Friend

There is an artistry in friendship. Friendship as a means to an end is not an art. To want someone’s friendship only as a stepping stone to what you really want but will not say is not an art. To claim friendship and abandon it at the first or second sign of something shinier, is that art?

Friendship as a fall back postion, is that art?
Art is the physical, visual, or aural manifestation of a single thought in time.
I ramble, I am uneasy in life today.

20 years

20 years later
she* got up the nerve
to call Anita Hill
on the phone
She prayed for the
answering machine
and got her wish
She wanted to say

She wanted to say
I’m sorry
I know how he is
I knew what he was
But I married him and
I followed him
and I believed in him
like you probably did
before you didn’t
She wanted to ask.

She wanted to ask
how did you do it
in front of the cameras
and his friends
and the senate subcommittee
on keeping the priviledge in place
in front of all the bosses
you ever had
or ever would have
who sat across
from you and him
in front of all those people
who knew the truth
but stayed blind under oath
and pain of lost elections

20 years later
She called to ask for
help
for courage
for something she couldn’t
put her finger on
she called as if time
will have had some effect on
the truth

instead
she chickened out
turned the tables
like they’ve always been turned
when something ugly
gets thrown into
Light.

*She is Mrs Clarence Thomas who phoned Anita Hill’s office to ask for an apology.

codeword: hostile

Today, I am tired of it. Ususally I brush it off as the non-sense that it is: the automatic fall back position of those who resent the fact that I will not dissappear into the floor because they have an opinion that differs from mine and I do not hesitate to actually believe that I might be right.

so it’s that I’m hostile. It gives them an excuse to behave the way they behave. I don’t deserve it so it’s bothering me right now. She was almost nice to me.  Then she remembered she’s not suppose to like me. That makes me sad. That’s why it bothers me.

hos·tile
[hos-tl or, especially Brit.-tahyl]

  1.  of, pertaining to, or characteristic of an enemy:a hostile nation.
  2. opposed in feeling, action, or character; antagonistic: hostile criticism.
  3. characterized by antagonism.
  4. not friendly, warm, or generous; not hospitable.

Doesn’t even sound like me.

Stuff and things…

I drove 14 hours this summer on my way to a week’s vacation. The beginning– let’s say first four hours–were easy. My mind was awash with how far I’d gone, what I’d do when I’d get there, am I hungry, am I thirsty, am I good on gas, look at that car, this road is cool.  The end –let’s say the last 2 hours –were about being close to the goal, only 2 more hours, do I have to use the bathroom, should I fill up before I get there so I don’t have to stop too soon on the way out, I hope I brought everything.

The middle part is a blur and it’s in that middle part where I imagine my mind was as close to quiet as it was going to get. By that middle part, not much about the journey was going to change, I just had to keep driving; keep my mileage steady, I wasn’t hungry, thirsty, or needing a break.

I feel that way right now. Like the brain is chugging away on its rails, doesn’t need a lot of watching, fiddling with, or tending. Yet, I get the sense that the light and sound that I sort of  hear off in the distance might be important but all I can do is keep chugging on my present course and adjust when I have more details.

That is all.

TV Show

I want to write a TV show. about a newspaper. old auburn ave feel. and i want it to be about stuff like urban sprawl. regentrification. innercity and outercity politics. mass transit. drug trade. death penalty. prison industrial complex. gay marriage/gay adoption/gay gayness. passing the torch. family dynamics. interracial marriage. suburbia. downtown. and more…

1st season- 7 characters introduced.

1 patriarch (owner of the newspaper)
2 his daughter (researcher, fact checker)
3 his son-in-law (new politician who wants to trade on newspaper contacts and history, idealist)

4 his wife (senior editor, has to be Alfre Woodard)

5 idealist beat reporter (just married, moving from downtown to suburbia)

6 new kid (writer who by mistake but with writing genius brought down a local political ‘gang’ with a series of articles on personal blog)

7 ?? (maybe six is enough)

I also want Tina Marjorino in it…

a birth of words…

“I felt the kick, a slight shift of weight that wasn’t there before but is now” I put it in quotes because it is what I was thinking but then I thought someone (although, there is no one here!) might think there is a baby involved. There is not.

Words, developing meaning, slowly, like what was a feeling growing into something tangible, touchable, real. Not just one word. Thousands! Growing into sentences, paragraphs, chapters, one after another reborn, reincarnated, rearranged.

I want something real…

I’m reaching for it even when I think I’m not. It’s not a singular one time event, like once I have reached it, that’s it, that’s all. And sometimes it’s already washing over me and only then do I realize i’ve gotten it, unbidden. I still get to wonder over it, and sometimes it makes me cry with the realization and the joy of it; the clear indication of something real surrounding, enfolding, infusing me with light and life.

I have no clue

I admit it. I don’t know what I am doing a lot of the time. It’s not that I don’t know things and stuff but rather that I don’t know how to put what I know into a useful and accessible format for consumption.

I have this blog on which I write things that cross my mind and I don’t know what to do with it. I want to do a number of things but when it comes to sitting down and doing the things, I can’t seem to grip on what the “things” are that I want to do. As a result, I end up doing nothing which is a self-perpetuating circle of nothing ness.

How do I make the leap from thinking about doing a thing to actually doing a thing?

That is all.

Sleep perchance to Dream…

There are nights I cannot or will not sleep. I stay up; my mind a monster obsessively running like a mouse on a wheel. I want to get off, but I drink Coke instead and let the monster have it’s way.

The aftermath is not always predictable. Sometimes, I’ve gotten one step closer to understanding what ever it is that has been circulating in my head; usually a problem I want to solve or a thing I can’t understand but desperately need to in order to move on to the next step or the next thing or simply to lay an idea to rest.

And sometimes, like today, I end up looking like passing over into sleep is imminent. I crave a nap like I crave chocolate after a long time away from the treat.  It becomes the one thing on my mind, the mouse wheel I climb on – nap nap nap nap nap. Around and around.

That is all.

Crush

This is not a new thing for me. I destroyed my first diary out of fear of discovery of several crushes I had going at the time. It was a little red, drug store diary with a tiny gold key. I filled the pages up with miscellaneous life of a 12 year old; I would give $10 to have it back today so I could revisit that 12 year old. (I’m currently fascinated with this personal story of mine).

In (what I hope) is the beginning of the middle of my life, I find I’ve forgotten so much of my younger self that doesn’t relate to fear, abandonment, or longing. I know there was more to my childhood than that. I don’t think I could have survived if there wasn’t more. I imagine these crushes, at least in the beginning, might have been something wonderful.

The subject arises as a result of stream of consciousness ruminations which began with my current crush. A very unlikely point of fixation that I won’t describe, but I’m smiling just thinking about the possibilities, impossible though they are.

The dictionary definition of “Crush is an interesting read. It is filled with pain and violence:
1.To press between opposing bodies so as to break or injure.
2. To break, pound, or grind (stone or ore, for example) into small fragments or powder.
3. To put down; subdue: crushed the rebellion.
4. To overwhelm or oppress severely: spirits that had been crushed by rejection and failure.
5. To crumple or rumple: crushed the freshly ironed shirt.
6. To hug, especially with great force.
7. To press upon, shove, or crowd.
8. To extract or obtain by pressing or squeezing

Then buried near the bottom is the informal meaning:
1. A usually temporary infatuation.

Hm.

When I first read that I thought, wow I wonder how that word came to mean those two very different things. Then I remembered again, that little red diary and that as those crushes went on without reciprocation or acknowledgment, how I was crushed. I wasn’t popular, I wasn’t pretty, I wasn’t thin and I wasn’t very girlie which I thought others felt to be a more desirable way to be.

And yet here I am again, crushing. Still not particularly popular, charming but not pretty, definitely not thin, and only occasionally do I have moments which could be called anything close to girlie. What I have gained in the 31 years since 12 is experience, success, failures and wisdom. So I’m enjoying this crush and won’t be crushed when it passes.

That is all.