10 Ponderations on Love & Friendship: A Survey By Moi

Are you the curious type? I am. I think people are much more interesting when they are faced with telling questions that reveal their true nature. I mean questions that make one think and consider the way they roll through this comic strip called LIFE. With this in mind, a while back I composed a survey on one of my other blogs. I thought why not try it here for those who are bold or honest enough to face the truth of themselves. So, without further ado, I now present

Moanman’s 10 Ponderations on Love & Friendship:

(A survey by me)


1. YOU are at your best and are MOST REAL when:


a) you’re comfortable with another soul
b) when you’re drunk off your azz
c) when you’re all alone
d) when buck-naked, in the aftermath of a session of transcendent sex?

LMR: A) When I'm comfortable w/ another soul. When the vibe is right, whether we're engaging in convo or long stretches of silence, everything else just flows.



2. When someone physically shows you love or vividly displays their love for you, your usual M.O. is to:


a)reciprocate that action in some form or fashion
b) panic and head for the nearest exit
c) smile, sigh and let the moment pass
d) take it as a given and do nothing?


LMR: A) Usually I'll return the gesture. Not that I should *feel* OBLIGATED, but I firmly believe that kindness begets kindness, and love should be a sharing of spirits.

3. When you blatantly tell a LIE to someone you're supposed to love and trust, do you:


a) feel mad guilty about it
b) let it go of it like an accidental fart
c) say a silent prayer
d) assume everyone lies, so what's the biggie?


LMR: A) I’d feel mad guilty... but I'm not perfect & sometimes a gentle lie becomes necessary.


4. Picture it: You’re engaged in a very intimate relationship where certain shameful secrets and deeply mortifying truths are revealed. Later on... you and your former intimate are no longer speaking, yet, you are still armed with that precious and intimate info… when upset, pissed, in a bad mood, would you:

a) use that precious info against them
b) make a crude joke about it
c) still hold tight to that precious information
d) tell all your friends and have a good loud laugh about it?


LMR: C) Keeping someone's secret is a sacred thing. All we have is our word, and if I promised to keep it earlier, then my word is my bond.

5. Someone you purportedly love is all hurt-up and emotional. *You* did *not* personally cause this hurt, but you’re really NOT in the mood to deal with it. Do you…

a) tell them that in effect 'This too Shall Pass'
b) sigh, let them riff and bore you to tears
c) be kind and listen with an understanding ear, perhaps even offering advice
d) simply tell them buck-up, and stop being such a drama queen?

LMR: A & C. I would try A... hoping it will help and that they might become philosophical about their plight. But if that didn't work... *sigh* then C would be the move.


6. When YOU’VE hurt someone, unintentionally, are you usually sensitive or compassionate enough to even be aware of it? If so, how would you generally follow-through to help close that emotional wound? Would you most likely...

a) let time pass and trust them to get over it
b) make an effort to fix what's broken by a call, an email, a letter
c) invite them out to have dinner and a long talk
d) shrug, and question if this friend is a bit too damn sensitive for your comfort level?


LMR: C) Communication is key. Everyone has their stuff, their issues, quirks and things that upset them. We may be unaware of such issues... so having dinner, breaking bread & talking it out helps us to understand where we're BOTH coming from, and hopefully this will squash the madness, literally.


7. Have you ever meant to tell someone the Gentle Truth, but it came out harsh and hurtfully? If so, did you...

a) Ignore it
b) Try to fix it
c) Pretty it up to avoid drama
d) Simply let that Truth breathe and breed?


LMR: Depending upon the situation, I might see the need to apply D... let the truth breathe, hoping that they might begin to check themselves.

8. When a close friend wants to hang out with you, but you’re too busy or just not in the mood, your tendency is to...



a) deliver a quick and feeble excuse
b) tell them you’re not feeling it, and hope they’ll understand
c) shrug off your plans, sigh, and accompany them, like a good martyr
d) gently remind them that you have a life that doesn’t always have to include them?


LMR: B) Being that I'm an author, I'll often use the little free time I have to write and be creative. So a true friend would have to understand that, and not take it personally.


9. If Love is a verb, are your verbal enough for, and to those you love?

a) nah. I'm more of a noun person
b) 'what does love is a verb' really mean?
c) hell to duh yeah! I'ma verber by nature!
d) it depends upon my romantic/gentle disposition

LMR: C) I tend to be very, VERY, vurrrrrrrrrr verbal.


10. Was the last thing you did in the name of Love...

a) something sweet and kind
b) something sexy and physical
c) something martyr-like and sacrificial
d) something warm, sentimental and lasting?


LMR: C) Sometimes you have to sacrifice for love. It’s usually your most telling verb.



That's it. That's all.


And for those who chose to answer, thanks for the honesty.


One.


Lin

Observing The True Meaning Of The Day

While many of us will see this day only as 'the unofficial beginning of summer,' and will proceed to use it to get our cookout, picnic, BBQ on, or our travel, amusement park, trip to the beach on, or our hot sales shopping spree all day mall day on, hopefully the majority of us will take some time out to observe, and yes, to honor the True Meaning of this Holiday.





After all, it was set aside to Honor those Brave and Heroic Souls who fought for OUR freedom, and who, in doing so, paid The Ultimate Price.





Happy Memorial Day.







One.

**for mother's day: my black 'mama' poem

if you could see
my mama standing
in harlem, at sunset
the cruel wind
threatening
in vain
to rearrange
her natural hair...
you'd know this woman was
a rare & beauteous
poem...




a bare roots
boogaloo-philly dance of
a poem
a joe tex, al green
otis redding listening
poem... a sweet-
potato pie, chitlins
grits & gravy
deliciously rich type
poem...




a my man's gone
but i'm still
standing poem...

a whatever
doesn't kill me
makes me a
stronger poem...

a hand on her hip
'boy don't you give no shit'
daydreams are
forbidden here...
it's truth or
consequences
& oh yes, a fearless
poem...



a please... address me as
"Your Majesty" cuz
'i used to be
a queen
& can't nobody tell
my spine
any diff'rently' poem!

if you could see
my mama standing
erect
after the shit tude
this america's
dumped upon her
shoulders, you'd say...

'DAMN!


if that ain't superwoman...
then she sho nuff
must be some
kinda gravity-
defying... strong
fierce, defiantly
black, keep on
keepin' on...
i got your back

poem!'





One.


by L.M. Ross


**originally published in Painted Bride Quarterly




Happy Moms, Momma's, Mumsy's MaMi's, Mamacita's & Baby Mama's Day to all!


One Love.


Lin

The 1st Anniversary of The Day I Cheated Death

Last year, almost one year ago to this day, I was diagnosed with heart disease. The news came as quite a shock to my system, because, prior to that, I never once noticed any trouble whatsoever with my heart.

However, in many ways, my mind, body and spirit were engaged in erecting the Perfect Storm for Heart Disease.

I had been experiencing a deeply emotional few years. I was broke. I was thought to be a fairly successful writer, however, after several years of hard, blood-letting, soul-robbing work, I was being systemically robbed, cheated at every turn, embezzled out of every single dime due to me for the steady sales of my work; deceived by a publisher that blatantly stole from me, and who didn’t give a damn. Then, to make matters worse, all my efforts to right that egregious wrong had been dashed. Lawyers cost a bail of cold hard cash, and after fighting the good fight, for many months, I was at my wit's and my money's end. People who I thought were friends had been a constant source of disappointment to me. Family members were dying, and it seemed as if life itself was slowly crushing me.

To deal with the stress of all this, I raged, I grieved, I seethed and I smoked like the proverbial chimney. I didn’t eat any of the right foods. In fact, I pretty much ate like a typical teenager. I consumed way too many burgers, fries, pizzas and sodas. Oh my! I treated myself to ice cream on the regular and I lived for desserts… the richer the better. And oh yeah… did I mention that I smoked… a LOT?

Never one to give up on myself completely… slowly I began working on me. The mirror revealed the sad truth that my supermodel figure had gone to pot. My 30 inch waist was gradually expanding to 32, then 33, then 34 inches. Suddenly none of my rather stylish clothes were fitting! To offset this madness, I started to exercise more, to walk more, and to limit my caloric intake. Also, in a deeply revolutionary move of self-preservation, I’d quit smoking… cold turkey.

Mind you, it was shortly after I’d quit smoking that I began to notice some difficulty catching my breath. There was some craziness going on with my breathing, yes, but still not my heart.



Cut to 2011: I was sick every day from January to mid May, and I do mean EVERY single, solitary DAY! The majority of these illnesses occurred above the waist... my stomach would ache like hell and then my throat and then my head would throb from the worst migraine known to man. This became a gut-wrenching pattern where feeling lousy became the norm. I lost my appetite. All food tasted nasty to me... even my favorite things began to have NO taste whatsoever. I lost weight rapidly. Cyber doctors were assuring me that it was all a reaction to the absence of nicotine, and my body crying out for it. Hell, I almost went back to smoking just to rid myself of those hellish symptoms!

But then, to make matters even worse, I soon noticed that my feet, ankles and legs were swelling. Something was definitely wrong and now I knew it! Too many things were happening to me all at once. It had to signify something… perhaps something deadly. Something was definitely ailing me…. but what, exactly? I didn’t want to know. I was afraid to know. My entire body was betraying me. I felt fatigued after walking only a few feet. It was like having a wheezing 90 year-old geezer suddenly living under my skin. Then it became nearly impossible to do the simplest things without getting winded, or to lie on my back without a sense of sudden panic while experiencing this frightening sensation of choking, and finally, not being able to muster the strength needed to put on my shoes… my shoes! I realized I HAD to get my lax and increasingly sick ass to the nearest ER.

It was there at the hospital, after being seated in a wheelchair and rapidly rolled into the ER where a small tribe of nurses began furiously massaging my legs (apparently to get the blood to better circulate) while simultaneously I was brought to a small examination room where my heart was monitored. Within minutes, I received the terrible news that I was suffering from Congestive Heart Failure (CHF).



Fools! I figured the doctors with all their fancy tests had gotten it wrong. Maybe I'd some kind of lung infection, perhaps, but whatever the problem was, it could NOT be some potentially deadly malady that couldn’t be cured. Well, surprise! Yes. They were correct, and no, there is not a cure.

The day became so strange and dark and quiet afterward. It was raining and it had been for days. It seemed to reflect exactly what I was feeling inside. CHF? WTF? I was slowly trying to come to grips with my brand new reality.

I kept hearing my doctor’s voice echoing in my skull… telling me that I now had Congestive Heart Failure.




CHF? For real? But how could this happen and what did it mean? Did I even have a future?


The best they could do was to make me comfortable; give me something to knock down my dangerously high blood pressure. The most welcome news, in fact, the only welcome news was that they would supply the right meds so that I could finally get a decent night’s sleep. Yes! Please! Sleep was what I needed most of all… and I needed it desperately. At the time, I had NOT slept for an entire night in many, many months… and it was driving me absolutely bonkers. It’s more than unhealthy, because, the lack of sleep can begin to affect your mind, your logic and the way you generally function. Hallucinations had befallen me. I had the strangest daydreams. People I didn’t know or rarely ever thought about would come visit me in my bedroom and I’d have lengthy conversations with them. One evening, I was up half the night conversing, then arguing viciously with Joy Behar. WTF was Joy Behar (of all people!) doing in my room, and why was she saying those terrible things about me??? This was all very odd and yet it seemed very, very real-- only... it wasn’t. It was (as the Temptations sang) just my imagination, running away with me.


However, the reality was, as one doctor told me: “You’re a very sick man.”

To be told you have a disease that will likely be the death of you is not something you can easily blow off, dismiss nor forget. I’ve never been a person to live very long in a state of denial. I’m a fighter by nature, but it’s also been my history to choose my battles wisely. What could I do to fight it?

Well, since there is no cure, at best, you can combat it by eating less, exercising and moving around more, staying away from salt, nicotine, sugar, all the delicious things you’ve grown accustomed to, and maybe, just maybe you’ll have a chance at surviving beyond the general “five year” life expectancy.


Damn! Just damn!

That’s not an easy diagnosis to live with. For the first time in my life, I actually had to THINK about the reality of dying someday. I never really THOUGHT about my death before, at least not in a realistic way. No. I didn’t live inside a bubble of delusion or some cotton candy-coated fairytale that I was immortal, but I wonder now, just how many people go through life, as I did, never considering how much time they have left here, and just what might happen to cause their eventual death.

Long story short: Every day since that fated diagnosis has been a Blessing. Not necessarily a click my heels, tap-dancing like Mr. Bojangles HUGE deal, where I celebrate life, break into gradiose musical routines while walking down a city street, and EVERYONE suddenly joins me... but, a Blessing nonetheless.

I realize that there are no coincidences. Some things, some events, some moments are destined to be. After spending nine days and nights in a hospital being poked by endless needles and asked a myriad of invasive questions, I was told I’d be going home the following morning. Cool. I guess I must be better if they’re sending me home, right?

However, that very night, while sleeping (yes, sleeping, at last!) and still being monitored, Dr. Alexander Delvecchio and a floor nurse rushed into my room, and shook me from my sound slumber to ask if I was “all right?”

“Ummm, yeah. I’m fine. I’m going home tomorrow,” I vaguely remember answering in a groggy state.

“No. You won’t be,” the good Doc Alex informed me.



I was told my heart had been jumping around all over the place, clocking crazy rhythms, displaying an unusual and possibly deadly case of arrhythmia.

I had absolutely NO idea. I didn’t feel a thing.

He then made a quick and life-saving decision that I would require a pacemaker to be implanted in my chest, as soon as possible. That ASAP turned out to be the following day.

This was to be the day I was scheduled to GO HOME!

But… had I gone home, I may well have died the next day, in my sleep from sudden cardiac death, experienced a fatal cardiac arrhythmia or a debilitating stroke. That I didn’t is a complete Blessing. Had the scenario been any different, I would not be here today, living a healthier lifestyle, writing these words, telling my story, advising anyone who reads this to get a check up if anything feels wrong, physically, or any strange symptoms should suddenly nag at you.

There are no accidents. I was indeed, saved, spared to be here for a reason. No idea how much longer this will be, but I’m doing my best to live life with a renewed sense of purpose. I don’t want to cheat myself of the time I have left. I was never a bad, evil, foul or unfair person but I want to be a better one. I want to be better in all aspects of this life, a better son, brother, uncle, friend, lover, writer, and yes, a better human being.


So, on this anniversary of my diagnosis, I am acknowledging this magnificent and most exquisite Gift that is Life. I am choosing NOT to waste it with bullshit or on bullshit people, but to live without falsity or foolery or to abuse it with vanity, or to allow it to pass me by unnoticed, without giving it some meaning. I thank GOD for it.

That’s it. That’s all.




Snatch JOY!


One.

Preview From: Like Litter In The Wind A New Novel by L.M. Ross

Gig Swinton was my father.

His version of a mental/spiritual/physical breakdown was full of flying blind rages, smashing glasses and silent tears. He would fight with my mother over the smallest things, but she seemed to take it all in stride. My father was in pain…and my mother, she understood pain and war and the pain that came after war.

Gig was so torn apart by The Kid’s death that he’d go to that secret place inside his own darkness. Often he’s just leave, leave his space, leave conversations, completely abandon our family and retreat to parts unknown. Sometimes he’d take his horn to our fire escape and blow such long and angry decibels into the wounded night…only what he played, it didn’t sound like music anymore. It sounded like the noise of a wild and fractured heart. The Kid’s passing had thoroughly trounced his spirit and kicked him in what was left of that heart.

I don’t think anything before had so emotionally collapsed my father’s spirit. He was never quite the same man after that sad day. Even that carefree way he’d had, that breezy jazzy bounce so inherent in the swagger of his walk had abandoned him now. He stood among the rest who’d gathered on the wind-driven street to say their final good-byes. Seeing his kid brother’s coffin, draped in the American flag, only made the rage so much deeper and wilder.

Dakota, no doubt, feared for his sanity, and she worried just a little about what Gig’s moods were doing to me. I didn’t know what was wrong, back then, but something about that strangely brooding red-eyed man who shared a room with my mother began to scare me.

To deliver me safely from my father’s feverish fits of unpredictability and brewing madness, my mother devised a special plan. I loved my mother, but trust me, Dakota Swinton was a woman so full of secrets and private plans. This one plan was to ship me off to Virginia. Virginia, where the summers were much quieter and ‘safer’ and a kid like me would have half a chance at some semblance of normalcy.

She made it all sound like some fantastic adventure would be awaiting me there, a Disneyland of live cows, pigs, horses, and chickens, and people who would love me simply because I was family.

Family love was a given, since we all had the same blood running through our veins. She presented this idea in a way that made it sound like something I needed, an escapade I would be forever grateful for, once I’d made it to that magical place called Virginia.

However, before leaving, early one morning, she awakened and bathed me, dressed me up in my Sunday’s best. My mother had made a key and strategic decision: she was taking me to church.



Church?


While my parents weren’t exactly heathens, neither Gig or Dakota ever knew any preachers, pastors, reverends or rabbis on a personal basis. The name of God was used, at best, as a wild exclamation in our home. Now, my mother was taking me to church, escorting me to ‘God’s house,’ as she put it. This seemed a very strange move to me...but this was to be a primer, a preview of upcoming events, because one couldn’t reside in my great Aunt Bessie’s home unless they’d attended church regularly.




This place of stained glass and praise, this temple of high ceilings and higher voices raised in celebration and ceremony was all at once, strange, and yet riveting to my senses.





Before the pulpit stood an older gray man with a stooped and waning posture he’d undoubtedly attained from carrying the weight of his faith and the faith of the whole congregation on his back for years. But his voice remained and it was as mighty and piercing as a clarion horn, delivering this song of salvation. His voice, his urgent words, and the force of his sermon would rock and sway the bodies of those who had come to listen.

I turned, I fidgeted, and I looked around to see all kinds of people in attendance. Faces and bodies of those I’d seen on the street were now scrubbed clean and dressed impeccably. I even saw my mother’s friend Miss Lola. At least, I thought it was Miss Lola, though her hair looked glossy and different somehow. Mama informed me it was a wig.



The women who’d gathered there donned wide brimmed feathered hats and cooled themselves with paper fans, bearing the image of Jesus Christ. Some of them brought their children, babies, and grandkids that restlessly tussled inside their seats or else they gazed around the room, like me.

But the music, oh, that music was so freeing and moving, so loud and triumphant that at times it was almost frightening and yet so warming to the soul!

The people around me all sang along and even my mother raised her voice, though she didn’t seem to know all the lyrics to the songs.

In front of the choir, there stood a zaftig woman with a voice as mighty as the spirit in that room. She pitched that voice as high as a sparrow in flight, and then she made curve unexpectedly and she went low as an eagle touching down on a landing of gravel. It was the first time I could remember the sound of a human voice giving me chills, actual goose-flesh as she sang in her robust and moving crescendo.

“Lawd, I swear that girl sounds just like Miss Mahalia Jackson!” someone said from the pew behind us.




So this resounding noise was gospel. And the Pure Gospel this was! It made some people shout, “Hallelujah!” It made some fan themselves even faster, while others leapt quickly from their seats, as if their bodies were suddenly charged by bolts of electricity. It made Miss Lola shake and shuffle so wildly, she almost lost her wig. Some people ran up and down the aisle, screaming while raising their hands to the heavens. And strangest of all, it made some people fall to their knees, roll around on the floor, wildly weeping and speaking in a bizarre and rambling tongue.

“Why are they cryin’, Mommy?”
“They’re cryin’ because… they can feel God in the room, son.”

Oh. God was there, indeed. It must have been God's Spirit lodged and working inside each of them… Even Miss Lola. It was He swaying their heads, their necks and shoulders. It was He pitching their voices higher. It was God cryptically pulling the strings of their postures, and God was The Light in those faces with the rolling-back eyes. God was the ventriloquist who placed His hand up their spinal columns and made them speak in chattering tongues. God was jerking the bones and the working in the lungs of those people dancing, singing, shouting and hollering ‘Praise the Lawd!’ God was so involved, He was showing up and showing out in this overwhelming sound filling that church. Yes! God was so deep within this music.

I found it odd that my parents had never played these kinds of songs in our home before. Gospel, along with Country Western received no Swinton love. In a home so full of music, those genres were somehow excluded from their usual play list. Yet as a child, sitting there in the pews, though I didn’t quite understand it entirely, something in the power, the tempo, and the spirits of those who sang it, moved me to clap so enthusiastically in my seat.

My mother looked at me and smiled. “Now you can tell Aunt Bessie you go to church on Sundays,” she winked.

And so, after the maiden launch of my first religious experience, I was sent away to the ‘safety’ of Virginia.

My mother, yes, Dakota Swinton, rode the Greyhound bus with me to Richmond. Along the way, as my eyes gazed at the people reading, walking the aisle, or sleeping and snoring around me, she tapped my hand and she told me, “Don’t stare! It’s rude! Never stare at people, son! You stare too long, and before you know it, they get the wrong idea.”

Parents say things and expect a child to understand, to actually comprehend their hidden meaning. Some things they say, children do understand, and others they don’t, because their parents never provide a real cogent reason why. They simply expect you to remember that thing they said or warned you about. But as a child, I liked staring at people. They told me stories with their bodies, their expressions, and with the mystifying things that lay written in their eyes.

So I stared at people, hoping to read, to get a glimpse of their silent stories. I didn’t listen to my mother’s warning, and perhaps that would explain my later punishment.
***

When something terrible happens to a child, a part of him is never the same again. Whatever was new and innocent...whatever lay trusting within that gentle spirit gets shattered—mutilated beyond repair. It fractures and without a voice, without proper love and repair that spirit will slowly begin to splinter.

And when a season turns and the world grows colder, a sudden shift in the breeze can break that spirit in two. It can be such a small thing, or some catastrophic twist in nature that snaps it like twigs…and life as we knew it could fly away, like so much litter in the wind.





** From The Forthcoming Novel “Like Litter In The Wind” By L.M. Ross

Are We Living In The Age of TMI???

*"Automatic push-button remote control, Synthetic Genetics, Command your Soul!"



This entry was written AFTER some questionable photos of the gross and gory kind arrived in my email. IT was that proverbial FINAL straw!

"Automatic push-button remote control, Synthetic Genetics, Command your Soul!
Automatic push-button remote control, Synthetic Genetics, Command your Soul!"


Have we become a society of useless information hoarders and dispensers? Perhaps the answer is already apparent when you consider the speed and frequency in which we are now able to send, process and dissect data. It’s just a little daunting, overwhelming, unnecessary, and, at times, just plain monotonous. Gone are those good ole days where we were able to be reserved, to retain a bit of privacy and maintain some personal mystery.



The Enigmatic Age of Gentle Finesse and Quiet Mystique has died a quick and senseless death.



I miss those days. I grieve those days. I yearn for the return of those lost and glorious days once more.



Nowadays people can and often will tell you the most personal, primal, private and mundane isht about themselves… and there are others on the opposite side of a screen who will not only process it, but eat it up… with glee! I just don’t get it. Don’t the rest of us have lives to live anymore? If not, just what in hell happened to them? Why has recording and reciting our existence become so imperative? It reeks of desperation to me. Why must our every deed be broadcasted to a world audience? Why in this world should anyone be so interested in where we are, what we’re doing, and who we’re doing it with, 24/7? Why should anyone really give a damn about what you had for dinner, where and with whom?


This tediously useless, deeply trivial isht is one of the reasons why to this very day, I refuse to join Twitter and so rarely visit Facebook, much less update my page and my status on that site. Truthfully, I can’t understand why anyone would care.



When did so many of us become such attention whores?




No. I’m not talking about celebrities and how they roll. With celebs, maybe others ‘follow’ them to get a sense, that, no matter our stations in life, we’re all here sharing the same planet where even the famous do normal, regular, mundane things, and yes, they can be just as dull, boring and uninteresting as the rest of us. Indeed. In today’s hyper-informative world, celebs often prove themselves to be very insecure people, quick to piss off, get angry, get into feuds, fights, differences of opinions, act a fool, and this becomes mindless brain-candy for the scrutinizing public. That’s all just sad to me. Some of these privileged people really reveal themselves to be all too human: flawed, foul and yes, fucked up. And although, I have to wonder: who gives a damn … apparently millions of people do!

No. Celebrities, in general, must drink the same flavor Kool-Aid, and they believe it makes them all-important and immortal. When sycophants, groupies and others blow enough smoke up your stank ass, continually tell you, yes(!), give you gobs of free stuff in swag bags, and pay you obscene green to go some place just to be photographed and be seen, you might just develop a tendency to think your feces don’t stink.

But here, I’m actually speaking of people, just regular, ordinary people (pipe in John Legend), living pedestrian little lives, in their own prosaic little burbs. Do they also want fame so much they are willing to whore out their images, their personal business, exploit their families and their very lives in the quest of becoming demi-stars? Are they so badly wanting to feel a part of something Larger than themselves, to the point where they don't bother setting personal limitations anymore? I wonder. Why is it that they suddenly think everything they do, feel, say or think must be recorded, reported on and validated by a mess of strangers?

Don’t get it twisted. I’m not completely against the concept of social media; after all blogging is a part of it. I actually see the need and the purpose for some forms of it, especially when one wants to pimp a product, sell something, plan an event gathering, or make an announcement to a large amount of people, often social media is an excellent way to reach a target market. I’m not against the concept of like minds meeting and I’ve actually made some good friends and met a few fascinating people I would not have known otherwise if we’d not become acquainted online. So, from that perspective social media can be a very useful and fulfilling thing, both professionally and personally.

But somewhere along the way, it all went awry... and it has gone from the sublime to the truly ridic. Now, you’ve got people who set up web pages, Facebook, My Space and Twitter pages devoted solely to their pets. Their pets, who talk, carry on conversations, tweet photos, and who flash quasi-literate, demi-charming personalities all their own. Please! No need for vicious emails or PETA protests lodged against me. I’ve nothing but love for our four-legged friends and this is not a slam against any creature within the...uh-ruh... critter community. But pets? Pets with personal web pages? WTF?

Ummm… note to the reasonably sane people: if most folks don’t know you, don't know who you are, or give a good damn about you, what makes you think your PET would be any more popular or interesting? And if by chance they are deemed more popular or interesting than you, well, how sad would that be?

People of all types, strata, ages and ilk have fallen into the annoying habit of broadcasting waaaay too much of themselves, about their lives, their mates, their kids, their fams, their vacations, their pets and their shopping purchases, until it’s become more than a tad or a tidbit over-indulgent… and the result of this is the complete and utter oversaturation of the self.

Could the frequency or the infrequency of their bowel movements be too far behind?




And please don’t get me started on the subject of cell phones.


Granted, I’m tres old skool. How is this for a concept? I actually use my phone to make occasional calls. That's it. That's all.

Wi-i-i-i-i-i-i-ild right?




I don’t play games on it. I don’t text. I don’t take or send pics with it. I wouldn't become totally null and void, be rendered completely destroyed, left catatonic in some fetal position nor would I be unable to cope with life, should it get lost or misplaced. I don’t depend upon my phone, like a dog with a bone, Linus with his security blanket or some itchy, jittering junkie needing his fix.

But apparently, I’m nearly alone in this practice and only using a phone to make calls, when necessary, makes me somewhat archaic. Fine. I’m good. I can live with this reality. Better that, than to overuse your phone to the point where you disturb and offend others in your idle time.

Just the other day a friend of mine thought it necessary to email me and a small tribe of other people pictures from a recent emergency room visit, along with (click) shots on a stretcher, (click) headshots vogueing a sick and forlorn expression, (click) close-ups including a snotty nose, chapped lips and all … I’m like WTF?

Question: Could you not have waited until you were back home, safe and sound to share that information? Could you not have waited until you had easy access to some freaking Kleenex and some damn Clapstick?

I’m just asking… what up wid dat?



Another person who I’ve known for a minute, felt it necessary to email this pic of a very gory–looking blood-raw and wounded arm shortly after surgery. Innnnn-tense! I damn near threw up! I just didn’t understand the purpose of sending me that madness. Call me crazy, but I’m just not a big fan of Large Gaping Wounds... in extreme close-up!!! Aiight? Personally, I don’t find that kind of thing vaguely entertaining in the least! Isn’t there such a concept as OVER-SHARING?

I mean, shouldn’t such graphic visuals come with a pre-warning or something?

It was then that I‘d finally had enough! It was necessary to let him know I was not so fascinated, nor amused. I’ve had to cuss out a few, and yes, I've gone OFF on people who think that their lives are so-o-o-o-o damned remarkable that their every activity becomes the stuff fit for some Oscar-worthy documentary.



Have we become a society of useless information feeders? Methinks the answer is already: “yes.”

To that concept, I say this: Stop this madness!

Is there a smartphone app out there that tells folks to: GET OVER YOURSELF!?


Maybe there should be!

Hey, how about a new app called Reality Check that straight-up tells you: Put Me Down, Damn it! You’re Boring! Read a book! No! Not a Kindle version! A real BOOK! Yo! Go Outside and Breathe Some Fresh Air Without Me As Your Crutch, Your Companion and Your Adoring Mirror! Seriously. Think of Some Thing or Someone... Other Than Yourself! Trust Me! You Really Ain’t All That!


I await the day when people embrace the concept of owning a certain mystique again. I long for a time, when they leave, not a picture of their wounds and how gross they can be... or of a meal and how they discarded it… but instead, what they do leave behind is left to the IMAGINATION. This is what truly makes people interesting: the good sense to know when to remain enigmatic.




*
"Automatic push-button remote control, Synthetic Genetics, Command your Soul!
Automatic push-button remote control, Synthetic Genetics, Command your Soul!
Automatic push-button remote control, Synthetic Genetics, Command your Soul!
Automatic push-button remote control, Synthetic Genetics, Command your Soul!"
*







Ya smell me?


I’m just sayin’.


One.



* from Mean Machines by The Last Poets

The Ironic Irony of Icons Inexplicably Taking Their Leave Almost Simultaneously...

Has Anyone But Me Noticed That In Less Than a Month’s Time, Several Icons Have Taken Their Final Bow?


Maybe I’m living too long on this planet, although I seriously doubt it. Maybe all we baby-boomers are just beginning to realize our own mortality. Maybe. Maybe not. All I know is that during the month of April alone so many of the faces, personalities, talents and teachers who I came to know in childhood and who would remain so alive inside my conscience have suddenly vacated this building we call Life.

Although it’s never been my intent to turn my blog into an obituary column, there are some things, some people and some exits that I can not simply ignore. Such is the power, the presence, the influence and effect these figures have played in my life, and often times, in many of our lives.


First there was Gil Noble, who passed at age 80.



Chances are, if you’re not from the NYC area, or haven’t lived here in the last 40 years, you may have never heard of him. Should that be the case, I’ll feel sad for you, because Gil Noble was The Truth.


More than just a journalist, Gil Noble embodied a one man master class in Black History and thus, in a Larger Sense, American History. He was all those things we’d ever want a teacher to be: Inspired and inspiring. Articulate and attractive. Sturdy and serious. He possessed a sharp wit, and a spirit full of gravitas. Whether the subject of the day dealt with the metaphysics of Jazz or with Negro-leagues in baseball, basketball or sports history in general, Gil would lay it all down in a way we could understand and empathize. He brought you to the forefront. No need to imagine, because Gil Noble had a way of taking you there. No matter if his show was based upon community-related issues or political races, educational matters or vital lessons our schools and classrooms never taught us, he was known to truly tell it LIKE IT IS. And he enlightened us just as much as he instructed us.

It’s too bad that his program was only shown throughout the tri-state (New York, New Jersey and Connecticut) area, because if it had been nationally syndicated, his reach would have been at least as extensive, and his effect just as seismic as that of Mike Wallace. Gil‘s iconic show, “Like It Is,” would appear every Sunday at noon to feed us knowledge, give us a sense of strength, pride and purpose, or to simply remind us that, no matter our personal struggles, we were not alone. “Like It Is” premiered at a time of cultural awakening. Its debut, back in 1968, coincided with the height of the Black Awareness/Black Power movement. Its marathon run ended just last year, after Mr. Noble suffered a debilitating stroke. That's well over 40 years of journalistic excellence! This is a television landmark equally and every bit impressive as 60 Minutes or Meet The Press. Gil Noble was a maverick. His exposés on slavery in the American south, African relief efforts, and drug addiction in the inner city were disturbing and yet necessary viewing. His documentaries on the lives of Dr. Martin Luther King, Malcolm X and Nelson Mandela are now legendary. His extensive interviews with Adam Clayton Powell, Fannie Lou Hamer, Sarah Vaughn, Sammy Davis, Jr. and Lena Horne are all now classics. The archives from those years are many and so rich with essential historical content that Mr. Noble wanted them maintained and made available for future generations. Having been a student of his, I truly hope his final wish is granted.


Thank you, Gil Noble, for having the courage and the conviction to tell our stories. Thank you for shedding a light upon so many of our unsung heroes. Thank you for the years of lessons and for the grace and wisdom in which you presented them. And most of all: THANK YOU FOR LOVING US SO MUCH!

Peace out, Gil Noble. Because of you, my sense of history is a bit sharper and my nature has been all the more inquisitive.

* * * * *


And speaking of sharp and inquisitive, this month, the world of journalism also lost Mike Wallace…




This cat was Epic. He too was one of those stoic figures that seemed to always be around, and he almost made us believe that he would always be, regardless of that grand equalizer called Time.

His career was as varied and long as it was long-ranging and prolific, and through the decades his reputation would become harder and more dogmatic. 60 Minutes gave us the essential Mike Wallace. He was or could be a bit of a journalistic bully. He was tough, tenacious, and, if you were guilty or hiding something from him, even terrifying in his approach. But you knew one thing for certain: Mike Wallace was going to get to the truth of the story, or unmask a liar, or tear down some high-minded celeb in his own inimitable Perry Mason-style of interviewing. He was blunt, and at times he was merciless. He could embarrass, belittle or bedazzle. The man was a beast at probing, investigating, biting down and not ceasing until he drew blood or something tangible that resembled the truth.


He lived a long life, and passed at 93. He was definitely one of a kind. He didn’t suffer fools gladly. People like him, who command our attention, always leave behind such lasting impressions.

* * * * * *

Leaving a lasting impression… that’s something any self-respecting vampire might do, right?

Well, we can no longer ask that question of Jonathan Frid…





Okay. I admit it. I was a huge fan of this supernatural stuff. From the moment I first tuned in, “Dark Shadows” had me hooked. Each week day, I’d dash home from school like a li'l madman just to watch this gothic phenom unfold. There was nothing else on TV quite like it. It featured ghosts and vampires, witches, warlocks and werewolves. Oh my! It was… or could be very, verrrrry, vurrrrrr scurry. When you’re too young to recognize tongue-in-cheek references or too naïve to spot grand camp when it’s played out before your eyes, you can just sit back and let this ghoulish world enchant and enrapture you in its utter wickedness. Jonathan Frid projected a kind of edgy hypnotic presence full of grace and subtle danger. As the vampire, Barnabas Collins, his mesmerizing portrayal could leave you spellbound. He was dramatic, menancing, at times sympathetic, and yet just creepy enough to keep you fascinated and have you anxiously tuning in for the next day’s feast of blood, drama and mayhem.

Jonathan Frid was immortal. Or so his character would lead us to believe. No one had ever successfully driven a stake through the heart of Barnabas Collins, and so he was doomed to live forever. Ironically, the actor who played him died, on Friday the 13th, at the age of 87.


Johnny Depp who takes over the role of Barnabas Collins…


… in Tim Burton’s upcoming film based on the Dark Shadows series said it best:

“Jonathan Frid was the reason I used to run home from school to watch ‘Dark Shadows,’” Depp said in a statement. “When I had the honor to finally meet him, as he so generously passed the torch of Barnabas to me, he was as elegant and magical as I had always imagined.



My deepest condolences to his family and friends. The world has lost a true original.”

Peace-out BC! Maybe we’ll see you again… in the less-creepy after-life.

* * * * *



Finally, there’s Dick Clark…




I can’t honestly remember a time when I didn’t know of Dick Clark’s existence. Can you? He was the man, the dude, the grand poobah of the popular music scene. Some referred to him as "The World's Oldest Teenager" but he was more like America's Number One DJ. He was there all throughout our kidhood, teen years, young adulthood and beyond. We all knew him. American Bandstand bridged both the generational gap, and, more importantly, it help to smooth the lines of this country’s racial divide. Dick Clark knew instinctively that music was something that united us and he showed us that we’d more in common than the sum of our differences. On Saturdays afternoons, whether black, white, brown, yellow or red, we invited him into our homes. Along with his eternally young exterior, he brought new music into our living-rooms, playrooms and bedrooms. He came equipped w/ a stack of albums under his arms. And he was never short on variety: whether it was rock and roll, r& b, soul, folk, pop, disco, new wave, punk, and dance music. He introduced us to so many future icons and legends that along the way he became one himself.

If this had been his only claim to fame, that alone would have been enough. But he also entertained by bringing in game shows “The 10,000 Pyramid” which later became the “$25,000 Pyramid.” He made us chuckle with Bloopers and Practical Jokes. He gave us another forum in which to reward and celebrate our musical icons with the American Music Awards… and then he would help us all to bring in the dawning of another year with Dick Clark New Year’s Rockin’ Eve.”


Now he’s gone. And New Year’s Eve in Times Square will never be quite the same.

He lived to be 82 years old. I think he did the most with his time here. He was very successful, wealthy, well-liked, and yes, iconic. We’ll not see his like again.

And so, we bid goodbye to these men; figures, prototypes, icons who stood tall and loomed large through the passage of time… at least so, in my mind.


Each of them, in their own distinctive way, helped to engage us, entertain, define or educate us in ways that ensure they will never be forgotten.


One Love.

Inside This Friday Night's Hotness

I’ve danced till dawn
And parts beyond where
Neon streets cease
To paint anyone pink
Or blue or pretty anymore.

I’ve paid my dues to the gods
And the laws of Friday nights.
I’ve danced myself, hot, loud
And flawed under the lights,
Now, once again, I come…
Stumbling, staggering
Back to you. I come
Seeking shelter, seeking
Warmth, seeking refuge
From this damned
Sauna of a world
Which shoots race movies upon
My skin.

Tell me you GET it! Tell me
You do understand this
Need in me to
Sometimes win! Tell me
You hold the keys to
The heart of me… and
That you know my secrets
When I’m lost and vulnerable
And on the verge of
Weeping...



Show me there’s
Someone
Inside this
Insanity
Who still gives
A damn about
What happens to me!

You see, your face,
Your presence is
My solitude’s serum…
Cure me!
Feed me your
Enduring sustenance!
Come… take my hand and
Dialogue with me! Engage
Me in soft talk,
And romantic soliloquy…
Drown me in
Wet kisses… and
Cradle me in heartbeats!

Step to me with
Understanding arms
And empathetic eyes
Come inside these sheets and
Take this precarious
Ride with me!

Come… lets set our tongues
Free to paint
Goose-bump stories
Across these pages of our skin
Come… and let us make brand
New Happy Endings…
All poetry and movement and
Big toe quiverings!



When this world leaves me
Distressed and downhearted
Roll call all the beauteous things you see…
Blow passionate solos upon
This instrument of me...
Let each breath perform
Love’s slyest song...
Let each gesture reflect
Love’s slow-in-between-the-
Thighs-dance... and let us
Hum a mellow waltz to Love’s
Black-lighted trance…

Let us taste
Love’s salt upon our lips…
Feel Love’s glow and its
Healing effect… Let us
Know Love’s primal pulse-beat…
Let us engage in Love’s
Succulent symmetry…and
Then let us
Unleash Love’s most
Perfect SCREAM!




Yes! Inside this
Friday night’s hotness
Do what you must to
Puff my ego erect
And leave me shining
And radiant inside
Some pool of sweat and DNA
Which defines me and
Reminds me vaguely of
Some travesty
Some trickery
Some voodoo
Hoodoo witchcraft
Sorcery... some fools
And Romantics still
Believe to be


Love.




One.



© 2012 by L.M.Ross moaningmanblues All Rights Reserved

A Brief Freedom

For My Friend B.B.

1970-2012


Death is inevitable here, my friend. As sure as rape and theft and overcrowded subways, death, for some of us, is just a station stop away. If we’re lucky… if we’re Blessed, Life slows down a piece... and grants us a sweet reprieve. It is released inside this freedom of poetry.

My Highest, Most Greatest Good is a dueling dream. It is fueled by the urgent SCREAM heard from others expectations of me, versus, this unquenchable hunger, this insatiable thirst of my undying ambition. Quite simply: I am a slave to this shit.

In the frosted fields between the sheets of my sleep, I am haunted by this duality. It is always hiding, like a shy ghost, inside of my deepest self. Life, for me, has been this journey through streets of Sadness and Euphoria, with a brief but necessary escape inside the plains of poetry.

And I’ve known some poets... Real Poets... such Beautiful, Living, Breathing Poets; scribes so much Higher and Greater than me.

And after living their heroic little lives, they’ve died their invisible deaths.

This weekend someone else’s earthly suffering came to an end. This weekend, another poet friend of mine expired.


Today, once again, Life for me has become this brief excursion into the freedom of poetry.

I am reminded of how some vile thing or some monstrous entity always comes along to kill this poetry in us.

Death, it just keeps chasing us, stalking us, walking beside, and then, running after us.

Death by winter... in a cold-shouldered America. Death by failure’s sharp and jagged needle. Death by trigger-fingered cop. Death by a city’s speeding stopwatch. Death by some incorrect, mistaken identity. Death by some ignorant-assed vigilante. Death by merciless abject poverty. Death by a lonely man’s disease. Death by some obscene and unnatural cause will come for us, just as it came for him…

And we will grieve.

As blackly beautiful and brilliant as he was, his life should have never been cut so damned brief! I get it, though. I do. Between us there are few differences. We are bittersweet slaves to an Art, a Mistress, and to a World of thieves that will ultimately betray us! I get it!

Life, for me, is this brief and tragic hesitation. I fill in the gaps and gaping holes with broken prose and poetry.

His life was terse, composed of heavy heart and crying verse. His life, it should have been a song. Instead it proved to be... a broken stanza... an aborted passage.

Yo! Would someone please throw him a jazz funeral, damn it!





And send him home most righteously! Let those dark cherubic-faced men blow their horns through the streets for him!

Celebrate him! His life! His gift! Speak poems, say odes, sing hymns to his spirit! And then, being that we are such carelessly foolish humans, we’ll forget just what made his soul so rich and special, so unique, and beautiful.


It happens all the time. I’ve seen this shit happen to my own father; the way people just forget the Shine from his Star. I’ve come to expect nothing more, nothing less than this, for it is his plight, and my plight, and perhaps all of our plights.


My Highest Good is a dueling dream. It is fueled by the urgent scream of divergent expectations of me. It remains this unquenched, insatiable thirst of undying ambition. In the frosted fields of my sleep, I am haunted by this duality.

Life, for me, has mostly been this reed-thin freedom I find in poetry.

Life, for me, has mostly been this reed-thin freedom I find in poetry.

LIFE, for me, has mostly been this reed-thin freedom I find in poetry.


I wish you golden days and lyrical nights of radiant riffs and open mics and Gabriel blowing Cool Jazz on his horn... and from the neon-lit clouds on the hipper side of Heaven, I wish you Thunderous fingersnaps.


That's it. That's all.

Au revoir, Bonne nuit, Mon Ami.


One.

Endangered At 17: Poem For Trayvon Martin

I remember being 17, living on Lays
Potato chips, chili dogs and Wonder bread…
Would never be caught dead
Or seen without
My Swedish knits and
Chuck Taylors… with Stevie
Wonder blasting Superstition
In my head. I remember

Playing Spades, and scratching myself in
“Nasty” places, full of raging
Hormones, adrenaline and
Silent fear. I remember how it feels

To live in Black skin. Being told
By my mother, I was “beautiful.”
Being told by teachers, I was “Artistic”
And yes even “Gifted…” but
Never once told I was invincible. I remember this
As surely as I recall walking
Home from the movies, at night, and

Being stopped by local cops
Because I fit the descript
Of some hot-
Wired black boy who might just
Explode… who
Was up to some no good,
Criminally-minded shit,
When it was neither my behavior,
My nature,
Nor my actions but
The color of my skin which
Dictated this.

I remember feeling diminished, and
Embittered, enraged,
And endangered for the first time
At age 17... when I should have felt
Young and wild and free
And full of possibilities… Like you,

Trayvon… Angelic-faced manchild
Of a brown-skin hue. Almost
Brand new in the world,
Caught up inside that swirl of
Confusion... and yet
Another senseless
Victim to the paranoia of
Another racist fool.




Did you fit that tragic
Descript too, Trayvon?
Hoodie-clad and armed with
Skittles and iced tea? How dangerous!



How deadly
You must be. How deadly!
How..? Deadly?

How dead.








One.





© 2012 by L.M.Ross moaningmanblues All Rights Reserved