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Posts Tagged ‘sweeping generalizations re: humanity’

 
|| August 15, 2014 || 12:07 am || Comments (0) ||

This week has been monumental. I hope that what’s happening in Ferguson, Missouri won’t be scrubbed up and put in a suit and made presentable for company. When future generations look back on the records of this, I want those records to be heartbreakingly accurate. I hope they are the solid, unbleached truth.

Everything I’m feeling is just too big to wrap up tidily in words. I can’t do it. Here are some links to some pieces that I found powerful and important, though:

Things To Stop Being Distracted By When A Black Person Gets Murdered By Police, Mia McKenzie
“If we were to talk about a victim’s past, we would have to talk about it in a context of oppression. But, you know what? We don’t need to talk about it at all. Because it is irrelevant to issue of their victimization.”

America Is Not For Black People, Greg Howard
“But laying all this out, explaining all the ways in which he didn’t deserve to die like a dog in the street, is in itself disgraceful. Arguing whether Brown was a good kid or not is functionally arguing over whether he specifically deserved to die, a way of acknowledging that some black men ought to be executed.”

In which I have a few things to tell you about #Ferguson, Sarah Bessey
“Can we make space for the lament and for the grief, for the anger and the fear?”

Affected, Karen Walrond
“I’m tired of every time my little girl doesn’t try her best at school, my yelling at her invariably includes a lecture that people are looking for her to fail because she’s black and she’s a girl, and she’s way too effing brilliant of a kid to let people write her off due to her blackness and her girlness.”

Military veterans see deeply flawed response in Ferguson, Thomas Gibbons-Neff
“I would hate to call the Ferguson response a military one. Because it isn’t, it’s an aberration.”

I hope you’ll set aside the time read them. I also (continue to) hope that we’ll craft a decent future for the the next couple-three generations to abide in; that we are sowing sense enough into them that they won’t allow our generation’s shortfalls and failings to become their norm down the line.

I have this habit of calling after my people when we part ways: “Be carefree!” Being careful doesn’t get you as much good living as being carefree does, right?

It hasn’t felt right to say ‘be carefree’ this week, though, so I’ve changed it a little bit. What I’ve wished over my family and friends is what I wish over you, as well: Be well. Every last one of you just be the wellest you can manage, okay?

(If you’ve seen good writing about the events in Ferguson, feel free to link it up in the comments, point the rest of us to it.)

 
|| July 27, 2011 || 2:08 am || Comments (22) ||

There’s always something to outrun and there’s always something to quit and there’s always something to forget and don’t you tire of this place, this place where your brow knits and your whole face asks a question of nobody that you can particularly identify? The puzzle-look is just there waiting for the person that recognizes it to call out to you, to know it because someone else called it out to them.

My feet and brain are always moving. My heart is always waiting and I don’t remember how to exhale. Back when I used to be a scrapper the exhale came with the thud, the contact, the punch letting it all out and unleashing the glee and, hey: Look who is a functioning human being! Now that we’ve swung on one another and gotten that out of the way, we can get down to brass tacks: Do we pursue this, or do we walk away?

I’m real good at walking away, but I think even if I weren’t it would still be startling to me overall how many people are unwilling to agree to disagree and just let it alone. You get basically two choices, see? There is the whole Love You In Spite Of (with some Because Of in there for balance and also good measure) option and there is that hey we learned something here but we don’t ever have to sit down and have pie together and errbody will be just fine option.

You don’t have to like that you get basically two choices, and you can daydream all damn day long that there is a loophole fashioned all special-like for eedle ole you, but that doesn’t alter the very basic fabric of the universe wherein there is that silly fucking chaotic balance principle thingy to be accounted for. Without some negative energy and some positive energy bothering to go toe-to-toe there wouldn’t be any dang see-sawing going on, it’d just be someone constantly on their butt in the dirt or someone always dangling legs up there in the air.

Static scenery is bullshit. But so is staticky scenery. Both are an interruption in flow. “Movement is life,” one of my mentors was always saying to me, so I’m ever-mindful of my flow.

How do you define spirituality? Do you equate it with religion? Do you recognize it as the vehicle by which someone examines and attempts to better themselves? Do you view it as an excuse? A fool’s escape? A place to heap scorn and small behavior toward another human being who dares to state what they believe,  no matter how calmly (notice I did not say ‘placidly’) they try to do so?

Do you expect respect for your opinions and thoughts and for those things that move your heart? Oh, and: Is the volume at which you mete it out, this respect-thing, commensurate to the meticulously-adjusted level at which your expectations for it are set? I mean, I figure you’re –at minimum– clever enough for the working-out of your own soul; it would be really fucking special if you gave me and others the same sort of credit.

A few weeks ago, I was invited to the wedding of one of my best friends. I planned to (and did!) wear an orangey-red dress and unbelievably red lipstick and smartass black pumps with corset lacing up the three inches of heel (and the other two inches behind the curve of my foot). I tell you this because such a duded-up ladysuit requires some for real savage hair. Also, it was going to be roughly hotter than four hells and I suddenly find myself with a sheet of blonde mess down my back after more than a year of no-haircut tomfoolery*. So updo, right? Nobody wants to be the sweaty bitch in the awesome red dress.

(please remind me at some point to do a post explaining how, when people who love you want to gather and celebrate –with great goodwill and furious amounts of drinking– your marital union, baking said people attired in formalwear out-of-doors is decidedly impolite. rent a fucking hall, for shitsakes. there have been three –THREE!– outdoor weddings this summer and none of them were around a swimming pool and a trash can full of hunch punch.)

So I went to see my cousin’s husband’s sister-in-law, Layla, and showed her two pictures and handed her two black flowers replete with crystally things and sproingy feathers and said, “GO NUTS AND I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING. If this hair is in any way boring you and me can’t drink beer together no more, Layla.” Layla laughs like a hyena when we spend time together and wants to keep me around, so I was confident in my threat. Never make a threat you don’t intend to follow through on, Muffinassedly Ones; that’s just stupid. Lots of that going around these days. But shallow words are another hunk of writing entirely.

Layla looked at the pictures, looked at my head, said, “Hm,” then set her mouth, shoved some bobby pins in it and laid siege upon my locks. Every now and again she’d say, “Hold this piece of hair right here, Jay-utt,” but for the most part we talked about important shit since we are near-family and all. She’s a craftsman, this Layla, and she is of the mind that showing you an unfinished work is doing you a disservice, so when she spun me around at the end for a look-see I was just completely in love with what had been done.

I paid her the fair updo fee (wince) and tipped her five bucks (no wince here, I may hate to pay but I do like to tip) and the rain started. I had no umbrella.

But this is no tragedy-story, no, because my hair held up; it held up like a boss and I drove a couple hours away and got my gussy on and had one large fine time at that party. I was so happy and buzzed when we got back to the hotel that the only things I could find it in me to remove were my fluttery fake lashes and my stellar ‘potentially-a-loose-girl, it’s-hard-to-tell’ pumps.

The next morning, my beautiful hair was still (!) beautiful. “Aces!” says I, “I’m going to get my money’s-worth out of this wedding hair. I’m not unweaving or unpinning a single thing until Monday night!”

But.

The next day after that my beautiful hair still appeared beautiful, but it was beginning to look a little fuzzy around the edges. This got me to thinking about it, this hair. I thought about how it might look serviceable on first inspection, but there were little aggravating curls that had sprung to life, and I was sure that there was a layer of guck beginning to form on my scalp. I thought and thought and thought some more about that hair, and finally I just took it on down and washed it that evening because this hair obviously would not be low-maintenance if it caused me to excessively regard the condition of the terrain underneath it.

And this brings me back to spirituality and the reckoning of our own souls: It’s not enough to just rest in something beautiful. If the substance of the thing is questionable, it will eventually begin to disturb us. We will stir uncomfortably, not able to sit with ourselves and our outdated truths. I don’t know why that can’t be enough; why we can’t let our actions say everything that needs to be known about our hearts. I don’t know why we have to be at odds with disparate beliefs, why we can’t just slap five and sing soul and smile and give the other guy the same room to be.

We’re just so wasteful with one another, and it really fucks me up when I think about it for too long.

*though not on purpose. fifteen months sans haircut. fifteen! months! this shit is killing me.

 
|| December 15, 2000 || 10:57 pm || Comments (0) ||

Uhhh, hi.

Reading chum’s journal-thingy made me sad tonight. Made me really sad. I can’t really put my finger on why. If he reads this, I’m sure he’ll get it. He’s special like that—has the whole insight thing pretty down for someone so young. Mayhap that is why he is bored with his courtiers.*chumster, any thoughts on this??*

I really hope that I wasn’t one of the parties that he was referring to. I hope that he still likes my dance. Isn’t that sick and sad? It sounds that way on the surface, I suppose. You’ve got to look deeper, though. There are few people that I respect in a wholesome way/look up to. This cat has a great intellect and wit and seemingly possesses an affection for people that I could never muster. He tries to bury that light under the bushel of sarcasm, but it’s there and I for one can see it.

I haven’t been blogging as much lately. And certainly the content mostly blows now. Someone e-mailed me yesterday and said I seem ’subdued’. You know what, Will? You’re right. I do. Please allow me to explain in this very public of forums; and Jesus-please-us please let me put to rest the suggestion you had as to why. Good assumption, but one that is way off the mark.

I started this thing for me. You see, I hadn’t been devoting the time to any organized creative output beyond business-related stuff, and creativity for creativity’s sake is the most cathartic and rewarding kind. Don’t get me wrong, I am glad that I can get paid for something I enjoy, but sometimes it turns into a washout and you cut corners to get over just a tad bit more. Then it sort of taints your output and things aren’t so shiny and terrific anymore. ANYONE CATCHING THIS TRAIN OF THOUGHT, HUH???

So as I said/say/am saying, I started this for me and did it for me and was pleasantly surprised to find a had a small readership with a decent intellectual capacity. And don’t get me started on the fact that I discovered that I was not alone in some of my most out-there obloquies, opinions and thoughts.

I tend not even to scratch the surface out here. Some of you who know me and correspond with me know that. There are parts to all of us that remain only our own knowledge, even in the presence of those nearest and dearest to us. This is what defines one’s self. Obviously, as this is a public forum, (even though only barely public…) I don’t completely flay myself open or really even point to my exposed jugular. I have said it before and I shall say it again. PEOPLE WILL SUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKING DRY AND THEN WHINE AT YOU TEN YEARS’ WORTH OF SUNDAYS WHEN YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY GIVE THEM ANY FUCKING MORE. It’s true. You heard it here first. I write to amuse myself first and foremost, but I would be a lying-ass bitch to say it didn’t amuse me to amuse you. And you, and you. And you, over there in the corner…yes, YOU, ya little cutie.

I have so much to share. Or maybe reword that to say ’so much I could share’….but I dunno. I just don’t know.

I could swear up and down all day that “Oh, ya know, holidays….so effing busy and time-crazed…wah-WAH-wah, wuh, WUH-wuh, wuh. Not to mention blahblahdyblah-blah and such.” Bullshit, and I won’t pour it on you. I like most of you far too much to fake it.

When I wrote the piece regarding my cousin, I tapped into the most real me that there is. You all seemed to catch that. I got TONS of e-mail, even from people that I never had a clue existed: “….and you don’t know me, but I have been reading you for a while. I finally had to break down and let you know that you really get to me sometimes…”. Whaaaaaa? I have readers in motherfucking BELGIUM???

Scary.

So I back off. I shut down. Whoaaaaa, some distance, fellow commuters, please! I am contagious, okay???

Please don’t take this as I sign that I never want to hear from you people. Humanity just makes me nervous. Lots of people out there are unpredictable (don’t get me wrong, unpredictable is good at times) and atrociously, unforgivably stupid. I am quite pleased to know that people who come here, no matter how few, are intelligent and thoughtful and sincere and comically self-effacing. I like their input, be it commentary, suggestion or hapless sexual innuendo (just kidding about that last one, the air was just getting sorta heavy in here).

The long and the short of it is that I am growing, and I feel a time coming that I may just lay it all out there. It’s all been itching in the back of my brain for a few moons now and I am growing dissatisfied with all else.

SO, if you dare, if you care, hang around and sooner or later we’ll play scratch and sniff with my brain. Consider your dumbass self warned.

And oh yeah, fuck every last one of you. >:oD

 
|| September 17, 2000 || 12:51 am || Comments (0) ||

Welcome to my latest adventure. I just so happen to be fresh off of it; it is ripe to the touch and ready for the telling.

I went out for a pack of smokes. It was late for around here, 12:30 a.m., so I had to  make a 7-mile trip, passing several darkened stores along the way. I pulled into the parking lot of my destination, a Shell station with a Sneaky Pete’s attached. Just so happens that I was the only patron in attendance at that particular time…. I saw through the plate glass that the guy on duty was working a mop with a great deal of fervor.

I happen to take note of these things, who KNOWS why.

I strolled in, leaving the car running because I really liked the song that was on the radio at the time (“Shout” ~you remember, the Tears for Fears jinga-linga-ling~ as rendered by Disturbed). I had a twenty dollar bill clamped in my hand; the minute my hand hit the doorpull the guy stowed the mop and bucket and he was behind the counter before my clad-in-heavy-boot foot even hit the first tile. He didn’t acknowledge me, and I returned the favor.

I prowled up and down the the aisles created in miniature for the rat race shopper (coincidence that these stores are mindful of mouse mazes when you really think about it? I think not, kind reader…). I really only set out for cigarettes, but my brain saw fit to alert me to the fact that I’d not eaten anything since 10 a.m. on day previous, so I searched for the suitable snack in
Carbohydrate Land. I finally settled on a Hershey’s with almonds and headed for the formica.

I placed the hunka nutty chocolate on the countertop along with my slightly-crumpled bill and said in my mostest politest tone,

“Packa Marbro Lights in a box, please.”
Dude looked me in the face and replied, “I need to see your I.D.”

I muttered, “Just a sec, I gotta go to the car.” and I walked out to find just where the hell it is that I may have stashed my heavily-abused plastic ticket to legal drinking and driving (but not both at the same time, Heavens NO). I placed it on the counter as he was ringing my purchases and said “I KNOW that I look older than 19.” I know he knew so; his eyes had slid all over me the entire time
that I was in the store.

“Yes you DO” was his simpily-delivered reply,”I’m just doing my job.”  Now, normally I would not DREAM of giving someone shit for just trying to do their job, but this was different. He was being a prick. He was doing it just for the sake of doing it, not for
the purpose that it was created. I know this because I have been in this same store any number of times, at any given time of the day. Not ONCE have I ever been carded there. NOT ONCE. Not even the time that 2 cops were standing within 3 feet of me waiting to pay for cappuccino and struedel (DON’T ASK. That’s a whole other rant waiting to boil over).

This guy was a disgruntled peon worker bee and it was my turn to profit from his angst. FUCK a DUCK. I love being in close proximity to the sheep that has just figured out that its collar is way toofucking tight. The word ‘tight’ triggers in him/her/it a physical reaction that prompts his/her/its lips and asshole to illustrate said word.

I stood there and took my change. I unwrapped half the candy bar, broke it off, laid the half down on the counter.

“Here. Sounds like you need a little boost in the serotonin levels.”

I turned to walk out and he called after me,”I have to ask if you are under thirty.”

My reply? “Well, my I.Q. is well above that, so now you know!” He began saying something else, but  I turned to face the slowly-closing door and placed my palm on it. I closed it purposefully. It angers me that someone is so pissy about their job, but they make no effort to change it. Some people willingly stand there while their brains and egos and bodies and attitudes rot. They make no effort to better their position (prone is only suitable for martyrs and sleep, boys and girls…REMEMBER that). Sessile is so convenient, so fucking easy. If you are unhappy, slap it into B for Boogie and get the hell outta there. Can I get an “AMEN”?

I happened to catch sight of his vehicle, a beat-up minivan that spoke of its owner’s lack of a merciful fate/existence and my acidic thoughts in reference to him sort of drained away. My measured clunking across the parking lot softened into steps and I think I thought, “So THAT’s it.”

I turned onto the highway to head home and pulled a final glance in. It was amazing. He picked up the chocolate bar and began to eat it. *boggle*

 
|| August 22, 2000 || 1:12 am || Comments (0) ||

“Well, once again I am angry and without…”

A friend of mine posted that comment on her web journal. It makes me wanna cry.

Wanna know why / Why it makes me wanna cry? / Well I’ll heave a heavy sigh / And once again try to fucking explain…

Lemme give you some background:
It has been my experience as of late that others my age or thereabouts pretty much fall into two distinct categories:
a) those not worthy of speaking to (and don’t you start your railing-against-me-and-my-elitist-tendencies bullshit, okay? Take it up with my father…he is the one that stoked the shit as I was learning to string syllables) and
b) those of us, like the pal I mentioned previously, who are “angry and without”.

See, this is the thing…we don’t always know that we are angry and without. The without is definitely the variable in this particular equation, i.e. “I am without gas, so I can’t go anywhere (literally? theoretically? read in to it all ye wanteth, oh thou gentlest of readers)”, “I am without a decent job that fulfills me and makes use of my God-givens”, “I am without motivation, so what the fuck?” and so on and so forth. Just fill in the little blank after the word ‘without’ and there you have it. Angst made to order.

The anger part is the catch. We piddle along, snatching moments of joy (and don’t get me WRONG, that is as it SHOULD BE) and the anger sits dismissed in a colorless corner like a petulant child. We forget because we can and because we have to, because it would make us eating-mashed-bananas-drawing-on-the-walls-with-fecal-matter loony. Batshit. Crazed out of our motherfucking gourds with the intensity of it.

And then SHAZAM!!!!, somebody or something reminds us of it. It’s as simple as this: me in my jammies, cramming down Wheaties with granola and American Lit notes while carrying on a conversation. All of the sudden I am told, “You are just so fucking angry.” Whoa. Hold on. Wait a minute. You’re right….I am angry. “Thanks for reminding me. Now hand me that pen; I have a letter to write. What exactly was that editor’s address??”

Tell me one more time–what is our purpose?

 
|| August 16, 2000 || 5:48 pm || Comments (0) ||

I already had a loathing/distaste for The Gap. With the advent of their newest ad campaign, it is now nothing short of MASSIVE.

Surely to God if you have a television, watch it a little and are not comatose, you have seen these really annoying snippets of retail pimping courtesy of the great conglomerate of textile that is The Gap. They feature kids doing a mock-up performance of “You Really Got Me” (Oh, thou stinky defilers of this monstrous rock classic!!). One is a prepubescent grrl band and the other is a poorly choreographed (as well as executed) boy band (prepubescent as well).

Not only do these commercials SUCK, they are in heavy rotation and seem to be on my television every 30 minutes when it is up and running (I am one of those retards that leave it on for the background noise).

Of course, I object on the whole “HEY PEDOPHILES, looky here!!!” level. Mostly I just object because they are crappily done on the audiovisual level and they are dull, dull, DULL.

Hey Gap, you suck. Fire your kitschy ad jerkoffs. They are raping your checkbook. They have effectively killed any chance that I might peel off some greenbacks if I were ever to accidentally stumble into your retail space after having been clubbed on the head or drugged at a fratboy watering hole.

I hate you, Gap. I really, really do. Child labor wasn’t enough for ya? You just HAD to find another venue to exploit ‘em in?? JEEZUS.

“How would you like it if the tables turned/And we put your kind to death?”
// Red September, “Welcome to the Other Side”

 
|| July 17, 2000 || 8:57 pm || Comments (0) ||

Fiduciary responsibility. Two big, ugly words. Foreboding–even moreso when they are used together.

Owning up. More comfortable and airy, it carries just as much weight and is friendlier on the tongue. Yet seemingly more stark.

This theme has reverberated through my life the last couple of days. I am not being smacked with it. Quite the contrary; I have been watching it rock other people’s quiet little self-deluded idleness. I have been watching it as if in slow motion through the clearest of walls. I have been feeling its’ weighty ripples, riveted in mock-terror mingled with bliss.

Sort of a ‘whipping post after a heavily-piggybacked I.V.’ feeling.

Alas (natch), it is only Monday evening and such happenings don’t occur on Mondays and usually not on Tuesdays. Thursday, for some ungodly** reason, is when a whole lot seems to go down.

**UNGODLY….now THERE’S a concept that I should review later.