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I turned on the news this morning, and thought, 'oh, no, not again'! It seems we've encountered another round of nasty little sound bytes and TV shout-fests. This time political analysts are being even more finicky. Yesterday Barack Obama's former paster, Rev. Wright, spoke publicly for the first time since the controversy broke out over sound bytes from one of his sermons. In an interview on "Bill Moyers Journal" that will air on PBS tonight at 9:00 p.m., Rev. Wright defended himself against the harsh criticism of his sermon and was asked how he felt when Obama distanced himself from him in a speech following the controversy.
His answer was an honest one: He wasn't offended or surprised at Obama's actions but said, "He's a politician, I'm a pastor, we speak to two different audiences." This shouldn't be debatable, as every politician must remember that in order to succeed they have to appeal to a wide variety of voters and avoid controversy when possible. But political analysts are saying that Wright's statements were as good as throwing Obama under the bus at a crucial time, and that Obama's campaign is "pulling their hair out" at the remarks. Well, yeah, now they are, thanks to those who have "analyzed" these statements and interpreted them as bad for Obama.
After watching a bit of the interview that leaked onto the Internet, I thought it was clear Rev. Wright was not using the word politician to carry negative connotations. He was very soft-spoken throughout the interview, and it seemed as though he was trying to explain why he didn't take Obama's speech it personally because it was a political move. But it seems it doesn't matter what he meant, rather what they interpret it to mean. This is getting very tiring. I have a feeling Rev. Wrights recent comments are going to be splashed all around by Obama's opposition and the vicious cylce will start all over again not because of what Rev. Wright said, but the fact that he said anything at all. No matter what he said it was bound to be spun every which way. Maybe it would have been better if he avoided the limelight for a while longer just for those reasons alone.But in case it's not clear already, Obama is a politician, just like Clinton and McCain, and has to pay attention to his words and acts at all times, especially these days. If Obama did not in some way remove himself from those statements he would have been cornered, as a politician. And so he what he had to do, because in fact, as Rev. Wright was quick to say in the very same interview, he never associated himself with those statements in the first place.
Discovering the Beauty Supply I
It was so cold outside, the bones in my fingers hurt. Even under three layers of thick clothing, my body became rigid with an inescapable chill and my breath turned white in front of my face. Keep in mind, this occurred in the short few steps that spanned from my door to my car. It was nearing the end of January, the thick of winter.
My sister and I stepped out of the door on a Sunday evening in search of a hair conditioner that would better suit my dry, unruly hair.
And from my new apartment on the East side of Detroit (to which I have yet to secure my bearings) we had a lot of exploring to do.
Having spent my early teens and beyond in the suburbs, the concept of a one way street was still rather foreign. And beyond the familiar suburban habits of frequent CVS and Rite Aid, I had no experience. I was at a loss. Where did one get products for their hair in these parts? Needless to say I had, and still have, a lot to learn. What was more, beyond the common offerings of John Frieda, Pantene Pro V, I was most helplessly unfamiliar.
We drove to the end of the block, turned off of Forest onto Mt. Elliot and hoped that something would catch our eyes, perhaps a pharmacy: Walgreen’s, Rite Aid, or so on. And before long we came to the end of the road at Gratiot. There, I made a right turn, because those are the easiest, and not even a block in my sister pointed suddenly and enthusiastically: “There! It says beauty supply!”
Indeed, Just what we needed. It was like the sign was made for us. We had beauty, we needed supplies: perfect.
Out from the car we rushed across the icy parking lot under an opaque winter sky, heads tucked down into our scarves, hands pushed down into our pockets, straight for the door of Sophie’s Beauty Supply. With a tug of a frigid hand, the door opened and the sounds of a cheery wind chime rocking too and fro above the door alerted the staff of our presence. With a hard step of the boot we knocked the ice and snow from our feet, and felt our face tingle at the contact with warm air. I didn’t need a mirror to tell me my nose was pink.
Inside, we were greeted by the doorman who sat on a stool just left o the entrance wearing jeans and a very colorful hoodie and looking rather bored, but very kind and approachable.
For a moment, I paused to take in my surroundings. It was, well, not what I had expected, though rather lovely in its variety. On one wall I eyed a very large earring collection and on another wall, toiletries: tissue, plungers, and so forth, and on yet another wall, a dozen large, stylish handbags, immediately caught my fancy. It had the basic content of a corporate pharmacy, and them some, not to mention a certain urban fashionable appeal that those places so desperately lack. I felt instantly as if I could leave that place with a new wardrobe, along with kitchen appliances and bathroom accessories and still have some money to spend at the Save-A-Lot down the block, all the while looking, um, fly. And it was not until then that I discovered the beauty in the Detroit beauty supply.
Everything including coats, panty hose, scissors, t-shirts, shoe laces, oil burners and shower caps met my eyes and m sister and I had to use our will power as blinders just to reach the aisles hair products. And there were aisles, one after another of hair goo, gel, serum, conditioner, cholesterol, protein, olive oil, shea butter, and so forth, it was rather overwhelming to me, as a newbie to the African American hair experience, and it showed: in my hair and at that moment, my bewildered face.
Kehinde Wiley
This is a time to define our modern culture; to rip it at the seams and stuff in the people that were left out for so long. To take the art of the past, and make it the art of the present. This is the time of sampling, of cross cultural understanding. This is for those who think in black but write in white. This is for those who think in white and write in black. This is the crossing of a culteral borderland. This is the artwork of Kehinde Wiley:
Two Heroic Sisters of the Grasslands, 2007
Consider The Fiasco
Recently, after a very embarrassing episode, I began to the consider ingredients that make up a good old, face reddening, melt-into-the-ground, fiasco. A lot of the time a fiasco is just an unfortunate series of events stacked precariously high, that comes crashing down on unsuspecting victims at the most pivotal of times. These instances include: important meetings, highly anticipated performances, a featured presentation, during an audition for a coveted part, or a job interview. Sometimes, no matter how prepared you think you are, you are subject to a deep, sharp turn in events that sends you down the hill in a barrel so to speak. It's like a domino effect, one thing goes wrong and then another and the next thing you know, you're watching in horror as the whole affair implodes before your eyes.
By the time people have reached adulthood, they've most likely been dragged down into the unrelenting currents of the fiasco a few flabbergasting times.
There's nothing quite as terrible as being on the wrong end of one, being misunderstood, and feeling utterly helpless as your carefully thought-through plans start to crumble along with your pride. On the other hand, in retrospect, there's nothing quite like the laughs a good debacle renders from the most cynical of audiences. I mean, if you can't laugh at yourself, then .... Mark Twain and Stephen Leacock certainly capitalized on this ideal. They basked in the hysterics of the everyday fiasco, and right now, so am I. I'd recount my most recent utter failure right here and now if it wasn't so recent. But today I will revisit a classic fiasco, one for the books and one that did not anyone in particular.
The faces were these:
I've never enjoyed being the host. I mean, having a few friends over is one thing. But hosting, hosting a party... That, my friend, is quite another. It was new years eve. They quiet day before the loud night. It started all well. I had the food almost ready, the drinks chilled. I even had the house clean and smelling great, with a giant fruit bowl in the middle of the living room simply for aesthetic value. And I brought out my only set of matching glasses and my mom's hand-me-down punch bowel. I stood back and admired my work with a smug face, arms akimbo: I was doing OKAY.
I should have stood there longer to thoroughly enjoy that smug feeling of accomplishment while it lasted. I would have, if I had known how long it would take before I felt it again and, perhaps, how far down into the depths of shame I would plummet.
At any rate, instead of lingering and enjoying my peace, I scurried into the kitchen to put on a pan of oil in which to fry some chicken. It was almost 7 p.m. and my friend Jay was set to be there son, to bring some beer among other spirits to the party. The vast majority of the people were not set to arrive until 9 p.m. or later so I was not feeling rushed. Then my cell phone rang. I picked it up. I answered. It was Jay, outside, needed help bringing in the drinks. I said OK. I put the phone back onto the kitchen counter and went out to give her a quick hand. I had a couple minutes before the grease got hot anyway. On the way out, I noticed a bag of trash sitting by the back door, begging to be taken out before the party. And I thought, "If i don't take it out now, I never will." So I grabbed the bag by the neck and instead of going out of the front door, I went out the back, to drop the trash off on the way to my friends car. The back door swung shut behind me. It wasn't until a few minutes later, when Jay and I returned with an arms full of liquor and beer, that I realized it had locked... from the inside. I tugged on the knob with my one free hand and tried to turn it. It didn't budge. My stomach turned a bit.
"It's probably just 'cause I have all this stuff," I said quickly, to my friend, who looked somewhat concerned. I set down the beer, the bags, the boxes, and turned back to the door. This time a gave it a good hard turn and tug, but to no avail. It felt like I had swallowed rocks and they were sinking fast into my stomach. I gulped. Through the thick paneled glass I could see the pan on the stove and from outside I could hear the grease popping over the heat. I knew for a fact that the front door was locked. And bolted. It was all I could do not to panic.
"Can I see your phone?" I asked Jay, who now looked at me with a hint of disbelief, perhaps even distaste. She handed over the phone giving my that look, like, "Are.You.Kidding." Kidding, I was not. I squeezed her phone tight in my hands, hoping beyond hope that I could remember my landlord's number. Or even my roommate's for that matter. And the more it dawned on me, the harder I held the phone: I was helpless without my cell phone. A spineless grovelling idiot who only knew three numbers by heart: 9-1-1 (and the chinese food place down the road by the dry cleaners). It was a few sconds before I realized I had been gripping her phone as if I believed the little device could be squeezed and emit numbers like an orange emits juice. I was completely lost without my cell phone. Locked outside of a house that had a pan of oil burning in it not to mention the very high flame. I was dead. So much for the new year.
*More to come, I'm tired for now.*
TBC
2 a.m. Confessions
It's 2:00 in the morning and I can't sleep. Well, maybe that's an overstatement, perhaps it's just that I don't want to sleep. I want to sit up all night reveling in the wonder of the, you guessed it, Internet. A bonafide cyber scavenger, I am.
Yes, I am an addict, just like you, most likely. I really didn't realize my dependance on this marvelous tool until I no longer had household access to it. That makes sense. We often take for granted that which is most necessary if it is available enough.
This drought lasted a dragging four months. Four months of darting to the library in any window of free time I had during business hours. Four months of paying frequent, "friendly", visits to my unsuspecting, internet hosting friends: "I was just in the area, I missed you! Um, mind if I check my email (aka facebook/myspace/blogspot/gmail/yahoo)?" And four months of sitting in cafes trying to dodge the barista so I didn't have to buy a coffee to jack their wifi signal. And lastly, no more rushing from page to page before the place closes or my friend, hip to my tricks, kicks me out. It's all mine, all day, the world of information and misinformation at my fingertips: and I never have to leave the house.
Armed with a macbook pro and a new Sierrra Aircard, I can march into my future in confidence, rocking the unadulterated 21st century swagger that has permeated my generation: I know everything. Seriously. I have google on my side.
An hour ago I had no idea who Kehinde Wiley was. He was just the name on my favorite piece in the new DIA. Now I can tell you where he was born, where he went to school ...where he is now... And I will. I will, because I can: I'm so cultured, didn't you know? Didn't you know Kehinde Wiley's art comments on the ... Which he is quoted as saying ... And was inspired by.... Goddamnit, no one wants to hear it. I suspect I have wasted a purely good hour of my life. It's unreal.
No, despite all these confessions, I'm not a stalker. Just a lover of information on art, and writing, and botany. And, oh yeah, Barack Obama.
The madness doesn't stop there. I'm not sure where it stops, exactly, nor where it started, now that I think of it. Perhaps it was the first day I embarked on my maiden voyage onto the Internet from my college dorm, who knows. But I do know that since I've had this unlimited access, I've become something of a fiend. I gobble down information like candy and then start to fancy myself an expert, which is dangerous, mostly to myself. I think we've all fallen into the urge to diagnose ourselves online. It starts with an itchy eye. After a few minutes of frantic googling, you're convinced you have methylglutaconicaciduria. Yikes. Better get some help before you die!
Then, after an hour of panic you stop and think and remember something very important. You want to slap yourself in the face: turns out you didn't wash your hands after cooking and you had peppers for dinner!
That makes sense too. Dammit, WebMD, are you trying to give me hyperthyroidism? Wait, do you really think I need to practice psychoneuroimmunology? Is that why does my shoulder hurts? Oh, no! And so on.
But all jokes aside, I really do love the internet. I mean, otherwise, where could I ever find the recipe for Max & Erma's chicken tortilla soup (That's on recipezaar.com, BTW)?. Or how would I know what to do with that slap of whiting in the fridge that I bought on impulse? How could I read about Barack Obama's mom at 3 a.m.? Why is Hilary still talking on the phone at 3 a.m.?
O.K. I digress. I think with all this primary campaigning I've become uber-political. It's sad. That's another thing the Internet will do to you: have you stuck in front of the monitor watching jello commercials in between video clips of campaign updates and interviews when you should be looking for a job so you can pay your huge internet bill. Did I say that? I mean, you know, hypothetically, of course.
Anyway, when all is said and done, I think the Internet has done remarkable things for our society. Let's face it, how we communicate has changed. How we research has changed. How we live has changed, and is still changing because of the Internet. Whether it's news, gossip, education, music, etc., it's all there, for our little gen-y paws grope. We're not gonna buy the sunday paper. We know of a place where we can read it. For free. We're not going to buy music. We know of a place where we can get it. For free. We're not gonna pay attention and be servile to corporate employers. We're gonna shuffle into the office in office in flip flops and design a page layout that will blow your mind. We're not lazy, but we have swagger.
And those are the problems people are having with the Internet today. But don't blame the Internet, folks. If anything, blame yourself for not being adaptable enough. Make the Internet work for you! I do. It gets me free stuff. It gets me free information. It gets me recipes and diagnoses my many illnesses, however fatal. It entertains me at 4 a.m. So now it's time for media, musicians, and whoever else that feels violated by the "age of information" to grab the Internet b the neck and say, "Ante up, BITCH, it's Christmas!" 
~MMF
What a Mess...
Bored? Why not turn into the nations new and exciting soap opera: the 2008 democratic primary. Oh yeah, it's got all the ingredients for a juicy daytime drama. The gossip, the he said/she said, the nasty for nasty attitude (mostly on Clintons part, she tends to be more nasty, less eloquent).
But the BEST part is the scrambled mess that's taking place with MI and FL. I've been lodged on the MSNBC/CNN page for weeks, with a bowl of popcorn, entertained. Those happen to be the only two states I've ever lived in during my time in the US. But why all this trouble? Like Howard Dean insists, they broke the rules, now they gotta pay the price, however undemocratic it may be.
Seriously, they didn't think about this BEFORE HAND? Really? Hilary didn't seem to care about democracy when Mr. Obama's name wasn't even ON the Michgan ballot. So now her aides are saying that If Barack's campaign tries to stop a re-do then he's interfering with the democratic process and will hurt him in the general election. REALLY?
It's no secret that I'm a big Obama fan, and that I am almost dead broke. So WHY did I just donate to the Obama campaign? I really don't have a great, mind blowing answer for you. It's just that when I see him speak, when I read his writing, and when I hear his sharp responses to tough questions, I feel like this is the person I want to call my president.
Another element is just Ever since my siblings and I have been alive, I mean, during the entire span of gen-Y's emergence to adulthood, there's been either a Bush or a Clinton in the office. How democratic is that? If a Clinton was president again it would be just like having a dual family monarchy or dictatorship of sorts. It's time for change. Not the cheezy kind of "change" that pretty much every politician speak of with such vehemence. It's seriously re-thinking the ways we approach age old problems such as health care, unemployment, medicare... You know, the usual suspects.
You can tell a lot about a candidate just on how they run their campaign. Ask questions, get answers for yourself: For instance: What kind of adds do they run? How much time do they spend talking smack, rather than the issues? How do they treat those working hard on their campaign? What kind of strategies do they use to rack up votes? Etc.
Either way, we all have to face it: NO ONE person is perfect. And when whoever wins gets sworn into the office, my life, your life, heck most peoples life is not going to change. You're still going to be rich or poor or whatever your situation was before. What I think Sen. Obama offers to this whole affair more than anything is the little thing that flew out of Pandora's box a long time ago: hope.
Wilde, Like Oscar
I've always been a fan of Oscar Wilde. Of course, as you can imagine, I fell into the rapture of Dorian Gray some time ago, but recently I came upon a new book that shed light on Oscar's character as a the person rather than solely the writer and poet and I suspect he has enchanted me from the grave.
It is a semi-biography "based on true events" they boast. The name of the book is Oscar Wilde and a Death of No Importance.
I don't know how I feel about factual accuracy in highly personal depictions of events. There are certain techniques employed in autobiographical and biographical writings.
In short, the fact doesn't (and often cannot) articulate the feeling at times. I think there is nothing wrong in using symbolism to capture a mood, an atmosphere: who cares if it took two days. I wrote that it took two weeks because, well it felt that long...etc, and I need the reader to fully understand this. To me it's just a variation of a metaphor. The idea of a metaphor, in a sense, stretched over a piece to cover more than just "The knife to the heart" but also the difference between two hours and two weeks.
Imagination is underrated! And the story should unfold like a cherry tree in April. You get my drift.
Wilde once said, "Biography lends to death a new terror" and I chuckle at that statement, but in my eyes it all depends on the biographer (Wilde actually told his friend to take notes as to later be able to write one). He was fortunate to have some good ones. Many people "worshiped" him, he took command and captivated all those in his presence indeed, I consider him a genius. And he suffered his dues to the great mind behind his eyes. Sir Arther Conan Doyle echoed this sentiment when creating fictional character Sherlock Holmes. Though I doubt nowadays heroin and cocaine could be compared to homosexuality, perhaps that was lent to the Victorian era in which these events took place. Hey, don't get red in the face, they hadn't even invented running water then. It wasn't our prime...well socially speaking, but then again, now isn't either. But I digress.
However, genius bears the mark of woe as well. And I think that is the point of this post. We all strive (in some way at least) to be "brilliant", "Cutting edge" but who really wants to endure the burden of genius? It's a serious thing to take on, and a lonely road to travel. The delicate line that separates genius and lunacy is not getting any bulkier despite what researchers suggest. In fact the odds are good for the modern sociopath: go to work, bite some heads off, get promoted. HELLO, corporate America, you're brilliant! Shine on, down my organic throat.
Judgment Placement
It is said that one should never judge books by their covers. So what, then, shall we judge them by? Judgment, face it, is inevitable. While it isn’t wise to start with the cover, who shall say it is wrong sometimes go by the first page or second, and so on?
That the cover should be spared judgment is reasonable, however, is the material not far therein is protected by the immunity of the cover? In order to find out if you like the book in question, must you reserve judgment until you have to read the whole thing, cover to cover?
I took the effort of opening a book some days ago and read until I felt utterly unimpressed. I was only to the second page, and I hadn’t even moved far from the shelf it came from before putting right back into the gap it came out of, and moved on amongst the shelves until I was fully captivated by the first words chosen by F. Scott Fitzgerald in the fore pages of “Beautiful Damned.”
Aside from the few horrid pieces I have ventured to open, I can usually endure the first two chapters of any book, and sometimes, I finish those chapters feeling breathless and dive headfirst into the next chapters only to strike the hard bottom of trite words and content. My personal judgment line usually falls after the first couple chapters, after which, any reader who knows their taste will either scoff and throw it aside, or plow further into its pages. This method usually works because
it's common sense that a writer will put their best words forward. It’s natural to start strong. How many one paragraph clips do you have of unfinished (notwithstanding, rather brilliant) ideas? And they all look good because they’re the fresh wind of new thoughts that always land strong from the pen of a trained writer.
I would consider myself a writer in training, proven by a bachelor’s degree if not years of dedication to the skill, who still has a lot to learn. My talent is, of course, debatable, as even I spend much time debating my own skill with, um, myself. One thing, I think, that outshines talent in most cases, is dedication, ambition and passion.
More than half of the time great talent is bulldozed by the cutthroat ambition of the mediocre. But once in a while we experience a jewel of a writer who has all the talent and ambitious qualities rolled into one being. Unfortunately, I am not one of those. Fair, fair enough. I’m sorry, I like to sleep in.
Just before she left the country
Left the stone house all forelorn
Left the toucans in the jungle
Let the morning glories mourn
Let the river do the laundry
By the morning she'd be gone.
Under stars she made a wish,
So strong it could have been a prayer
No clouds could break the moons long beaming
Hands clasped in the warm moist air
In between two mango pillars,
Lost in lust for northern pears
Lost in love for leaving sisters,
Dreaming she would meet them there.
When the sun rose it was over
Broken like the sun breaks dawn
Dishes piled the steel bowl over
Dogs barked at a strange young man
Wash the rags, her mother told her
Wash your little brothers hands
Plant the corn fields with your father.
Chop bush with the strange young man.
In the fields she plants the plumb trees
Congo Charlie's golden plumbs
Two weeks and she knew she'd leave him
Three weeks that she knew would come
Four weeks and she felt mistaken
Five weeks she was feeling wrong
Six weeks and she stopped her counting
Maybe next year she'd be gone.
Left the stone house all forelorn
Left the toucans in the jungle
Let the morning glories mourn
Let the river do the laundry
By the morning she'd be gone.
Under stars she made a wish,
So strong it could have been a prayer
No clouds could break the moons long beaming
Hands clasped in the warm moist air
In between two mango pillars,
Lost in lust for northern pears
Lost in love for leaving sisters,
Dreaming she would meet them there.
When the sun rose it was over
Broken like the sun breaks dawn
Dishes piled the steel bowl over
Dogs barked at a strange young man
Wash the rags, her mother told her
Wash your little brothers hands
Plant the corn fields with your father.
Chop bush with the strange young man.
In the fields she plants the plumb trees
Congo Charlie's golden plumbs
Two weeks and she knew she'd leave him
Three weeks that she knew would come
Four weeks and she felt mistaken
Five weeks she was feeling wrong
Six weeks and she stopped her counting
Maybe next year she'd be gone.
Open Life
THIS ISN'T A BLACK/WHITE THING
THIS ISN'T A WRONG/RIGHT THING
NOT EVEN A RICH / POOR THING
OR A PEACE/ WAR THING
IT'S A LOVE / LIFE THING
IT'S A HIGHER / HEIGHTS THING
IT'S A LIVING / LIGHT THING
NOT A WINNING/FIGHTS THING
BUT AN OPEN/LIFE THING
LIKE AN OPEN/MIC THING
YOU'RE A LIVING SONG.
SING.
THIS ISN'T A WRONG/RIGHT THING
NOT EVEN A RICH / POOR THING
OR A PEACE/ WAR THING
IT'S A LOVE / LIFE THING
IT'S A HIGHER / HEIGHTS THING
IT'S A LIVING / LIGHT THING
NOT A WINNING/FIGHTS THING
BUT AN OPEN/LIFE THING
LIKE AN OPEN/MIC THING
YOU'RE A LIVING SONG.
SING.
up ahead
up ahead
lights spinning down a tunnel of dizziness
and falling forward,
not falling but
falling
an unbreakable fall
but hopes of an unbreakable you
make for an unbreakable landing.
lights spinning down a tunnel of dizziness
and falling forward,
not falling but
falling
an unbreakable fall
but hopes of an unbreakable you
make for an unbreakable landing.
But if it ends in pieces,
then pieces it be
and if it ends at a begginning
the beggining will see
another me.
hope is kind
but only when you're hoping for something you know is true
and love is blind
but only when you're loving something not for you
go ahead,
I don't need to catch up with you there
don't wait,
Because I don't plan to
it's not that I can't run,
I've been known to be fast
but maybe I've already ran down that path
Our paths will cross 'cause hope is kind
But it's still sad, our love was blind.
Young American Gentlemen part II
"Oh, you mean the sniffly little fuck who's always walking around with a polka-dot hanky and talking about love? Yeah i think i know 'im."
Miss Carprenter led the way down the street to her brother's house.
She was always this pleasently charming to his guests, especially when in his nostalgic absent-mindedness would give people his mother's address. Also, it can be assumed, that that is why he lived on the same street he grew up on: nastolgia, what a horrible disease.
But Miss Carprenter had no symapthy for her brother, however diseased he might have been with the past, and hoped only that as soon as she reached eighteen she would be allowed to leave, anywhere off of that desolate street dripping with memories of past generations, perhaps even the entire town was infected by an addiction to passed times.
"The bones in my feet ache every time a storm is on it's way." The lanky Stranger told Miss Carprenter as she walked a good two paces ahead of him down the sidewalk.
"Oh." She didn't even bother looking over her shoulder or even feigning any interest. The cracks in the sidewalk were far more captivating.
"I say a storm's on it's way," the Stranger continued, "Because the bones in my feet hurt."
"Well the bones in your feet might take a job at the weather station." She stopped abrutly at her brother's door and turned to face the Stranger.
"Anan never told me he had a relative like you." the Stanger smiled. "So sweet, so full of life."
Miss Carprenter ducked out from under his rosey stare and ran home, all at once believing in hate-at-first-sight and wishing a storm would, come and wash that worm away; the Strange worm with the achy bones in its feet, and take it and flood it into the storm drain with all the other worms and flush it into the sewer and...and was it her imagination or did the bones in her own feet start hurting in each step she took?
Before she reached her door, a great storm enclosed around the subdivision, a storm to end all storms, a storm to pluck up houses like weeds and suck down buildings as if they were nothing more than intricate sand castles on an inland shore. And just before Miss Carprenter reached her door, it pulled her up on top of the heap of flotsam that the wind-current had created and set her there, safe and sound, all alone, with nothing but the past and a little thing called love woven in the threads of her dress and the charge of her beating heart to remind her of life.
She puckered her face as the sky turned blue and the sun shone down with no trees or buildings to thwart its rosey glare and she wiped her face with the back of her hand and laughed as her brothers old polka-dot hanky floated by her desolate island.
She should have cried and wailed at her desolate fate, but she could not, for now she was joyful joyful joyful, as only a dog knows how to be happy with the autonomy of their own spirit.
~MMF
Miss Carprenter led the way down the street to her brother's house.
She was always this pleasently charming to his guests, especially when in his nostalgic absent-mindedness would give people his mother's address. Also, it can be assumed, that that is why he lived on the same street he grew up on: nastolgia, what a horrible disease.
But Miss Carprenter had no symapthy for her brother, however diseased he might have been with the past, and hoped only that as soon as she reached eighteen she would be allowed to leave, anywhere off of that desolate street dripping with memories of past generations, perhaps even the entire town was infected by an addiction to passed times.
"The bones in my feet ache every time a storm is on it's way." The lanky Stranger told Miss Carprenter as she walked a good two paces ahead of him down the sidewalk.
"Oh." She didn't even bother looking over her shoulder or even feigning any interest. The cracks in the sidewalk were far more captivating.
"I say a storm's on it's way," the Stranger continued, "Because the bones in my feet hurt."
"Well the bones in your feet might take a job at the weather station." She stopped abrutly at her brother's door and turned to face the Stranger.
"Anan never told me he had a relative like you." the Stanger smiled. "So sweet, so full of life."
Miss Carprenter ducked out from under his rosey stare and ran home, all at once believing in hate-at-first-sight and wishing a storm would, come and wash that worm away; the Strange worm with the achy bones in its feet, and take it and flood it into the storm drain with all the other worms and flush it into the sewer and...and was it her imagination or did the bones in her own feet start hurting in each step she took?
Before she reached her door, a great storm enclosed around the subdivision, a storm to end all storms, a storm to pluck up houses like weeds and suck down buildings as if they were nothing more than intricate sand castles on an inland shore. And just before Miss Carprenter reached her door, it pulled her up on top of the heap of flotsam that the wind-current had created and set her there, safe and sound, all alone, with nothing but the past and a little thing called love woven in the threads of her dress and the charge of her beating heart to remind her of life.
She puckered her face as the sky turned blue and the sun shone down with no trees or buildings to thwart its rosey glare and she wiped her face with the back of her hand and laughed as her brothers old polka-dot hanky floated by her desolate island.
She should have cried and wailed at her desolate fate, but she could not, for now she was joyful joyful joyful, as only a dog knows how to be happy with the autonomy of their own spirit.
~MMF
The Girl in the Red Dress, She Took My Breath Away
(PLEASE CLICK ON THIS LINK: http://www.uruknet.info/?p=12676 BEFORE READING THIS POEM. It's also embedded in the title if you're feelin' lazy)
The girl in the red dress,
she took my breath away:
took my lungs fast,
and with them tore my heart away
Searching through gods, religions, and some dynasty shit
tryna find the one that can answer for this:
burnt flesh, perfect dress
How the fuck'd we come to this?
You could see her teeth melting out her skull
the same teeth that cut the gums just a month before
But...
they say 'walk fearless in the shadow of death'
And...
'those who leave this world can finally rest'
So...
should i hit up that party tonight?
Or...
pray in bed and turn out the lights?
Back when I I I was firing shots
back when I I was connecting dots
back when I survived, against the odds...
I...didn't pay attention in class?
Just forgot so I could make all this suffering last,
and laugh,
when Ma dropped the rolling pin
so she could dance on one foot
in pain again
Screaming Subtleties
Wishing her hair was shorter and wishing, at the same time, that the wind would stop, Jane Salstow stood at the corner of a Great Lake and a Great City feeling somewhat out of place in her yellow dress and shocking orange pumps with the heels lost in sand and only pointy tips protruding from the surface. The shoes were fabulous, subtle instruments that knocked wind from the beige people of the Midwest. Too bad, she thought, that they did not have a similar effect on the lake. Maybe the wind would blow the scent of smoke away, maybe it would blow away the gut-kicking smell of liquor and new clothes, leather and everything else. Maybe it would blow her away, like a giant yellow leaf in the fall, a leaf with fabulous orange shoes.
There were no more stars, because they ran out of energy from burning all night and there was no sun because it ran out of energy trying to keep things happy all day, there was just the moon that would never burn out because it, in fact, wasn't burning at all; just reflecting on the day like some do before sleep. Jane removed the orange weapons from her feet and walked towards the water slowly, but it was hard because she went straight into the wind, face first, hair blowing into her mouth and it was dark because the moon is only known for it's light in bad poetry, and she walked and stopped, moving in bold increments until her toes met the icy water of the Great Lake. Just across the dark body, lights of a Great City burned fossils, feeding the walls of bright blue as they towered far into the sky, all around her. She, at the bottom, by the lake, looking upward, had a long way to climb. A yellow speck against a blue background she stood at the edge of the water between day and night, in ambigous hours of time when the sun cannot dictate whether it is morning or not and the moon is useless. But then she decided to go away, and leave while no one was watching. The dawn always has a way of converting good friends into good strangers. She concluded in thoughtful retrospect: everything looks different under sunlight than it does in barlight. Drasticly. So she decided to float away, in one of her orange shoes. She climbed into the shoe and though it was a tight fit and the smell of leather made her sick, she sat in there and with her arms pushed the sharp orange vessel onto the water and floated, quite effortlessly, all the way to Canada where she was disgrutled to find that everything there was still blue.
I love wildly
Morgan Sharp was an idealist on logistical matters and a realist when it came to matters of emotional consequence. He sat, wrapped in a pungent smoke from the incense, wrapped in a blanket from his reckless travels to Mexico and shivering in the fever that comes with a freshly breaking heart. He felt the tour bus moving, right then, moment for moment, frame by frame, every pebble the wheels ran over jolted the bus in a way that made the edges of the new wound tear slightly. It was harder for him now than it had ever been, because this time he was the one who ended everything; sent pieces of love to the bottom of everything. There was the feeling, at sunrise, the feeling that the world would never stop, no matter what...no matter how many hearts and necks broke in the darkness, it would return each day because it had to. The world would turn, it was only the laws of physics, agonizing in the consistence of their neutrality. Peter's constant tuning of the guitars made his ears hurt. Music hurt his ears. Every sense pained him. He cringed while Kenny killed Hendrix notes on the electric.
"Back before our love got lost you told me, you said, 'my love is constant as the Northern Star'... I said 'constantly in the darkness? Where's that at? If you want me I'll be in the bar'." ~Joni M.
At sunrise he knew she would wake up, he knew exactly how she would look around and laugh at first. Exactly. He looked out of the window and with throbbing eyes beheld the silhouettes of trees as they raced over the glowing sea of sunrise. Eastern light beams blurred into tears and confusion as the awareness of space and time came chopping into his sides. Frame by frame life was converted into memories and memories, conversely, were recoded into life. At some point before sunrise it happened: the very edges, the last strings of his heart, snapped under the constant friction of living and the vital organ separated into two solid pieces sending prickly slivers of pain to every sense he possessed. It was then he started to cry, he cried for hours and days, until the bus was filled with tears, silent and remorseful, they filled the streets over which the bus had passed causing dust to settle and puddles of sadness to spring. The bus moved west, and so did the tears, making a blue trail all the way to California, and there they remained but sparkled this time, in the sun. Then he remembered, somewhat bitterly, the brown girl on the corner four months before, the one whose heart he broke, the only one who could ever lead him to break his own: the one who said it was impossible to drown in one's own tears,that only those of our loved ones had that power. " He rocked back and forth on the dawn, hoping she was safe from his tears, hoping he was not safe from hers.
In Chicago, similar pools formed, but these were louder perhaps and more lamenting. She woke up to the same sun Mr. Sharp had seen from the bus, only the trees weren't racing with her, they stood constant as before. By the same light source they saw into the distance, only he was looking East and she, West. Only trees and space prevented them from seeing one another as they became crippled in the aftermath of a devastating lovestorm.
He left one of the two necklaces, like he said he would, behind the mirror in the living room: he left the cross. The same cross his father had left him the morning he abandoned the infant star at the door of a hospital. She took it, like she said she would, and threw it down from the overpass, watching it land on the railway tracks far below. It was only sanity, then, that held her from following it. She walked up to the edge, were Sanity held her back, firmly, around the waist, and coaxed her off of the ledge. "This is the New Year." It rung in her head.
"So this is the New Year," Morgan Sharp stood singing under the spotlights onstage guitar in hand, people screaming his name...and in the dark crowd he could see no faces but he felt music, note by note, and his mind, altered as it was on stimulants, depressants and narcotics was clear like sheets of water frozen in noonday sun. He felt conscious that someone was watching, one person who's eyes he could never forget, because when they were laid upon him he felt exposed, like a heart wrapped in transparent flesh and cotton. His first live performance broadcasted worldwide with at midnight. Indeed, she was watching, but this time from a secure seat in her new life, and when she saw him onstage she turned to stone, stuck there, a chunk of soft granite, far after they cut him from the screen to show how a domestic woman might use a new age-dustpan. But before that, just before they sold him to the advertising companies, He looked towards the audience as the smoke of the new year swallowed him whole he said, "I love, wildly." Screams almost drowned out his last words: "Because that's the only kind of love there is."
Midnight. So that was the new year, a year that turned him into a memory,one that required intricate recoding. Whether the memory was fond or foul, well, that was irrelevant.
"Everybody get your best suits or dress on.
Let's make believe we are wealthy for just this once.
Lighting firecrackers off on the front lawn
as thirty dialogs bleed into one.
I wish the world was flat like the old days,
and we could travel just by holding a map.
No more airplanes or speed trains or freeways..
there'd be no distance that could hold us back."
~Death Cab for Cutie
"Back before our love got lost you told me, you said, 'my love is constant as the Northern Star'... I said 'constantly in the darkness? Where's that at? If you want me I'll be in the bar'." ~Joni M.
At sunrise he knew she would wake up, he knew exactly how she would look around and laugh at first. Exactly. He looked out of the window and with throbbing eyes beheld the silhouettes of trees as they raced over the glowing sea of sunrise. Eastern light beams blurred into tears and confusion as the awareness of space and time came chopping into his sides. Frame by frame life was converted into memories and memories, conversely, were recoded into life. At some point before sunrise it happened: the very edges, the last strings of his heart, snapped under the constant friction of living and the vital organ separated into two solid pieces sending prickly slivers of pain to every sense he possessed. It was then he started to cry, he cried for hours and days, until the bus was filled with tears, silent and remorseful, they filled the streets over which the bus had passed causing dust to settle and puddles of sadness to spring. The bus moved west, and so did the tears, making a blue trail all the way to California, and there they remained but sparkled this time, in the sun. Then he remembered, somewhat bitterly, the brown girl on the corner four months before, the one whose heart he broke, the only one who could ever lead him to break his own: the one who said it was impossible to drown in one's own tears,that only those of our loved ones had that power. " He rocked back and forth on the dawn, hoping she was safe from his tears, hoping he was not safe from hers.
In Chicago, similar pools formed, but these were louder perhaps and more lamenting. She woke up to the same sun Mr. Sharp had seen from the bus, only the trees weren't racing with her, they stood constant as before. By the same light source they saw into the distance, only he was looking East and she, West. Only trees and space prevented them from seeing one another as they became crippled in the aftermath of a devastating lovestorm.
He left one of the two necklaces, like he said he would, behind the mirror in the living room: he left the cross. The same cross his father had left him the morning he abandoned the infant star at the door of a hospital. She took it, like she said she would, and threw it down from the overpass, watching it land on the railway tracks far below. It was only sanity, then, that held her from following it. She walked up to the edge, were Sanity held her back, firmly, around the waist, and coaxed her off of the ledge. "This is the New Year." It rung in her head.
"So this is the New Year," Morgan Sharp stood singing under the spotlights onstage guitar in hand, people screaming his name...and in the dark crowd he could see no faces but he felt music, note by note, and his mind, altered as it was on stimulants, depressants and narcotics was clear like sheets of water frozen in noonday sun. He felt conscious that someone was watching, one person who's eyes he could never forget, because when they were laid upon him he felt exposed, like a heart wrapped in transparent flesh and cotton. His first live performance broadcasted worldwide with at midnight. Indeed, she was watching, but this time from a secure seat in her new life, and when she saw him onstage she turned to stone, stuck there, a chunk of soft granite, far after they cut him from the screen to show how a domestic woman might use a new age-dustpan. But before that, just before they sold him to the advertising companies, He looked towards the audience as the smoke of the new year swallowed him whole he said, "I love, wildly." Screams almost drowned out his last words: "Because that's the only kind of love there is."
Midnight. So that was the new year, a year that turned him into a memory,one that required intricate recoding. Whether the memory was fond or foul, well, that was irrelevant.
"Everybody get your best suits or dress on.
Let's make believe we are wealthy for just this once.
Lighting firecrackers off on the front lawn
as thirty dialogs bleed into one.
I wish the world was flat like the old days,
and we could travel just by holding a map.
No more airplanes or speed trains or freeways..
there'd be no distance that could hold us back."
~Death Cab for Cutie
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