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.