Cool Like Newman... Reflections Upon an Icon

Rest In peace, Paul Newman







Paul Newman made his transition over the weekend. He was 83. When a legend passes, I’m sure it leaves many people who've followed their careers a bit sad or reflective. I feel some of that, but not knowing Mr. Newman personally, and having real loved ones pass in my family, it doesn’t feel quite the same on the human heart.

Paul Newman is dead, but his films will live on to inspire and entertain for many years to come. I remember watching his movies as a kid. A program called Million Dollar Movie played in the afternoons after school, and not being a kid who lived for cartoons, I’d view those old films. Newman starred in many of them. He soon became an iconic presence in my mind. He was lanky and cool, surly and smooth, and sometimes even a little rough around the edges. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Hud, The Hustler, these and others became staples in my filmic memory.

My personal favorite of all his films would have to be Cool Hand Luke. It was the essential Newman part, the classically handsome rogue, the smart-ass, authority-bucking anti-hero who becomes a real hero by displaying the size of his spirit and determination. But the end of the film, damn near every macho prisoner, and a couple of the guards nursed man-crushes on him and that “Luke smile.”



Yeah, Paul Newman made many great films and memorable, no doubt. Maybe that’s what most people will remember about him. But his biggest contribution to the world was not his features, his fabled blue eyes (which apparently were colorblind), or the fact that he raced cars when he was well into his early 80s.

Paul Newman had a wonderful heart. He used his fame beautifully. He understood the importance of capturing the world’s attention wasn’t purely about self-garnishment. He didn’t do the Hollywood thing. He lived modestly (only owned one suit) and remained with the same woman, the equally talented Joanne Woodward, for fifty years. He used his mind beautifully. Real Life always took priority over his career. At the height of his fame, when it could have jeopardized his career, he marched with Dr. King. He was a liberal and a proud one. He used his political savvy to show that he cared about the world around him. He used his wealth beautifully. His greatest achievement was in founding the organization called The Hole In The Wall Camps, and making his own products of Lemonade, Popcorn, Dressings and raised, to date, 250 million dollars for kids with cancer and other life-threatening diseases.

That’s huge. That’s bigger than any movie. He used his life as a true and shining example of what one man can accomplish with his time here.

So those who are old enough or aware enough to know who and what he was, you can grieve his passing if you must. But, I’m just glad such a man lived.

Rest In peace, Paul Newman.

One Love.

About Motherfuckas, And Why They Are So Necessary

Recently, I experienced a great and profound disappointment in my life. Boo-hoo. Woe is me. Being a human being, I’m not exactly a newbie in the field of disappointment.

This particular one, it hurt me so much, I felt it down deep in my soul. When the soul hurts, it’s serious business.

Without going into great detail, I will say, I’d lost my trust in man, and in all humankind. I'd forgotten to Trust Only in God, as a rule. Man is full of bones, heart and bullshit parts, and thus, man is bound to bullshit you, and disappoint you, and lie to you, and smile in your face and stab you in the back with such cunning and swift precision, you won’t even feel 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 aware of the Motherfuckers. 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 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 struggling, when you’re 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 dens of their wretched Motherfucked-ness.

So, upon the Great Disappointment in my life, caused by another kind of 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 a death in your family.
A Motherfucker will only crave more attention.
A Motherfucker will drain you of your last once 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 sure others recognize your Motherfucked-ness, too.


One.

Your Sensuality

The size and

Degree of your

Sensuality

It sometimes almost

Frightens me. I feel



Unworthy

Unqualified

Unequipped

To know

This wealth

To receive

This gift

This prick of





Your nipples...


Like two pin-lights

Inside a cosmos

Of skin

As taut, tender, and

Tight as stars.



My God!



Your sensuality

Can almost

Frighten me.

Make me feel

Hard as Diamond

And Yet,

Minute

In The Universe

Of its Largeness…



It’s as if

Your legs

Would stretch

Into a chasm

Deep and Wide

And swallow

My secrets and

Swallow my

Pride...

And gorge my

Insecurities

Whole.



And I

Believe

That sex with

The Soul

Manifests and

Flows into

A slow and

Enduring song.



I believe

Sex

With the skin

Is a physical act

But sex within

The intimacy

Of the soul, unfolds

And floats upon

Erotic sheets of

Poetry… It’s all

Nin & Whitman

Maya & Kerouac and

Zane, Barrett-Browning

Shakespeare and shit!



But I am finally

Ready

To dip

My pen inside

Your whipping

Erotic tide.



But will I

Only drown

When I’m supposed to

Flow?



I never learned

To perfect

That arc

In my dive. Never learned

To swim freely

Against

A rushing tide.

Never learned the righteous

Way to go

Insane, and lose

My mind

Inside of you…



But I am

Ready

To embrace

This newfound

Lunacy...

To close my eyes

And ride

Your wave

To wherever place

It leads…



And so

I go down

With grace

And I go down

Willingly...

Even though

The size and degree

Of your sensuality…

It sometimes

Almost…



Frightens me.







One.



By L.M. Ross

Ten Ponderations on Love & Friendship

I'm a curious kinda cat. I think people are much more interesting when they are faced with 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. So, with this in mind, a while back I composed a survey on one of my other blogs. I figured, 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)


YOU are at your most realest 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, after 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.

When someone shows you love, your usual M.O. is to:

a) reciprocate that action in some form
b) panic and out 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.



When you blatantly LIE to someone you're supposed to love, 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 feel mad guilty... because lying is an affront to my better nature, but I'm not perfect & sometimes a gentle lie becomes necessary.


Picture it: You’re engaged in a very intimate conversation where certain secrets and truths are revealed. Later on you and your former intimate are no longer speaking, yet, you are still armed with that preciously intimate info… when upset 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.

Someone you purportedly love is 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.

When YOU’VE hurt someone, unintentionally, are you usually sensitive or compassionate enough to even be aware of it? If so, how would generally follow-through to help to 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 and things that upset them that I might unaware of... some having dinner & talking it out helps us to understand where we're BOTH coming from, & hopefully this will squash the madness, literally.


Have you ever meant to tell someone the Gentle Truth, but it came out harsh and hurtfully? If so, did you try to fix it, pretty it up, or simply let that Truth breathe and breed?

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



When a close friend wants to hang out with you, but you’re 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
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.


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


LMR: Very, very, vurrrrrrrrrr verbal.


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 warmly sentimental and lasting?


LMR: C) Sometimes you have to sacrifice for love.

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


One.


Lin

Ask Me Who I Be

If you ask me
Who I am
I will tell you who
I be...

Before sex
Before color
Before complex
Theology... I be
Simply this


A Poet.

A poet, I say
Designed
And molded from
The Creator’s
Clay,
To feel
And process
To write and
Manifest
To say
And narrate
This makeshift
Reality.

A Poet
With pen inclined to
Scribe
My truth

A poet
With lips poised
To spit
Soliloquies of
Beautifulness and
Ugliness, too...


You ask me
Who I be
And I will tell you:

A poet
And simply this.

No heroic
Posturing of
A stoic
Human being-ness...
But so divinely
Human
It’s hurts
Sometimes.
Just to exist.

God-designed
To see
With eyes
Wide...
To whisper
To scream
To cry
To bitch
To unleash
This makeshift
Vulnerability


See...

It lives in me
In you
In us...
It crouches
It folds
It bends
It thrusts

It speaks
It lusts
It hollers
And sometimes it
Weeps...

It bounds
It leaps beyond
The surface
And goes down
Soul-deep.


Ask me who
I be... and I will
Tell you
Proudly,

I be this
Complex
Carbohydrate
Of tears
And screams,
Fire and
Energy...
No more
And no less than
Simply this:

A Poet!




One.

Throwin' Bows & Shit Like Dat

Sometimes I feel so sad for men. For me, my friends, for them, for us, we Penis People. We fail so miserably at being ourselves, at liking, then loving, then embracing our Selves.

We master the Art of Cool Pose by the age of ten or twelve, and by then we’ve surrendered all our sensitivity and Realness to this faux state of: Cool.

We resort to being Cool Fools with attitude who pimp and pose, as if we’re in full control. We demand respect (when we don’t even respect our damn selves), and we tend to forget we have tongues and brains, and so, we throw bows.

Throwin' Bows is the subject of this blog.


I work in a bar. I see people lose or relinquish that person they were when they first entered the place. They get ripped, blitzed, blasted, wasted, stupid, ill, and if someone calls them on their behavior, on their drunk-azz braggadocio act, they are so quick to see RED! And then, with astonishing quickness they are red to go, red to blow, red to start throwin dem blows!


Yes, there was one of THOSE encounters last evening. One of those that ended in blood, a broken nose, a superficial knife wound, the arrival of cop cars, and the red waltzing beams of ambulances on the scene.

But this one was different, because the person throwin bows, the main bow-thrower was a cat I call my friend. At least, I considered him one.

Has a college degree, and decent gig, and no prior history of thug-like activities. Until now.

And now I look like the damn fool who invited his damn azz to the spot, to the soiree because I though we were damn cool like that. I was the fool who set him up, who served him two freebies, and who THOUGHT, erroneously, he’d be a MAN, a laid-back-in- the-cut, have-himself-a-good-time with good people in a sedate social setting and conduct himself like a GENTLEMAN.

Was that too much expectation on my part? Perhaps it was. I was not watching him, wasn’t monitoring his words and actions. I was not on Red-Alert, or babysitting watch, was NOT clockin his every move... and didn’t feel I needed to be.

Dumb! STOOPID! DUMB! Foolish ME!


Apparently, when my back was turned, somebody ‘stepped to him wrong.’

Don’t know what was said. Don’t know what was applied. Don’t know jack, other than, HE swung on some guy. And he, my friend, my boy, my quasi-homey is the one with the broken nose.

Somehow, if history repeats that same old tired refrain, I supposed this will all morph into being MY fault.

But this is what we men do. We lose the ability, the class, the common sense to excuse our boldly masculine-frontin’ asses away from potentially volatile situations. We’d rather puff-up, act out, draw attention, draw a crowd, and then draw blood. That’s what we men do. Yes, some mad women do it too… which is even wilder and sadder.

But that’s not the subject here.

It’s men.

Or I should say males: Penis People, who from the outside resemble MEN… but who in actuality are foolish little boys with fragile baby egos, with G.I. Joe Complexes, and these quick-to-snap-like-a-bitch tendencies that some believe make them tough, make them strong, make them invincible, but they're wrong! Homey you’re dead wrong!

Sometimes I feel so sad for men. For me, my friends, for them, for us, we Penis People. We fail so miserably at being ourselves, at liking, then loving, then embracing our Selves.

And if only we learned to RESPECT ourselves, we could become one hell of a species.


One.

Peace-Out, Bernie Mac...

So, it would appear that another entertainer has left the building. Comedian Bernie Mac has stopped breathing air. It's so hard to believe this reality. Bernie Mac, who dressed like a grand pimpish dandy, and who, when he opened his mouth, delivered his own unique brand of keenly observational humor. Bernie Mac so boldly and so LOUDLY spoke of the things most people only whispered about.


However, the reported death of this actor-comedian has been one of the most bizarre adventures in confirming a legitimate celebrity passing in recent memory... mostly due to the net. Lately, it has become a morbid act of punking where the supposed sad news of famous and infamous people's death peaks in cyperspace before there is ever any REAL clarification or reports by The Legitimate Media sources.


When I heard of the death of Bernie's this morning, I was stunned. I had just awakened, so I thought this ' BREAKING NEWS ' was a part of some dream I hadn't finished dreaming.

This news came byway of my local NYC media. I rolled over, turned up the volume, then instantly click on CNN. Nothing. Maybe IT was a dream. Surely Bernie Mac had done enough in his career to garner a mention, right? Other local stations were also MUM on this story. I clicked to MSNBC. Again, nothing. Fox News, nada.

WTF?

I went online and discovered that only ONE source was reporting this... The Chicago Sun Times. Mind you, this was the quoted source given by the station which reported the news here. This report was vague and sketchy at best. I'm always leery of information coming from unnamed sources, or 'a source close to the family.' It reads very tabloidish... very Star magazine, National Enquirer type shit. Names, damn it! Give me names!


I then discovered SEVERAL online ' reports' (which would better be termed GOSSIP) that mention Mr. Mac's death as long ago as LAST WEEK.

If the man died last week, WHY was there no reporting of it?

Turns out THOSE reports were indeed rumors. Thus, to paraphrase Mark Twain: the reports of Bernie Mac's death were greatly exaggerated.


To make matters worse, the initial station here in NYC which reported the news this morning suddenly DELETED it from their website. WTF?

I began to feel better. I thought: Okay. Here we go again! Some sick person with nothing better to do with their time, starts a disturbing rumor and posts it online. Then, because of the speed of the net, someone else picks up on it, and it spreads like wildfire, producing grief and condolences from fans and admirers and shockwaves all over the place.

I've seen it happen before. Didn't the cat who played Urkel, actor Jaleel White, allegedly commit suicide a couple of years back? Well, he DID according these damn NET rumors. But, happily, the actor is still very much alive.

WHY DO PEOPLE DO THIS????

Do these twisted people even CONSIDER what such rumors do to those people who are family and friends of the 'dead' entertainer.. people who receive word of these bogus deaths before an accurate accounting and clarification can be made?

Do these sick and twisted individuals believe in KARMA... or is it all fun and games until someone loses an eye ... or a life?


Well, after about an hour of scrambling to get to the truth, Mr. Mac's publicist finally issues a statement that INDEED Bernie Mac died this morning. Dead, at age 50.

Wow! Sad. Sad news. One has to digest it, to get past the shock of it. Dead? But... wasn't this publicist was the very same person who'd reported to the media the day before that he was improving and responding well to the meds? Sad. Just sad.



Bernie Mac is dead... and I'm not feeling too good myself.

My issue here is not with Hollywood, or its publicists, or even the news media... some of which actually practice one of the first LAWS of journalism: CHECK and RECHECK your sources and get a legitimate confirmation BEFORE releasing information to the general PUBLIC! This would most likely explain WHY most media outlets didn't run with the story this morning, UNTIL it could be confirmed by more than one lone source.

No. My issue is with the twisted people who start this shit... the ones looking for some sick minuscule form of fame by spreading lies, the most ULTIMATE of lies, proclaiming someone dead (who is still among the living) because the rumor of it gets them some little piece of attention.

This crazy, erroneous reporting of popular actor- fill-in-the-blank-has passed seems to be the new IT thing to do for these creepy net-crawlers. But at what cost?


Anyway, this entry really should be about the tragic, untimely loss of Bernie Mac. I dug Bernie Mac's humor. He was a funny, funny man with an urban delivery that made me think of members of my own family. I dug his show, and most of his films, because he always brought some comic reality of life to the table of entertainment.

I will miss him. I began to miss him the moment I heard of his passing. I was, at first, grief-stricken... and then made to feel POSITIVE that it was all some horrible untruth.



Rest In Peace, Funny Man. You always kept it REAL up in duh field!

My sincere condolences go out to his wife and daughter.



And for those sad people who put such negativity into the universe, then whatever or whomever you believe in, I would recommend some serious prayer.



One.

My Personal Soundtrack

There oughta be

A soundtrack to

My life. A rhythm…

A rhythm,

To my walk

Like Shaft's...

A cat-like grace,

Choreographed, by

Me.


There oughta be some

Tom-toms

Pounding some

Urgent drums sounding

The long drawn

Song of my

Discontent. There oughta be some


Sad sexy

Saxophone thrown in

For tender moments…

Some strings

Played and serenades

Made to commemorate

Those Blue Moods, too…


Even if no one

Ever sees my movie

There oughta be

A soundtrack

To my life…

A discordant set played to

The complex maze,

A cadence to this

Strut of Independence…



If this day be my

Masterpiece,

My freak dance,

My opus,

Let the pace of

A Hip-hop beat

Speed thru my progress…


Let the guitar's wah-wah play

Me cool and

Ridiculous.


Let my lyrics be

Sweetened by

A ménage of flutes

And a mad marathon of

Trumpets...


And let my adversities

Be accompanied by

Something like a

SCREEEEEEEEAM!



And let my adversities

Be accompanied by

Something like a

SCREEEEEEEEAM!



See, there oughta be

A soundtrack

Some mean-ass brass,

A ballsy high-hat…

And a crazy

Cry… of tenor sax

To accent it all.


Even if no one

Ever sees

My movie

There oughta be

Some music,

Some attempt at harmony


And some chords played

Finally, finally right…

To accompany … this


Riff, this flight,

This trip-hop scat bop

Doo-doo-wow

Jazz flop

I call


My Life.



One.


By L. M. Ross

Making Love... A Confessional Poem

Confession:

I've made Love

Far more times

Than I've ever had

Sex. My

Imagination is

A whore… yes… but my body

Has been

A temple

Composed of

Fear and Poetry and

Hope for romance. The penis




Is a jerk meat

With piss-

Poor judgment.

It works,

It rises, it throbs when

We breathe.



It pretends to be

A magician...

No rabbits, only

The fluid of

Lust cums

From its hat.



Me? I've always dreamed

Bigger

Wider

Better

Than that, and so…

I've made love

More times than

I've ever had

Sex. Yet,



My head,

My home has been

A promiscuous dome

Where Illicit

What Ifs play

Twenty-four-sevenly.



This is what we

Men do. We thrust

Our erections into

Illusions and

When we arrive

We come...

Into the reality

That we are most alone

Inside this bed

In our heads.


But sex with no emotion

Was too easy, too dangerous,


So instead

I've made love to faces with names,

To orifices with brains

And souls who fell

Shamelessly to their

Knees.



And I've fallen, too

Before false gods

And goddesses, who

Made me kneel

At the alter of

Some thing

That felt

Soft and Hard…and Real, like


Love.







One.



By L.M. Ross

for a black man who is seriously considering suicide...

Dear Gregory:

Just finished reading your words, and now I’ve all these crazy tears in my eyes. Your words, they sounded so final, so methodical, as if you’re at some ticket office, finalizing your flight plan.

Gregory, final is a very, very long time, my friend.


I am sorry that your trip to London didn’t pan out the way you’d imagined and hoped and written and prayed that it would. I am truly, deeply sorry that the one you profess to love, wouldn’t see you, or answer your emails or take your calls. I am sorry that you feel lost and unnecessary. I am sorry that you feel all your effort was for naught.

I could say that this is THEIR loss. But I fear you won’t really hear me.

Gregory: When it’s real, when it’s actual and factual, Love is a verb. Love doesn't ignore you, or kick you in your gut. Love doesn't crush your spirit, hurt or fuck you in some deeply wounding way.

Love is supposed to support you, LIFT you up! “So High” that your “shoes are scraping the sky”… remember?


But Love, The Real Deal Stuff, doesn’t truly exist if it isn’t reciprocated. Yes, that’s a rough, mad tough pill to swallow. Yes, it may hurt like hell, but I swear, it’s true. What you thought was Love, was, in fact, a joyful past-life experience, an illusion, a beautiful dream in your heart.


It doesn’t mean are not worthy of Love, because you most definitely are. You ARE! It simply and sadly means that *this love* was not destined to endure for the entirety of your journey.


This too shall pass.


I’m also very sorry that the reunion with your father fell through. I am sorry that he chose to spend time with the “beloved” brother, instead of you. This too is HIS loss. If you have been made to feel as if you’re unloved, loveless, love-free, that is sad and most unfortunate. But it happens to be a deep untruth.


So now… what? You not want to punish those people who’ve hurt you, ignored you and chosen not to give you their love?


The truth is, your demise might sting them, might hurt them, might cause them to grieve you, for a minute or two. And… then what? You’re gone, and their lives will continue to go on.


You haven’t truly THOUGHT this thing through, my friend.


Well what about your son, and his family? You want to punish them, too? Do you really think leaving them your precious computer will soothe them through your eternal absence?


What about the friends who’ve offered you help and guidance, Light and Laughter and Love through your episodes of pain? Do you want to punish us, too?


What about those times when the sun shines and a smile comes into your heart for no reason, and you experience a Good Moment? Do you want to punish those Good Moments, too?


What about the spirit in you, the one who believes in The Creator, what are you really saying to Him? That He Made a Tragic Mistake in Creating you? That you’re not worthy of a full life, lived in joy and pain?


Truthfully, Gregory, Black Men and Suicide shouldn’t even be in the same damn sentence. Black men have known Real Tests of The Human Condition: centuries of indignities, kidnapping, and slavery, centuries of systemic emasculation, physically, mentally and spiritually, and still somehow survived without the crutch of suicide.

But *heartbreak* alone is enough to do YOU in?


Your sensitivity enlightens me, but your weakness, it only frightens and saddens me.


I would truly like to Believe you are STRONGER than this, Gregory. You are a Spirit-filled, God-fearing Being. You are, and have been a Light, and a Beacon of inspiration. Should you choose to snuff out that light, everything you ever said will forever ring of fraudulence.


Should you snuff out that Light, you will truly know Hell, and not that sacred peacefulness you only imagine you will.


You need to remember this: What Doesn’t Kill Us… Make Us Stronger!

You need to know that the Sun does indeed rise again.

You need to realize that suicide is a foolish and permanent solution to a temporary problem.

You need to always remember that This Too Shall Pass.

You need to know and to put into daily practice, this, my friend:

From the Jaws of suffering, Snatch Joy!


That’s it. That’s all.

Choose Life!


I Love You.




P.S. And now I’ve all these crazy tears in my eyes. Imagine that! Me! I must be one those people who truly feels that you Matter, Gregory.

*Ponder* that, my friend.


One Love.


Lin