A Meditation On: The Art Of Cool

From a very early age, almost as soon as we THINK we understand the meaning of the word “Cool”, it becomes an admired thing, a desired state, and an ultimate destination. Little kids, keeids, big heads and li'l duns will mimic any adult who they see, think, feel or decide in their formative minds to be that thing called cool. No matter our birthright or disposition, all throughout school we aimed to be seen and thought of as Cool. The way we walked, talked, dressed, acted, reacted, the music we listened to, the people we associated with, it was all in an effort, a singular quest to be seen as “Cool.”

But what is COOL, really? Tell me... tell me, if you THINK you know.


Are we born with it… or is it something that we can acquire? The Jury's still out.

Can we cop some coolness by simply being around it, like in osmosis? Who knows.

Is it thrust upon us or drummed into us by those cooler elder people? It's possible.

Is it the same as popularity? No. I don't think so.

Is it something we can slip on or off, like a fly leather jacket… and suddenly we can claim Cool as our personal ownership? Ummm... 'fraid not!


Actually, to be COOL is the complete opposite of hot, hot-tah, or the hotness (another of those often desired states).

To be Cool is to be profoundly mellow, relaxed, unexcitable and extremely laidback. Cool is a state of mind which ultimately infiltrates into a state of being.

Cool is something one emits. Yes, one can project it but that doesn't necessarily mean that one IS actually The Coolness! You see, Cool is a very strange animal, indeed. It’s not all warm and cuddly. In fact, it can be the polar opposite. Cool is not necessarily ice-cold or unfeeling either. It’s a subtle way of regulating emotion, one's core reactions and attitude. To be seriously Cool can scare the hell out of some people… and deeply intimidate others.

The Truly Cool rarely if ever lose their tempers or raise their voices. In fact, they rarely if ever TRY too hard at anything. They simply don’t give a damn what you might think of them or what you perceive them to be. You can’t upset them, even when you try. You can’t piss them off, visibly, or make them surrender control of that all-mighty coolness. You see, they inhabit coolness. They simply are COOL, 24/7.


That above descript clearly cancels my personal membership to The Ultimate Club of The Care-free, Casual Coolness Clique.

You see, the Truly, Deeply, Madly Cool are like from another planet, yo. They don’t belong to any group or station in life. They eschew all rules and organizations. They don’t follow anything or anyone. Instead, they are the pacesetters, the forbearers, the mavericks and such. They are often misunderstood, lone wolves who buck all trends and humdrum signs of homogenization.

They are either, very wise, or secretly deficient in knowledge. But if it’s the latter, you’d never even know it.

For some erroneous reason, many of us think of Coolness as a youthful phenomenon… and that it has a certain time frame in which it is relevant.

This is a HUGE mistake. I mean, think about it: Who was cooler than Miles Davis, even well into his mid-60s?


Miles:




No. He did not roll with a one-name-moniker like Cher or Liberace, Beyonce or Usher, Prince or Madonna, but he very well could have. When you hear the name MILES… you don’t have to wonder Miles who(?). Yes, he blew a mean and most pristine trumpet, and he was notorious for turning his back to an audience as he played. People HATED that isht! But did Miles Davis care?




Hell-to-the-nah, man! Man oh man, Miles was one of a kind! This cat was all dat and a slab of swiss, man! His genius could never be denied, man. The dude seemed to redefine the word COOL itself, man. Ya digs, man? Ya digs?




As I’m typing these words, I’m collectively counting up all the cool people I currently know of personally, along with the Icons Of Coolness, and it occurs to me that there are very few Truly Cool Ones left. Well, at least in my opinion. For instance, here are a few of the Iconic Cool:


Tell me, who is cooler than George Clinton, a man now well into his seventh decade?



The cat invents words, phrases and entire social movements with the ease of an emotional Ex-Lax. “Tear The Roof Off The Mother Sucker…” “I Wants To Get Funked Up!” “Free Your Mind and Your Ass Will Follow.” They are but a few Clinton gems.

And yes, his LOOK might be a tad, a tidbit... ummm… urruh… mad-stoopid-crazy-out-there…




But that only reminds us of The Beauty of The Truly Cool: See, the Truly Cool don’t give a good damn what the world might think!


Hey, maybe True Cool needs some time to marinate.


Musician Lou Reed... is The Coolness.




From his past as originator and vital member of the iconic and seminal band The Velvet Underground, or his beat poet delivery on the ultra laid-back jam “Take a Walk On The Wild Side,” to his senior status as one of the leather-clad Prince's of NYC Underground Cool, Lou Reed seems worthy of the title.



A legendary rock musician, songwriter and photographer, he even upped his cool factor by marrying Performance Artist Supreme Laurie Anderson. Nah, I ain't mad at Lou.


"And the colored girls go...

Doo do doo, doo do doo, doo do doo..."




Meshell Ndegeocello:



Quite simply: the chick is baaaaadd. Plays a mean-ass, mad innovative bass. She writes songs that make you think, and outed herself as a lesbian way before it was considered cool, en vogue or even acceptable to do so.



Funk, soul, hip-hop, reggae, folk, jazz, she has staunchly refused to be pigeonholed or put comfortably inside anyone’s trick bag. Her exterior is calm and so chill that her coolness sneaks up on you, like a smooth hit of herb. Her music, much like her steelo, is so fantastically mellow that it's intoxicating. Sometimes one of her songs alone can become the soundtrack of my day. She always thinks and performs outside of the box.



You have to love the gusty swag and soulful energy of someone so determined to pave her own road.


And speaking of swag...



Johnny Depp: He defined cool undercover cop swag in the 80s with his role in 21 Jump Street. And ever since, on film he has been the cool-azz chameleon... transforming from Edward Scissorhands, to The Mad Hatter, to Captain Jack Sparrow...




Depp is constantly showing us the various personas and facets of his cool.




And that quality seems to extend beyond his movie roles and into his off-screen appearances. Yo, Johnny. That suit is MURDA!




Prince (or “Princeton” as I calls him):




This cat was busy being cool while the rest of the world was trying to figure out what his true sexuality was… or what his lyrics really meant. I mean, come on: "Reach For The Purple Banana Till They Roll Us In The Truck?" WTF?

His whole genre of Cool is different. It’s part retro/part futuristic, part androgynous/part glam-slam swagger. He’s unique and so damned talented, multifaceted, and charismatic, and yet he’s managed to remain this ultimately mysterious character, no matter what has been written, said, attested. Face it. What do you REALLY KNOW about Prince?



To be so damned famous and to still remain an enigma is the very Essence of Cool.


Angelina Jolie:



She's one of those special peeps I consider a friend in my head. What makes Angie so effortlessly cool is not just her distinctive look-- which is edgy, stunning, dangerously-gorgeous and always uber-sexy… nor is it her thoroughbred thespian chops, which have already been awarded with Oscar, Emmys and Golden Globes, and it’s not her notorious past of drug addiction, cutting, self-mutilation and same-sex relationships; it’s her ability to transcend all of that shadiness in her yesterday to become a citizen of the world today, an ambassador, a mother of six and somehow still remain a world renowned icon.




Yes, her glamour game might be beyond extra-terrestrial...



But it’s the global size and scope of her heart and her world vision that makes her so damned Cool.



And then there was One…

Barack Obama aka The King Of Coolness:




Sometimes his sense of cool is damn-near ridiculous for a man of such power. No, I don’t mean the street-lively bop of his gait, nor the fact that he plays a rousing game of b-ball on White House premises. It is that nothing and no one, not the press, not those media vultures, nor the blatant lies of Fox News nor certain Republican candidates can fade him or get this man’s goat.



His cool is so transcendent that to call him 'laidback' would be a most gross understatement. Obama? Fly off the handle? Apparently, that’s NOT in his nature nor his DNA.




Sometimes I'll wonder: has Michelle ever once pissed him off to the point of him raising his voice? Hmmmm... *ponders*


And there you have it. There must be some that I’ve missed, but I fear there really aren’t very many… well, not anymore.

Who or what defines cool for you?

And when did you first become aware of this concept called Coolness?

Any Candidates Of Cool come to mind?


Holla.


One.

*About Motherfuckas, And Why They Are So Necessary

Just recently, I experienced a great and profound disappointment in my life. Yes, I know. Boo-hoo. Woe is me. Within this business of living, just existing, and having these prolonged human experiences, much like everyone else, I’m not exactly a neophyte in the treacherous fields and hills and valleys of disappointment.


But this particular strain of disappointment, it hurt me so much, I'd begun to feel it down to the depths of my very soul. When the soul hurts, please believe... that's some deep and very serious business.

Without going into great detail or naming anyone's name, I will say, I’d lost my faith in all humankind. I'd forgotten to Trust Only in God as a rule. Man is full of trick bones, tainted hearts and bullshit parts, and thus, man is bound to hurt you, bullshit you, disappoint you, lie to you, smile in your face and stab you in the back with such cunning and swift precision that it can be mad ALARMING! Most times, you won’t even see the blade coming.

When someone does this to you, whether they be a man or a woman, it’s a Motherfucker’s Move.

In life, we need to be keenly aware of the Motherfuckers. They live, breathe, bob, weave and co-habitate among us. They secretly dance in the shadows and sometimes waltz in broad daylight. They are madness incarnate, but with sanity's eyes. They can sneak up on us and often surprise us because they'll say or do the wickedest of shit. But most of all, they are everywhere, yo!



You can’t and you won’t always spot them right away. Why?

Because Motherfuckers are shape-shifters, damn it! Act like you know!


They can wear the face of a friend or your boss, your family, or even your lover.




What makes them true 'Motherfuckers' is that they won’t really care enough about you to support you when you’re down, or have your back when that back is against the wall. When you’re hurt, when you’re stressed, when you're struggling, when you’re just trying to keep your head above water, that’s when the Motherfuckers will show you their True Face.





That’s when a Motherfucker will rise from the oozing dens of their wretched primordial Motherfucker-ness.


So, upon the Great Disappointment in my life, caused by another kind of foul-ass Bearilla Motherfucker entirely, I sought friendship, instead of stress. I sought understanding, instead of madness. I sought empathy, instead of selfishness. And I sought love from those who claimed to love me.

When you love someone, and they require space... you give them space.
When you love someone, and they ask for peace… you give them peace.
When you love someone, and they need to be alone… you give them their alone time.



But a Motherfucker won’t care about any of that shit.
A Motherfucker has his or her own agenda.

A Motherfucker will make demands upon you.
A Motherfucker will make erroneous accusations about you.
A Motherfucker will not give a shit about you or your feelings.
A Motherfucker will always find some new shit to bitch about.
A Motherfucker will say some shit with no other objective than to Piss. You. Off.

And yes, a Motherfucker is chronically insecure.

A Motherfucker will secretly smile at your misfortune.
A Motherfucker doesn’t care if there’s an illness or even a death in your family.
A Motherfucker will only crave more and more and more attention.
A Motherfucker will drain you of your last ounce of energy.
And then that Motherfucker will still ask for more.
A Motherfucker can’t stand it when you tell them NO!





A Motherfucker truly believes they are the planet’s most important person.
And yet, that same Motherfucker needs constant emotional reinforcement.
A Motherfucker will try to make you doubt your own abilities.
A Motherfucker is truly a miserable human being.



But I want to give all The Real Motherfuckers their rightful due.

You Motherfuckers inspire me to be the best that I can be.

You Motherfuckers give me new confidence in myself.
You Motherfuckers make me realize the hero within me.
You Motherfuckers make something in me rise higher.
You Motherfuckers stoke my creativity’s fire.
You Motherfuckers are soooooo damn necessary.
You Motherfuckers make me stronger than I ever knew I could be.
You Motherfuckers force me to make a LIAR out of you.



So, thank you, Motherfuckers.

Even if you don’t know you’re a Motherfucker.

I know it now. I hope... NO.... I'm quite sure that others will recognize your Motherfucked-ness, too.





One.




* repost

Remembering Michael.... Three Years Gone...

Three years gone. It does not seem possible, yet the memories, the videos, and the music lives on.

Michael was never one, who held public office, nor was he born to royalty, and yet there was a moment in time when Michael Jackson ruled the earth.

Three years gone. It does not seem possible, yet time moves on for some of us. I wanted to take a moment to bow my head and thank The Creator for giving us the gift of such a talented, sensitive, and charismatic dynamo as Michael Jackson.

He lived. He entertained. He thrilled us. He disappointed us. He mystified us. He confounded us. He hypnotized us. He changed the shape of our dreams… and then… like some quickly moving comet, a supernova charging through space, his blazing light burned out too soon.

Three years gone.

It does not seem possible.






Rest In Peace, Michael Joe Jackson



One.

*About Black Fedoras And Summer Sunday Rides With My Father

He knew how to wear a hat.

Trust me... that’s not always an easy (hat-) trick, when you’re a Black man, trying *not* to look like a pimp, a mack, a dandy, a fop or a player. My father was neither of those, yet he could rock a mean hat. Some cats just have it like that, instinctively.


My father possessed that uniquely smooth and utterly rare gift of slipping on a chapeau and becoming this cool and mysteriously enigmatic character. Though barely 5’8, he always stood taller in his fedora. It seemed as if his posture changed and he became this whole other Larger Being… at least, in my eyes.

I was discussing this phenom with my mom yesterday, as we were approaching yet another Father’s Day without his presence. Because his absence remains very much a FELT experience, she seemed determined to remember to be sad. And while I could only validate that emotion for her, an extended appointment with sadness was not placed upon my schedule. Instead, I spoke of a certain bronze-colored Oldsmobile Delta 88; how my father would take the family for long rides on summer Sunday afternoons, and how, from the backseat, in his fedora, he resembled some quietly Elegant Black King to my eyes.

When he died there inside that ER, a nurse brought his possessions into the waiting room. Perhaps she thought it would be too much for my mother to handle, so she signaled me into a quiet corner and she handed me his gold retirement watch, and his wedding band.

I tried like hell not to breakdown, fall to my knees, and weep like some little suddenly fatherless child, especially there in that setting. Although my brother publicly lost it, I'd somehow retained my stoic older bother composure. It was a very strange and rainy December day. It felt even stranger to me, holding those articles in my hand, as if the were supposed to somehow now represent this man I’d fondly called, “Da.”

A day or so after this, in a quieter, less hectic moment, I presented those articles to my mother. I hugged her tightly and for the longest time. Mind you, I still hadn’t cried, but I’d been meaning to. Curiously, that time would come much later.

After the funeral and after all the guests, after the food was consumed, and the stories were told, and the emotions displayed, after the hubbub and the shows of sympathy, when everything sat quietly in its own haunted space, my mother asked if wanted anything of my father’s.

I thought for a minute about the car (which never was my style) and the clothes (ditto, and were way too small), and finally, I said,

“You know that black fedora? The one he wore back in the day when he’d take us on those Sunday drives? I think I’d like to have that hat.”

Maybe it seemed like a peculiarly atypical request. But then, that was just me, being me. I was always her ‘strange poet son,’ and so she just shrugged, went into the closet they’d shared for over 35 years, fetched that hat, and she handed it to me.

I’ve placed it upon the top shelf in my closet. I hardly ever wear it. Over the years, I’ve thought of it as a kind of trophy to the modesty of his life, his quiet elegance; his one slice of mysterious cool, and his subtle sense of royalty.


And so, on Father’s Day, in lieu of tears, and instead of episodes in sadness, I slipped on that black fedora, and tried like hell to mirror my father’s style-- not pimp, not mack, not player, not fop, not dandy.

You know, just a Black man, in a black chapeau, with a smooth gift for becoming a cool and mysteriously enigmatic character.




That’s it. That’s all.


Happy Father’s Day to all you father’s out there, whether bio, step, adoptive, cat daddies or big daddies… and a Very Happy Father’s Day in Heaven to YOU, Da.


One Love.


Your son,

Lin



* repost

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