meeting you in this or our next life. Please RSVP as soon as possible. Sincerely, Michael Fowlin.