Junkie

Yesterday, I ran into an old friend who has, over the years, fallen on hard times. Much of this was due to Life and its disappointments, personal weakness and the failure to overcome the adversities we all face. It saddened me how he could have been me, or I could have been him. It saddens me still because between us there are very few differences. After speaking with him last night, I was haunted enough to light a candle for him, and then to write this poem.



JUNKIE


Funky
Skunky
Untrustworthy
Junkie, I might just be
Your only friend
Left.

Maybe ’cause
You haven’t yet
Robbed
My car,
Broken into
My home,
Stolen my TV
And DVR.
You have not
Abused my trust
Turned my love
Into tainted
Dust… or
Made empty
Promises
I knew you
Couldn’t keep.

Yes, I’ve still
Got your back
Because maybe,
Just maybe
I’m nothing but
An addict too…
A junkie, scratching
The scabs of my
Sordid history
With you. I keep
Feeding off
Lost years of
Pick-up b-ball games
And Converse All-Stars
Mainlining
Good Moments and
Memories
Into my veins…




And now I’ve become
Some strange form of
Junkie…
Jittering to
This music
Of a past…
Tripping on times
When laughter made
Jazz and sparks in
A summer night’s
Darkness
And it was cool
To be young and
Foolish, too.

Maybe we’re all
Just junkies
Holding onto
Dreams
Tight as
Hypodermic
Needles…
Always looking for that
Transitory fix

See everyone
I know
Clings to
Something,
To someone
Or some shit
That may never
Come to be…



And so we
Junk ourselves
Away from
Reality. We stifle
We dope
We medicate our
Silent aches
With placebos
With nicotine
With liquor
With amphetamines
With something
That makes disaster
Seem a little more like
A dream.

Funky
Skunky
Untrustworthy
Junkie, I might just be
Your only
Friend left. Maybe
‘Cause beneath
The scratching,
Leaning palsy and
The slow-mo ballet
Just maybe I see…




How my veins
Have collapsed
From the weight of
My dreams
How my desires
Have atrophied
From someone
Else’s schemes
And my fingers
Wear sores and
Skid-marks
From clawing
And clinging to
Some illusive shit
That may never
Come to be.



The only difference is:

I’VE NEVER STOPPED
Believing.


One.

Rest In Peace E. Lynn Harris, Brotha of The Pen

It is with the saddest heart that I learned today E. Lynn Harris, the best-selling Arkansas author known for contemporary stories about African-Americans, suffered a serious health setback and passed away during a West Coast book tour. He was 54.

Word of this tragic event began making the rounds on Twitter earlier in the morning.
When information is found online, especially the passing of celebrities, I am very skeptical. However, his publishing company has since confirmed this sad news.


Publicist Laura Gilmore said Harris died Thursday night after being stricken at the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills, and a cause of death had not been determined. She said Harris, who lived in Atlanta, fell ill on a train to Los Angeles a few days ago and blacked out for a few minutes, but seemed fine after that.


Born in Michigan, Harris grew up in Little Rock. He attended the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville, where he was the school's first black cheerleader. He continued to be a diehard Razorback fan. He had taught adjunct courses in the English department, most recently last fall.

His latest book, "Basketball Jones," is about the gay lover of an NBA star. As stated in the publicity blurb: "In Basketball Jones, E. Lynn Harris explores the consequences of loving someone who is forced to conform to the rules society demands its public heroes follow. Filled with nonstop twists and turns, it will keep readers riveted from the first page to the last." According to his website biography, Harris, 54, divided his time between Fayetteville and Atlanta.

While I never knew him personally, our paths crossed when he selected my work for the anthology he edited back 2005 called FREEDOM IN THIS VILLAGE. It was an honor to be the company of such esteemed writers, pioneers and legends as Melvin Dixon, Marlon Riggs, Essex Hemphill, Assotto Saint, Keith Boykin, Larry Duplechan, James Earl Hardy, Marvin K. White, Tim'm West, Gary Fisher, playwright George C. Wolfe, the incomparable James Baldwin, and E. Lynn Harris himself.

It was my hope that one day we would both sit in a room together, one on one, and just get drunk with talk and discover the many things that made our hearts faster. Now, I'll never get that chance.

This is a terrible lost to the world of writers and of writing. I know he will live on through his works.

My thoughts and deepest prayers go out to his friends and family.

One Love.


Lin

For Michael Jackson: The Man In The Mirror, Darkly

Dateline June 25, 2009...

8:30PM

CNN is on the boob tube. I'm feeling a little transfixed by just the phrase at the bottom of the screen "Michael Jackson Dies."

Late in the afternoon, I didn't and wouldn't believe the hype. There was a breaking news report that he was rushed to a hospital. Even that wasn't shocking. But 'cardiac arrest' was just cause to pay more attention... and to worry. When about an hour later it was announced that he died, the reality of the moment became surreal. I could hardly wrap my mind around it.

I don't know about you, but having lost family members whom I truly loved and who knew and loved me, I can rarely cry at the deaths of celebs... even those I feel a certain kindred to don't jerk my tears. However, people like Michael Jackson are so much a part of my life, your life, OUR lives that the sadness of them passing feels like the death inside the one remaining corner of our childhood.

Yes, deep in the hoopla of his utter celebrity, he went on to make a freakish spectacle of himself... and vividly remembering Jackson as he once was, it became disturbing to see him. Yes, there was a swirl of suspicion and mystery surrounding him, his activities with young children, and his chronically bad judgment.

However, the essential truth is that Michael Jackson was first and foremost, arguably, the Greatest Entertainer this world would ever see. When he performed, there were sparks and something like electromagnetic energy shooting from his body. There are so many talented people in this world, yet his talent loomed so large, it was almost otherworldly. I feel fortunate to have lived in a lifetime that produced Sinatra, Miles Davis, The Beatles, Stevie Wonder, Prince... and then, there was Michael Jackson. So Young. Gifted. Iconic. Michael Jackson's music magically bridged gaps in culture, erased color-lines, spanned across generations and managed to rock the world in its entirety! It was no easy feat, and yet his career changed the course of modern history. Michael Jackson was clearly an innovator whose like we'll not see again.

The person he became in the later years of his life was a stranger to me. But whenever they replay those old J5 clips, it feels like home... so close to the heart and the bone and the soul of me.

The pretty brown skin afro-topped boy with so much talent, it exploded from him, this is what I choose to remember.

I miss THAT cat, and his talented brothers. I missed that cat long before he died. I miss the way he made me feel.

And so, with Michael Jackson's passing, it's as if something young, dynamic, free and full of possibility has died a sad death inside me.

Thank God for the music, the videos, the memories, and these beautiful people playing his songs and dancing in front of the Apollo and all over the world today!

Maybe that's what we're really supposed to remember: the way it made us FEEL!






My soul was awakened by Michael Jackson.

I was amazed by the gift of Michael Jackson.

I admired the music of Michael Jackson.

I sang the tunes of Michael Jackson.

I was addicted to the grooves of Michael Jackson.

I imitated the moves of Michael Jackson.

I grew up with the legend of Michael Jackson.

I celebrated the ascension of Michael Jackson.

I was fascinated by the aura of Michael Jackson.

I was transfixed by the wizardry of Michael Jackson.

I was so very proud of Michael Jackson.



I wanted to be Michael Jackson.



And then....



I became disappointed in Micheal Jackson.

I was saddened and confused by Micheal Jackson.

I was alarmed and concerned about Michael Jackson.

I became a little ashamed of Michael Jackson.

I was mystified and afraid for Michael Jackson.





I tripped upon the icon of Micheal Jackson.

But maybe I was wrong about Michael Jackson.

I wanted to believe in Michael Jackson.

I now grieve the life of Michael Jackson.





Thank God for the Music!

Rest In Peace, Michael Jackson.



One Love.

Father’s Day Poem: With Gratitude, From Your Brown and Brooding Essence

Within this paneled den of
My mind, You are
Coolly reclining
In your favorite Laz E-Boy, gazing up
From The Daily News. Your eyes fixed in
This no-nonsense stare. You want to discuss
The day’s politics… but there’s always
Some new song rattling in my brain, playing
Upon the jukebox of my tongue. Sly,
Stevie, Marvin and Donny, they haunt
My boyish conversation.

Didn’t mean to exasperate you, yet
I sometimes did. Its evidence could be seen on
Your brow, like an angel, debating with sin.
They say, I’m your ‘spit,’ your seed, your kid,
Your son, and I inherited this countenance
From you.

It was you who predicted there’d someday be a
Black President… while the militant in me
Discarded your pipedream. The older I get,
The wiser you become, it seems.

I want to tell you everything inside me…
My successes, my failures, my joys
And my heartbreaks. I feel
As if I should name them, one by one,
For each day, each month, each
Year you’ve been gone. You are

My brown and brooding essence, now, a spirit
That possesses my older face. Beneath its
Surface, some claim to see this trace of
Implicit sadness. Still, Da,

I need to tell you this:

I’m so glad you were
My father. Blessed, that you stayed
When other fools ran, strayed or
Escaped to places free of their sons
And daughter’s cries. Each day
In my mind, I
Thank You for being
The kind of person you were:
A Man, a Husband, my Dad… and not
Some hot-wired version of manhood.

There are so many things I’d like us to
Redo, undo, renew again. So many
Words I want to say, to unsay, and say
Again… but you managed to form
The words: I love you, son. And you
Said them more than once. You spoke them
In a voice that even today, carries me
Through this world of uncertainty, untruths,
Disappointment and ruthlessness.

Thank you for showing and giving me
Your lessons in loyalty. Thank you
For that voice, which still lingers here
Like the singer in my head of this song
I call my life. Thank you for being
Strong and standing
For things like hard work and honesty;
Your steadfast belief in God, and humility.


Thank you for the gifts of laughter;
For those golden seasons of summers,
And even the winters. Thank you for
Loving my mother in a way
She always deserved to be

Loved. Father,

Though you weren’t very tall, I walk in your
Stalwart shadow now. Yes, I am a small thing
Made larger by your presence. Some say
I am your ‘spit,’ your son, your mirror reflection.
And yet, in some lone way, I am different.

I wish we had more days in the sun, more
Time to decipher and fix all our mutual
Complications. Yet, when I speak of love
There is no mystery, no bitterness, nor distraught
Insensitivity.


I get love. You taught me this! Though the
Clouds have coalesced and swallowed your
Sun, you’ll always cast a giant’s shadow
Over this kid, this runt, this man I’ve become.



Happy Father’s Day.



One Love.


Your son.

Reclaiming My Inner Champion!

"You can measure a man by the opposition it takes to discourage him."

I don't know much about Robert C. Savage, but I do love that above quote of his on the subject of Courage:


Ah, Courage! The dictionary defines it as: “the quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face difficulty, danger, pain, etc., without fear; bravery.”


For the past few months I have been facing such fierce opposition that it threatened to swallow me, my courage, and all my little dreams, whole. I’ve been fighting until my fists have been made red with blood, and my punch-drunk mind clouded by the haze of steady discouragement. I’ve been fighting with my wits and my heart, while battling the bullshit parts of my enemy. And though, I haven't been exactly down for the count, the wind was knocked out of me. Coping has been difficult under such adversarial circumstances... and then there's this other nemesis nagging inside my head that screams how: I'll never be a champion, if I keep losing fights!

I’ve also been listening to the other side of my brain... the part that whispers: maybe a True Champion is one who knows which battles are worth the fight.

There have been times in my life when I tried, really TRIED to win a fight, and overcome by the dueling forces of passion and retribution, I did in fact, win. I was never really a tough guy, a thug, or a bully, but those who mistakenly thought I was a punk were in for a rude and bloody awakening. I've had exactly four physical fights in my entire life, and I won all but one.




Yet, there are other kinds of fights we encounter in life; fights we try so hard to win, only to end up failing so miserably. Has that ever happened to you?

True Story: A long time ago, I attended a friend's birthday party. It was held at a local bowling alley. I was nine, and had never bowled before. Frankly, it never interested me. But being a keen observer even then, I watched the others go through the motions of giving out their shoe sizes to the clerk, retrieving those butt-ugly rented shoes, slipping into them, and choosing a ball that suited them. I watched each one stepping up, getting into the stance, drawing back, releasing the ball and sending it rolling furiously down the lane. Granted, not everyone bowled a strike or hit all the pins they were aiming for, but at LEAST they managed knocked some pins down.

Cool. Cool. Coolness. Maybe I was way too young to be nervous. Maybe I was too excited at trying this new thing so it never entered my mind that I might not be any good at it. When it came MY turn, I did everything I'd seen the others do. However, in doing so, I displayed absolutely NO style, no grace, no finesse, NO SKILLZ whatsoever in it!


That's when it HIT me: Wow! I REALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLY SUCK at this!


It's a very profound moment when you realize that you truly suck at something.

No doubt, it made for a hideous display. I imagine myself looking beyond pitiful, ugly, uncoordinated and a hundred other unsightly things as I attempted this procedure. The result was that heavy-ass ball rolled, veered and went straight into the gutter, each time. This happened again and again to my utter mortification: GUTTER BALL!

Though this alone was bad enough… the worst part was that, suddenly, I was being whispered about. I could FEEL it... that creepy sensation of sheer foolishness standing still. The edgy chorus of nine and ten-year-old laughter invaded my ears, my heart and my spirit. I was being laughed at, loudly, in stereophonic surround sound! This hurt in a way that seemed to make me crumble, at least internally. Yes, some mild form of pseudo encouragement came from one sensitive parent... but mostly I was just laughed at. Hard! Obviously, I had no sense of humor about myself, and because of this, I was NOT a big fan of this harsh sound of laughter, nor being the actual object of it... at age nine.

Hell, I was not a fan of being laughed at age 18, 19, or 28 or 29 for that matter!

Long story short: I never attempted to bowl again.

Perhaps the razor of youthful trauma slices a lasting memory into the skin of us, and it leaves behind something that feels like a deeply wounding incision. The scar remains. This was, for me, a kind of embarrassment that made me stop fighting to win, to stop trying when progress eluded me, and to lose faith in my abilities at achieving VICTORY.

Who needs the slicing jaws of ridicule wrecking all kinds and varieties of havoc on their psyche? Me? I didn't. So, whenever possible, I made it my business to avoid situations where failure was a distinct possibility.

Instead of COURAGE, I chose coolness. Cool people were, by nature, just too damn cool to be embarrassed.

The bigger realization of Cool Lin: Because of my avoidance of failure at any cost, I ended up lacking the COURAGE and the HEART of a true champion.

* * * *

The reality is that The Creator Blesses us all with particular gifts. I was in a search of just what GIFTS I'd been given, and how best to use them. If things didn't come easily for me, or if I lacked the grace and courage needed to perform certain feats, I quickly abandoned them for the things I found I could do well. I wanted to engage myself in only what I could exceed in, and to win at. This was the food and the breakfast of my cool.

While rolling that way saved me from the stigma of being the brunt of jokes, it didn't do jack to build and fortify my character. People with the greatest character possess the courage to fall on their faces. They will bust their asses again and again, and yet THEY get back up and they keep trying. Courage. Eventually, many of them achieve the goals they've set for themselves; they reach some success, or at least, they knock those damn pins down in the bowling alleys of life! Courage.

Anyone who knows me would tell you, I'm a pretty optimistic person. That said, I never truly believed in the old adage that we can do anything we put our minds to... because many things in this world are simply beyond our reach, they exceed our grasp, or they venture beyond our inherit abilities. We can try and try until we're red in the eye, but moving mountains is not a human feat. I've had some mountains in my way. Trust! That doesn't necessarily mean that we're supposed to give up, to stop climbing, to throw up both our hands, or wave a white flag and surrender. It may just mean we have to apply a bit more finesse to our approach. Maybe we must refine our swagger, and use our minds (instead of our brawn or our anger) in a different way.

This is something I've learned in the past few years, and the lesson has come a little late. Failure is a part of every human experience. It is through failure that we learn our most valuable life lessons.

Yes, it's important to know what we can do. It's vital that we are aware of our strengths and what we're capable of achieving... and it's also just as important to know our weaknesses, and to be aware that they'll be some limitations in our output.

Lately, I've been asking myself, why have I been so chronically afraid to step out of that little box? You know, the box of limitations I'd placed myself inside of to guard and protect me from the dreaded terror of failure. More to the point, what was I really GAINING from living in that box? After all, what's the worst thing that can happen when stepping out of that comfort zone? I'll fall down, go BOOM... and bust my ass! Big deal! Big shit. I'd only be in the company of tens of billions. What made me think myself so special that I'd arrogantly go through this existence without experiencing defeats, failures, instances of egg on my face, or of suffering the after-effects of a bruised ego? I'm no different than anyone else.

As a resort of this realization, I've been RECLAIMING my inner champion. I’ve stopped running away from my weaknesses. I’m snatching JOY, and pocketing COURAGE! I've stopped dreading becoming that embarrassed and mortified kid at a bowling lane. I am now embarking on the process of conquering some of my fears. NOT all of them at once, mind you... but some of those core and major fears that crippled me emotionally, or left me feeling limited, stunted, sub-par, ineffectual... and by doing so, I am steadily increasing my potential as a person, a man, a flawed flesh and bone entity.

What I'm discovering (and this is HUGE!) is that I'm a far more resourceful agent for change than I ever believed I could be. I'm exceedingly more capable than I ever allowed myself credit for, and that alone is mad empowering! What I'm realizing is that my greatest opposition in any crisis is NOT some person in a superior position, not naysayers in suits, not some faceless stranger in the way of my heart’s pursuits, not some insecure hater, and not some hardened criminal. The greatest opposition of all had been no one, but me.

Telling ourselves we CAN'T do something, we shouldn't attempt something, or that we are bound to FAIL, THIS is our greatest enemy. We alone must learn to fight that inner negative voice. The voice that screams NO; the voice that doesn't believe in The Self, THAT mofo is our nemesis!

I used to think that I'd never be a champion at anything. I was wrong. A True Champion knows which battles are worth the fight. Courage.

Yes, I am very much a work in progress. Still, I'm aiming for the day, I can personify that famous quote by Robert C. Savage:

"You can measure a man by the opposition it takes to discourage him."



Color me, ENCOURAGED.



One.


Lin

*The Dreaded Curse of The Sighing People

Lately, there's been so much going on, going wrong, demanding me to suck it up and just be strong inside my orbit that it would be so easy to fling these great chunks of rage and hurl these bruise-colored blues soundly into the faces of people who are clearly unworthy of receiving them.

*Breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeathe! Just Breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeathe, Lin!*

The truth is:

I don’t wanna become one of THEM… one of those people… one of those people who sigh. Those Sighing People I call them… those people who speak in only blue tones, who brood and cry in terminally sighing moans. Those people who sing only sad and melancholy songs… those people who exist in sobbing fits of solitude, whose only trick, kick or tic is a permanent facial grimace.




I don’t wanna become one of them. God, please don’t allow me to become one of those crying, hand-fixed-to-the-forehead, overly dramtic, habitually Sighing People!


I don’t wanna be one of those people who feel alone, even in crowded rooms; nor a friendless soul who’ll only move to those slow sad drums of their own. I know some people don’t trust in different drummers for fear those drummers will fuck with the funk of their beat.




But I don’t wanna become one of them.


I don’t wanna be one of people who drown in a pain… so deep… even strains of Coltrane (or Manilow) can’t release them from their Indigo Trains of Thought. I don’t need the tremulous coo of some woozy crooner to renew, redo, re-blue my Blues, when they’ve already been blown Blue enough.


I just don’t wanna become one of them.


I don’t wanna be breast-fed by Nina Simone, or mislead by Lady Day. I don’t wanna believe Joni Mitchell ever lied… even if that “Furry” cat really did 'play The Blues…' And though I love the Jazz and Blues idoms, I don’t want my Life to be a indigo-colored song that slides terminally from the reed of a dejected and sad-azz saxophone.





See, I don’t wanna be nor ever become one of Those People… those people who only speak and whine and brood and cry interminably. Don’t wanna be a member of that mind-numbing Cult of Terminally Sighing People…

So maybe today, maybe tonight, maybe if I try… I won’t be.




Instead, from the Beastly Jaws of Human Suffering, I'ma be the one who snatches the living HELL outta JOY!





One.

*repost

About Grace: For Those Who THINK They’ve Cheated Me

For all of its luster, confusion, its pain and terrible beauty, LIFE is and will always be a continuing course in adult education. Each day, we become either new students or learned professors. Each day we endure some grand test of our emotions and our spirits where, in the end, we receive either a passing or a failing grade.

Today, after a recent 14 day fast, I can truthfully state that my spirit has become a lighter thing. I am now left unburdened by the minutia of daily occurrences, such as stress, worry, disappointment, and even that ole rabid dog, called heartbreak. It doesn’t mean that those things have not visited me, or that they won’t visit again. Only now, accompanying those tests will be a certain clarity I didn’t possess before. It’s allowed a radiant calmness to pervade me. I know now, that no matter what positive energy I project into my living, problems and difficulties will occur. People with ungodly agendas will manifest for the sole purpose of wrecking havoc in my path. I did not invite them nor single-handedly create them, and I am not meant to conquer them all alone. I am more aware than ever before that a Presence far Larger than myself sees all, knows all, and will handle all in due time.

It’s so freeing to toss away those concerns and troubles that had imprisoned me, held me hostage, and endowed me with such psychic pain, anger and thoughts of revenge.

I will no longer allow negative people and their negative acts define me, and more specifically, my reactions to them.

I will NOT allow the ugliness of others to infect nor infest my spirit with some mutually repulsive disorder.

Most importantly, I’ve learned that what truly defines me, and what ultimately defines us all, is the ability to reveal the true Loveliness within our Souls. I’ve learned that what gives us our most Supreme Gravity in this life is Faith, Forgiveness and Reverence. What I strive to contain within myself is a profound and unwavering sense of Grace. What we must all strive to contain within ourselves is GRACE.

Life’s adversities are truly our Greatest Teachers. In all the years of matriculated studies, whether we're the class valedictorian, the class clown, or the class flunk, the class whatever, the one that matters most is the class we hold within; the class of Humanity, Love, and Honesty. This is the one class that teaches us the MOST mighty and needed lesson of all which is: to become Vessels of Honor and Compassion.

We are all born with Grace, with the glow of God-Light to sustain us. Once we allow it to diminish, no amount of money can purchase it, and no amount of success or pretense can ever achieve it again.

I truly hope those who’ve purposely, maliciously, and with much forethought, lied, maligned, cheated, embezzled, and waged weapons against me will realize, remember, and retain this Sacred Truth:

To Lose Grace Is To Lose The Core Light Of One’s Being, And The Quintessential Ingredient Of One’s Humanity.

Realizing this, KNOWING this to be True, I will strive to impart some semblance of GRACE in every encounter, and in every single relationship I’ve made and ever will make.

In the end, on our last day, this and only this will comprise our True Measure.


Snatch JOY!

One.

L.M. Ross

That Dance Called: "Letting Go!"

"I Love, I Love To Do My Thing
Ha, and I, I Don’t Need No One Else.
Sometimes I Feels So Nice, Good God...
I Jump Back, I Wanna Kiss My Self!” – James Brown from “Superbad”




For the past week my personal grief has been a self-conscious little dance of avoidance.

Step One: Turn away.

Step Two: Lean back from people who don’t give a shit, and even those who PRETEND to give a shit.

Step Three: Cover your ears to platitudes, and probing questions of “how are you?”

Step Four: There is no step four. You simply allow the dancer to dance in his corner, alone.


I’ve never been very good at reaching out when in need. I’m usually the reachee. Through some Grand Design, through fate or destiny, I’d long ago been assigned the role of The Strong, Dependable One. We so-called 'Strong Dependables' do have reps, you know. There are unwritten, unspoken, and yet understood rules that we do not allow the hue of our fears, or the blue of our tears to the reach the surface of our public skin.

Because of this, we can be seen as Superbad Superhuman Mofos. Our needs are rarely if ever considered. Our feelings don’t really matter.

We are appointed to be the net that catches those weaker ones who fall all around us. We give great hugs, and good late-night phone. We know when to nod quietly… and when or how to provide the right words. Our shoulders grow strong and wide from the weight of our boundless feats of empathy. We are longtime companions to the misunderstood, brokenhearted, and the lonely.


This is what we do. We get damn good at it, too. So damned good at it, we become these scholars and superheroes at it, even though, it’s a thankless gig, most of the time.

But… what… ABOUT… US? Don’t we MATTER? Are we not worthy of the same strong nets to catch US should we ever fall from the ledges of OUR lives?

Apparently, NOT!

Last night, I ‘broke up’ with a once closeasthis friend of mine. It was TIME. It was due time. It had long been passed the time, but being a person who collects and keeps souvenirs, I hold on to people longer than I should, longer than necessary, and longer than they even deserve to be held. Maybe that’s a very human trait. The friendship was not working in a way that provided mutual dependency or accountability. The relationship was not nourishing or fulfilling to my spirit. In the role of GIVER: I was the one EXPECTED to remember birthdays, anniversaries. I was to be the thoughtful one, the in-the-moment one whose caring and consideration was a GIVEN... while my own birthdays, anniversaries, triumphs and tragedies would traditionally go unnoticed, unacknowledged, uncelebrated, unfelt. But that’s cool. I don’t bitch, much. We can’t expect people to be the way we want them to be (though sometimes, a lil mutual appreciation would be nice).

The final straw came because I realized the worst offense of all in any relationship is to be taken advantage of, taken for granted, and just plain TAKEN.

When we reach that place where we give much and receive little, when we become an option as opposed to a priority, and when we become conditioned to being treated as if we don’t matter, then, for one’s own sense of self-worth, it’s time to reevaluate our place in that relationship.


And so, I’m doing that Dance of Letting Go.

It’s not done with hard steps that lack of grace. It’s not some deeply attitudinal selfish-assed boogie. It’s a dance done by moving away from the constricting atoms around us. It’s believing in your own stars, and orbiting your own moon, your own sun. There’s no partner involved… and none is necessary, unless you find a good one who can keep time with you, and who can accentuate and compliment your rhythm.

The people we surround ourselves with should add to the cadence of your lives, and not stumble around blindly or clueless, as if oblivious to the beat…


So… I’m doing the Dance of Letting Go. And I’m doin’ it, and doin’ it, and doin’ it WELL!







Snatch JOY!


One.

And The Top 25 Most Influential Writers Would Be...

So, check it:

I was tagged by fellow Brotha blogger Keith to form a list of the 25 Most Influential writers in my personal estimation, right? At first, I thought this would be a cakewalk, because truthfully, I’m a knowledge junkie. I get a little high on literary grog. I become a tad agog when I see, hear or read greatness. I hold in the Highest Regard those people who create a world and who allow me an entrance into it, if only with the keys of my imagination. So, being an vivid reader, I've been influenced by a lot of artist-people, and by the characters, the places, the dialogues they created. The art of writing has always helped me to get in touch with my core emotions, shape my opinions, inspire and inform the way I view the world.

However, since writing isn’t comprised solely of book authors, in naming 25 influences I had to show some respect for other forms to reflect the infinite variety (books, music, theatre, etc.), and that’s where my list became tricky.

So... these are the ones off the top of my noggin that have left an indelible impression upon my heart, spirit and psyche:


1. William Shakespeare

2. Walt Whitman

3. Toni Morrison

4. James Baldwin

5. Langston Hughes

6. Zora Neale Hurston

7. Alex Haley

8. F. Scott Fitzgerald

9. Gwendolyn Brooks

10. Amiri Baraka

11. Maya Angelou

12. Jack Kerouac

13. Eldridge Cleaver

14. Ishmael Reed

15. Henry Dumas

16. Nikki Giovanni

17. Audre Lorde

18. Lorraine Hansbury

19. August Wilson

20. Arthur Miller

21. Ntozake Shange

22. Tennessee Williams

23. Tupac Shakur

24. Walter Mosley

25. Truman Capote


Damn! That was hard. Many others made the list... then I had to delete them because I was only allowed 25. However, honorable mentions and special shout-outs must go to:

Ralph Ellison, Stevie Wonder, Jayne Cortez, Alain Locke, William Carlos Williams, Federico Garcia Lorca, Joseph Beam, Norman Mailer, Alice Walker, Joni Mitchell, Etheridge Knight, Haki Madhubuti, Marlon Riggs, John Ashberry, Allen Ginsberg, Essex Hemphill, Robert Bly, Prince Rogers Nelson, June Jordan, Gloria Naylor, Jamaica Kincaid, Hart Crane, Countee Cullen, Lucille Clifton, Adrienne Rich, Sylvia Plath, Rita Dove, Lennon and McCartney, Leonard Cohen, Paul Simon, Rickie Lee Jones, Ursula Rucker, Maggie Estep, Clarence Major, Charles Johnson, and a host of others whose number compete with the amount of stars in Heaven.

Since I must tag THREE others, I’d be curious to know the influences of the following blog-lings:



Joaquin Carvel


Free Spirit


Carleen


One.

Lin

Spotlight Review: Owen Fiddler, A Journey Best Not Taken… But a Book Well Worth Reading

There are times when reading a book, you happen upon an unexpected lesson, and a shining gift wrapped up in darkness. Its wisdom comes from the voice of its writer. It makes you think, discover, nod your head and relate as you read along. I just completed such a novel. It reached my inner voice, gave me a lesson in humanity, in faith, and in mankind. The book is called “Owen Fiddler.” It’s actually written by a fellow blogger, Marvin Wilson. While I was aware that Mr. Wilson was a writer, until now, I didn’t realize the fully loaded caliber of his gift. This book is the real deal. It has more than left a lasting impression on me. Owen Fiddler has branded my spirit, like a cautionary tattoo.

This is the tale of a man who is a drunken, gambling, womanizing malcontent. He has no redeeming qualities whatsoever, and yet something about his story compels you to read further. As the novel begins, Owen is awakening from another of his habitual stupors. He’s falling down drunk, crawling around on the floor, being sick enough to call a few toilet yodels, all before heading off to another thankless day at work.

Right away, as a reader you find nothing to root for in this cat, and he only gets worse.

Owen has no luck, and never had any. He blames everyone for his station, but himself. He is one of those tedious people who never seemed to take life or his responsibilities very seriously. As Owen stumbles off to his soulless gig, he is busy cursing the world and damning his place in it… but then something quite unexpected happens. The hapless Owen sees a pocketbook on the ground, picks it up and discovers it’s filled with thousands of dollars in cash!

He can’t believe his sudden change of fortune. He chooses not to listen to that quiet inner voice of common decency. He doesn’t even search the contents for any I.D. He simply takes the money, tosses the pocketbook aside, and goes on this way with plans to spend it on endless boozing and wild fits debauchery.

However, this one act of selfish uncaring leads to a tragic set of events. Here, the author takes an ironic twist in storytelling and it is a brilliantly effective one. Without giving too much away, finding the money leads Owen Fiddler on a journey into a deeper darkness.


The novel shifts back in time to when Owen was a boy and details how so often the choices we make in our youth can haunt us for the rest of our lives. Owen is abusive to everyone, has little regard for his mother and brother, and cheats at games played with his friends. He steals a bike from the neighborhood, and runs away when the cops show up at his home. In running away, Owen unknowingly enters into a newer darker strange world filled with runners and pimps, dealers and hardcore criminals. No longer homeward bound, the boy doesn’t look back. Instead, he becomes a street kid who embraces the fake freedom of never going to school and doing as he damn-well pleases. His life now consists of having sex with loose women before his time, and running drugs for the big boys uptown. Once busted by a plain-clothes cop, juvenile detention awaits him. Life there is worse than ever, and when he finally emerges, he is a hardened teen, unready and unwilling to embrace a new life with his family.


The precarious events of Owen’s story are harrowing and filled with the terrible details of what can happen when we fail to acknowledge our blessings, refuse to accept the onus of our actions, and neglect to live up to our potential.

Owen is good at only one thing: sex. His earlier experiences taught him well in that department, and with this skill he is rarely at a lack for fast-food companionship. What he does lack is the vision to look inward and to believe in something real and necessary for his own personal happiness.

What is so fascinating about this book is that for all his peccadilloes, everyone knows an Owen Fiddler. He’s that cat who doesn’t give a damn; the one who will always find some lame excuse for his behavior, and curses most anyone who comes into his path. He dismisses his mother’s love and rejects his caring stepfather. He despises his younger brother for being everything good and decent that Owen clearly isn’t. Once he finds a kind and beautiful woman who actually loves him, and he cheats on her during their honeymoon. He is his own worst enemy, and yet he doesn’t have the clarity or the guts to realize it.

I didn’t much like Owen, the man. But I loved Owen Fiddler, the novel.

Of course, even a troubled soul like Owen can’t go through his journey without some sort of redemption, and it is here the author surprises, astounds and enlightens his reader.

The closing chapters of this superior story elevated the form of visual-spiritual-transcendent writing for me. It was so otherworldly, so perfect in detail, so imaginatively rendered that it stunned my eyes and warmed my soul.

I used to think that for something to be Great, it had to make me cry. I’m not an easy crier, so to find greatness was always a challenge. This book didn’t make me cry (though the final confession scene between Owen and his ex-wife Jewel DID make me a tad misty). No. Art is truly Great when it makes us think of things differently, view them with new and different eyes and challenge the old perceptions we once held.

Author Marvin Wilson managed this SUPERBLY with the story of Owen Fiddler. The writer uses an eloquent language to elevate his tale. His descriptions are often poetic and lyrical to the point where they reach elegance, even in a story that reveals so little beauty until its memorable conclusion. He took me into a world I always knew existed, but always did my best to avoid.

Being one who doesn’t like to be hit over the head with religion lessons, Owen Fiddler made me appreciate that The Word doesn’t necessarily need to bombard us in order to be FELT, digested or absorbed. This is a morality tale at its finest.

Wilson, as the writer-storyteller became a wicked force, a sexy force, a spiritual force, and most of all, an Enlightened force. Once turning the final page of this opus, I could honestly say I felt CHANGED from having read it.

What more can any writer ask from an audience?


If you want an unexpected surprise, I would highly suggest you pick up Owen Fiddler by Marvin Wilson. In it, you will find deceptively wrapped in a shroud of darkness, one of life’s most shining gifts.



Snatch JOY, and snatch this book!


You can find it at: Owen Fiddler



It can also be purchased on Amazon.com, at: Owen

One.

Lin