A Meditation On: The Myth of Manhood

The Myth of Manhood






We offset masculinity
With bravado and obscenity
Afraid to embrace sensitivity,
We disconnect from our poetry.

We boil in soups of complexity
And stew in our futile brutality
Too fearful to reveal our humanity,
We ignore our peace mentality.

We inflict our core fragilities
Upon weaker ones, for clarity
That we are MEN... a phallically-
Challenged curiosity, with no idea of
How to be.

We shield our insecurities
With braggadocio and hyperbole
Ignore our wounds and maladies
Projecting our faux-vitality.

We erect and flex our sexuality, yet
Disguise our chronic uncertainties
We exaggerate our salaries
As we over-inflate our reality

Refusing to acknowledge our fallacies
We stoop to acts of inhumanity
We masturbate our M-16s
And falsify our legacies...

We’re victims to this harsh disease
Contorting our souls into machines
Terrified that shows of empathy
Might destroy our guise of

Masculinity. Yes, we are
MEN. We stew, we boil in
Soups of complexity, with no idea of
How to simply

be.



One.





copyright © 2010 by L.M. Ross

Accepting Duh Love & Passing Some On...

Good news is something I never take for granted, and today I’ve some good news to share. It appears that the very captivating Anna Renee aka “Sista Westsiiiiide”
(as I like to call her) has deemed to bless me and this blog in a large, remarkable, and mad lovely way. She has tagged me in a meme she’s participating in, which originated at the Electronic Village Blog.

In doing so, she writes: “It's for black bloggers to introduce themselves and share about their interests and other black bloggers they know.”


Coolness. I’m extremely honored. Realizing there are tens of thousands of other worthwile blogs out there, it’s really quite humbling to have been chosen. However, being selected from the multitudinous masses had me scratching my nappy head, wondering, WHY me and my blog? No. I’m not being dense or obtuse, nor am I fishing for compliments. I’m just the curious type.

So… WHY ME, Sista Westisiiiide?

“I chose you and four others out of ALL the lovely blogs out there because you are in my TOP FIVE: For being cool! (I appreciate that there's no East coast/west coast beef between us;

For being funny! For being REAL! Really Real! I’m not gonna talk about your talent. You already know you talented. And for having the coolest blog title and a sign off word!! That ish is cool as hell,” she said.

Oh. Ok. Bet. Well, thankyavurrrmuch! See? I figured it was best to let HER explain it, instead of me talking myself up!

(But you can still APPLAUD me! * I’ll wait*)

Part of the meme is to apply five separate links that help to reveal a lil something about myself and my circle of fam, friends and those things that make my heart beat faster. So the rules of the meme are thus: Create five links about:
• 1. Link one must be about Family;
• 2. Link two must be about Friends;
• 3. Link three must be about myself–who I am, what I’m about;
• 4. Link four must be about something I love;
• 5. Link five can be about anything I choose!

To begin with, I’ve three bigheaded & beloved nephews; the oldest one is named Lang.
Langston


AKA: “The Neph-son,” as I call him. He’s managed to seamlessly infuse the ying and yang, and use both sides of his brain by playing football on his college team, and he’s also an aspiring writer, with an eye on journalism. I’m so proud of him. And yes, it was me who suggested naming him “Langston Harlem”, after the great Harlem Renaissance Poet, Langston Hughes. Thus far, he’s doing that name some serious justice. God Bless him and the other bigheads, Ellington and DuBois!

Then there’s my serene friend Sunni

Her page is a loving homage to the Great African-American entertainers, past and present. I’ve never known a more wonderful person, or a more beautiful spirit than the woman I call “My Sunni-ness!!!” I’m very Blessed just to have her as a close and treasured friend. She’s so down, smart, cool, lovely, spiritual and just a pleasure in every way. Sunni lives in the Philly area, where she and her husband, legendary radio personality, Tony Brown, share the duties of broadcasting a nightly Quiet Storm format at WDAS-FM, bringing good vibes and meaningful music to those who still appreciate it.

As a lover of music, and being a hardcore audiophile, I’m lucky to count a few friends in my circle who happen to be surperb musicians. Some do their thing quietly, going about their lives making music that matters and by doing so, they feed the soul.

My friend Lucas
is one of those cats, specializing in the kind of jazz that makes you tap your feet, nod your head, and yes, THINK at the same time. His vocals are a throwback to a hipper, more polished and classical age, and he continues to set a sterling example of what today’s music can be. So, please, check this dude out!

I’m always a little amazed at how many people have never had what can only be called: The Jimmy Scott Experience. Mr. Jimmy

Jimmy Scott's Facebook Page

No words could possibly describe this man’s gift. Once you HEAR him sing, then you will GET IT. He is the sound of the human soul in its most piercing bluesy, brilliant, emotional, fragile and fantastic echo. His voice is a God-given instrument that taps into something so deep and unspoken within your being that you might listen to him and find tears pouring from in your eyes. He is considered a legend in jazz circles, and having met, spoken to, and seen him perform several times, I feel humbled to consider him a beloved friend. The man is 85 years-young, and still doing his thing! So, roll by his page, read his bio, check the pics (I’m actually in one. “Moanman” cat in the cap would be me). But better yet, go to your favorite music site and download a few of his masterpieces disguised as songs. Once you do, then get ready to be MOVED beyond your imagination.



A lil sum’m about :
Me
I love: the art in and of expression...
I hate: limitations of any kind...
I fear: never having been *felt*...
I hope: there is a Heaven...
I hear: Music, all the time...
I crave: human understanding...
I regret: ever hurting anyone...
I cry: for abused children...
I care: so damn deeply...
I always: breathe...
I feel alone: in my solitude & dig it muchly...
I listen: closely to the lyrics of jazz...
I hide: my deepest pain from others...
I drive: some people crazy...
I dance: with each stride of my walk, yo...
I write: because it lets my soul sing...
I act: like a gentleman... most times...
I miss: the people I’ve lost...
I eat: new KNOWLEDGE...
I drink: vodka martinis, str8-up w/ a twist...
I learn: that life continues presenting new lessons...
I feel: I am a work in progress...
I know: a Creator exists...
I sleep: with dreams as constant companions...
I wonder: why I don’t have wings to fly...
I want: to heal...
I worry: about the future...
I have: a cosmos in me...
I fight: my insecurities...
I need: to purge sometimes...
I am: a human being w/one beak of song...
I think: I'll sing.

Read more: Book Page

While I’m not the most consistent blogger (working two gigs while finishing up a new novel doesn’t leave much free time for anything else, not even blogging), I do enjoy the opportunity to vent, to express, unravel and poetically reveal the goings on in this ever-evolving cosmos within my spirit.

HOWEVER… the hardest part of this whole process is that NOW I must choose/nominate FIVE other bloggers for this rather prestigeous honor! It’s rough to narrow my list down to a mere five blogs when there are so many that I genuinely enjoy visiting, reading, and commenting on because they either amuse me, challenge my perceptions, inform me, and/or basically entertain the hell outta me. However, I must follow the rules, and they state that only FIVE can be singled out, thus… without any further ado, heretheygo:

1. Fellow writer, music lover & all round chill bruh, Jason. I recently discovered his blog and it has quickly moved to the head of my must-read list. There’s something about his topics and his writing style that feels as if we went to different schools at different times, and yet picked up some of the same lessons along the way. This is one of those blog brothas definitely worth checking out:

Jason


2. Curvy. Well I choose her blog because this sista shares the wisdom, drops the science via quotations from various great minds which often serve to inspire, and in addition, she pens blogs in her own voice that consistently keeps it real and relatable. Reading her words often remind me of those good ole days of sitting on the stoop with a few friends, riffin’ on various topics and commenting on the passersby, while one of the neighborhood chicarinas braids my hair. You can find her at:
Curvy



3. Then there’s my girl, Felicia. What can I say about Felicia? She’s a blogger I recently happened upon; a quietly cool and talented sista who doesn’t use any bells and whistles to get her point across, and yet, I’m always intrigued by her poetry and the verbal landscapes she chooses to share with her readers. You just know there’s a caring, feeling, sensitive and active mind composing these thoughts. Check her stuff at:

Mariposa Tales


4. There’s no way I could NOT include Miz… Ok, I admit it. I’m a sucka for good writers who have something to say and express themselves in their own uniquely individual way. Miz definitely fits that bill. An artist, mother, feeler of deeper emotions she’s unafraid to explore or question and she always leaves you wanting more. Her blog is like a beautiful gift you take pleasure in opening just to see what new and beguiling contents lay inside. You will find her at:
MizRepresent

5. Finally, there's that unshakable force known as "Sista Lo!" She is one of the most keeping it Realest Black women who never chafes at revealing all that goes on with both her exterior and her interior life. She is a fearless writer on her journey through love, divorce, family and other personal issues. And yet, for me, whatever she writes about, and whatever her emotional terrain, she always provides a good read! Peep her out at:

LoveBabz


oTAY! That’s it. I apologize for not being able to include more. But, truth be told, copying web addys, setting up links, and making sure they work is a time-consuming enterprise for someone like me who is NOT the most net savvy person on the planet. So mad congrats to the nominees! I hope you will be as honored and perhaps as dumbfounded as I am by this inclusion.

Snatch JOY!

One.

Lin

A Brotha's Sick N' Tired Rant!!!

So, this is my sick and tired of the bullshit rant. It's past due time for it. No. This ain't about me snatching JOY because JOY has been playing Hide 'n Seek with my ass!

I don’t know what the problem is. Well, maybe I do. Lately I’ve been in a deeply dour mood. Been feeling mad stressed, and maybe just a tad distressed. Been feeling overworked, and underpaid… overtaxed and laxly laid. I have been lacking so much for, inspiration, that I’m afraid my soul is now underfed. This could be a case of the typical "I Jess Don't Gits No Respect" Blues, I guess.

In no way, a slacker, I’m just lacking that knack, that zest, that magic drug that makes one feel accomplished. Been working on manuscripts deep into the ungodly hours of the morning, and chances are, no matter my efforts, the work will never be appreciated. Or else, some smooth-ass-ghetto-bred-wannabe-thug-criminally-minded mofo will rip me the hell off. I can’t count on people any more. They leave me thoroughly pissed with their triflin' fits of bullshit and blatant self-involvement.


I’m starting to understand why so many others find solace in the bottle, the beer can, the crack-pipe, in meaningless coitus, or in a needle. I’ve seen too many bad things go wrong for essentially good people. I've seen too much foul shit in general: too much TV and cable news, too much war, and too many viruses, too much of the web, and too much porn and senseless violence.


I’ve witnessed too much of man’s inhumanity to man; the wrong hands placed on women, children, animals… and sometimes I think, just maybe those *needle people* have it right.

I have seen them wandering carefree and aimlessly through the haze of days, and I’m almost filled with envy. At night, these junkies glide down a maze of neon streets, slinking down avenues and onto those roads, less taken. Lately, I’m wondering if the road I’ve taken has really been worth the trip.

I won’t say my head’s messed up, or that I’m depressed. I’m not a big fan nor a subscriber of that concept. Yes. Some people are truly clinically depressed. God Bless them. But other people just use it, own it, cling to the idea of it, until death. I just get down sometimes— that’s all. I get down, and I try to breathe in easy waves, to *center* my chi, and eventually… it goes away.

I believe "Happy" is an unnatural state to be in 24-7, anyway. Lord Save me from those chronically HAPPY(!!!) people!

But I’m tired, damn tired... and bored and deeply uninspired by my day-to-day life.







I’m tired of smiling when my spirit doesn’t feel much like cooperating.

I’m tired of sometimey folks who, at best, can only extend their lukewarm acts of graciousness.

I’m tired of trying to figure and finesse the latest in the hip new handshakes.

I’m tired of making half-broke, half-assed, half-fabulous appearances.

I’m tired of these old clothes that smell like old closets.

I’m tired of the smell of me, my cologne, my hair, my face, my goatee, and my reflection.

I’m tired of people wanting things from me, knowing I’ll most likely be the one *cheated* in the interaction.

I’m tired people telling me “the check’s in the mail!”

I’m tired of practically begging for things that are owed to me.

I’m tired of failure… and of failing to be *felt*.

I’m tired of weird-assed vibes and mixed signals.

I’m tired of nosy people who ask questions that are none of their biz.

I’m tired of making exceptions for ignorant people.

I’m tired of intolerance- even when it comes from me.

I'm tired of fake-azz wannabe "thugs."

I’m sick with braggarts, bling and people who measure their worth by material things.

I’m sick with a media that glorifies this rampant banality.

I’m tired of emails and calls from people with nothing cognizant to say.

I’m tired of supplying wit to thoughtless, witless, depth-free individuals.

I’m tired and bored with my self, my moods, my words, my brooding, and others curiosity.

I’m tired of Presidents, CEOs and powerful people who only possess weak knees.

I’m sick of these new restrictions taking every ounce of my so-called freedom.

I’m tired of the hype, hypers, and the hyping of things I’m supposed to like.

I’m tired of long, boring-ass movies so notoriously overly-priced, that, as a customer, I oughta sue!

I’m sick of exhibitionists claiming to be artists, and really don’t have a clue.

I’m sick of half-assed attempts at music, expensive cigs and TV dinners served cold.

I’m sick of the lies and dissortions of the media, and 15 minute faces I’m supposed to know.

I’m tired of this prevailing phoniness while engaged in my constant struggle to keep it real.

I’m tired of the mediocre shit being praised, tired of preeners and posers and I’m tired of watching what I eat to retain my appeal.

I’m tired of competing, while others are cheating, and I’m tired of these jobs, and the gym.

Sick of entering races I never seem to win. I’m tired of running. Tired of running.

Tired of running and breathing too freakin’ fast!

I’m so tired of the rats, the rat-race and the races of men.

I’m tired of always, always running, damn it!

Sometimes, I just wish I’d learned how to swim.




One.

If You Don't Hear From Me After This ... I Probably Went Buckwild Mental...

Here is something you can’t understand ... How I Could just KILL a Fam:

This music is BANGING! I mean BANGIN’ and shaking the freakin' walls, yo! And as I write this, it is 2:34AM! I came home from work at 1:30. The music was THUMPIN then. I’m beyond bone-tired. At this point, it's more like tired as a broke-down Mississippi field slave, under an oppressive August heatwave. As of this summer, I’ve had to work TWO gigs in order to make ends meet. Yes, it’s rough, but thus far, I’m hangin tuff and haven’t gone postal on a mofo yet!

But the night/day is still young.

The music is BANGIN’!!! Why the HELL is that MUSIC BANGIN like this???

Ummm... Here is something you can’t understand... how I could just KILL a fam!

So, I’m stuck here, WIDE awake, and it’s not from a case of insomnia. No. These rude-ass, egregiously inconsiderate African people who moved in a few weeks ago have a teenaged son who insists upon BLASTING his freaking MUSIC at all hours of the night… And I don’t mean just LOUD, I mean BAZOOKA BANGIN’… with this incessant THUMPIN', BUMPIN', PUMPIN', THROBBIN' BASSLINE until objects in my apartment literally VIBRATE! I mean... WTF!!!!???? Why don’t they just tell him to STOP this madness?!? Why don’t they advise him to respect the sancity of this building!? Why the HELL am I writing this ish, when I should be sleeping?



Here is something you can’t understand… how I could just KILL a FAM!

It’s late Monday night/early Tuesday morning!

And to borrow a line from the Talking Heads: “This ain’t no party! This ain’t no disco! This ain’t no fooling around!”

But apparently, his parents didn't GET that memo! They don’t say shit, don't do jack… as if it’s his world and the rest of us are just crazed, sweaty victims to his non-stop turntablism! It has pissed me off to the point where I’ve BANGED on my ceiling (several times!!!!). But my banging does nothing but get lost inside this BANGIN' beat that he’s been rocking on steady rotation!

Here is something you can’t understand... how I could just KILL a FAM!

Now, anyone who knows me, or who even visits this page would know that I LOVE music. Often it’s music alone that’s been my salvation. So, I’m not hating on it. Even though I’m not a mad hip-hop fan, I can nod my nappy head to it, when it’s played at a DECENT level. Hasn't he ever heard of HEADPHONES? Couldn't they chip in and get him a fuckin iPod or something? There are OPTIONS for people who like to play their music LOUDLY! But, without any consideration for the rest of us, this kid just ups the damn VOLUME until it gives new meaning to DISTURBING the PEACE! And still his freaking parents allow this shit to go on & on... well until the break of dawn!



Here is something you can’t understand.. how I could just KILL a FAM!



History verifies that I’ve had absolutely NO LUCK when it comes to neighbors. I’ve lived in this building (a three-family dwelling) for five years. I'm on the first floor, and a very cool, respectful neighbor; a single Jewish gentleman occupies the third floor. It's the SECOND floor that's had a revolving door of oddballs, rebels and miscreants. Each year, someone new moves in, and each tenant has brought their own set of issues, craziness and unlawful activities that's made living beneath them, a living HELL!

First, there was the young, the restless and somewhat freakish couple who frequently engaged in mad aggressive passionate damn-near bed-breaking sex, just above MY head. My walls are very thin. So whether or not I want to, I HEAR EVERYTHING. Luckily, for me at least, the hubby was one of those 3 minute brothas. But what seriously intense and unhinged three-minute-sessions they would be! They had kids too. Keeids would be more like it. Three lil snot-nosed straight-up bratlings who they would allow to run back and forth and scream at the top of their lungs, using their OUTSIDE voices. The kids, the sex, the running, the screams, that terrible combo platter made the quality of life pretty damned difficult for me. Apparently, some people never quite bought into the notion nor the concept of HOME TRAINING!

Here is something you can’t understand... how I could just KILL a fam!

Then came this mother and daughter team who were straight-up ghetto, in the EXtreme, and had no couth whatsoever. Beyond merely scatological, the cussing was so crazy it would've made the late, great Richard Pryor blush and say Dammmmmn, yo! What The Motherfuck? The daughter had one of those rambunctious young’ns who'd fall, a lot, BAM(!), BOOM(!) and CRIED incessantly throughout the night. Like many New Yorkers, we kept our distance, rarely spoke or made much eye contact, but the one time we did, I WAS GRILLED by the mother who, instead of inquiring who I was, went into badass cop-mode, asking what the HELL I WAS DOING on "HER" front porch, because she didn’t “KNOW” me. I politely told this heifer I was her downstairs neighbor, and I’d been living there since BEFORE she (and her gruesome twosome) had ever moved in. I was just quiet and unassuming and didn’t make a habit of being LOUD with my shit! Then, as fate, and a lack of decent birth control would have it, the daughter turned up preg-nasty AGAIN, and I just KNEW that I could not and would not deal with yet another crying baby OVER MY HEAD! Thankfully, (yes, THANKFULLY!) the landlord raised our rent, which was apparently too steep for them, so they decided to leave BEFORE the birth of a new and raging rugrat.

Ahhhhh, peace and quiet at last... or so I THOUGHT!

But NEXT came the invasion of this oddball mother and son dual, who were Italian and very, very shady types. They never worked, hardly ever left the house, and yet they were constantly running their damn washing machine, at all hours! Of course this was right over MY head. They also had a very large dog, which wasn’t supposed to be allowed, and I never once saw them WALKING said dog, so the hallway smelled fluently of mangy bow-wow. Night and day, that damn dog barked... Night and day that damned machine kept agitating me, and I could never figure out WHY they washed clothes so damned often when they virtually NEVER went out of the house! The only time I recall anyone leaving the place was when the young son ran down the stairs in a fury, cursing in a high-pitched voice and screaming: “I FUCKIN' HATE YOU!” then calling his mother the c-word before slamming the front door! Oh my! I was shocked, appalled actually... but I kept my door locked and minded my own business. Turned out that these two were also grifters, con artists who had several expensive cars, including a brand new Lexus, always parked outside, but none of those shorts were ever driven, and yet, for all their fancy high-priced whips, they still couldn’t manage to PAY their damn rent. They were straight-up gangsta with their attitude and the sheer bombasity of their shit. Then, they just refused to leave once the lease expired, so an ‘official’ arrived to order their now squatting asses out… and they were eventually evicted from the premises. Much drama ensued.

Here is something you can’t understand… how I could just KILL a FAM!




After Ma Barker and son vacated, they were soon followed by a whole mess of Mexicans (to this day I have NO idea just how many actually LIVED above me) who were always NOISY as hell and always hyper-active: Selena's music played constantly, far too many people had keys to the front door, strangers were always in and out of the crib at all hours, and there always seemed to be a party, a freakin' fiesta going on (say it with me) OVER MY DAMN HEAD! The rude awakening came when someone knocked on my back door. I opened it to find a uniformed officer standing there. In all my life, I'd NEVER had a cop knock on my door before. But there he was, asking me questions about these mysterious (and plentiful) upstairs people. I knew nothing. He told me that a “kidnapped 15 year old girl” was reportedly there, against her will. WTF? Beats me. I’d long lost count of how many mofos rolled in and out of that place. I allowed the cop to walk through my apartment, through the hall, and up the stairs to their place, since they'd refused to answer the doorbell (but people with something to hide... rarely answer their doors, do they?). Long story short, the following day, they moved out en masse.


Here is something you can't understand... how I could just KILL a FAM!


This bring us to the bitter PRESENT: I now have these African neighbors, who SCREAM in a language I can't dechiper, who have a teenage-LOUD-ass-music-playing-son, and who don’t have a clue of how to raise a respectful, responsible child. These are the latest invaders of my domicile, and there is NO PEACE to be had! I'm about at my breaking point now. With no sleep, this maddening heat, and the apathy of these people who just don't give a damn about my comfort or state of mind... seems like the perfect storm that could just possibly make something inside me SNAP! KABOOM!

So if by chance you don't see any more entries from me, or I cease to visit your page... it's quite possible that I lost it, took my rage on a killing spree with a blood-curdling scream on my lips, and commenced to go straight-up Son of Sam on some mofos! All because, at 4:15AM, I blew a gasket, went mad as hell, and I just couldn't TAKE it any more. Aiight?

Here is something you can't understand... how I could just KILL a FAM!



Peace-out!

One.

Just in Case The Universe Is Listening…

Dear Universe,

How You doin'? You aiight? I hope so. It's Your boi, Lin. You know that cat with all these dreams in his head and longing desires deep in the recesses of his heart and spirit that he *never* tells to anyone? Yeah, that Lin.

Well lately, I've been thinking-- pondering really-- that if we are truly to be on good terms, then perhaps I should speak to You more... tell You what's on my mind, reveal a few of my deepest desires. Actually, this is my attempt at a mini-quasi-prayer session, where I talk, and hopefully... just maybe, You'll listen.

Below are some things I would very much like to see come into my Life.



My Metaphoric Desires:

*"I want to go where the wild geese go.

I want to know what the falcon knows.

I want the sky up over my head.

I want to live until I’m dead."



My Artistic Desires:

I want to realize and manifest my most enduring masterpiece: to live a life of Meaning.

I want to write like no one else, but me.

I want to pen an opus that speaks to and for the human condition.

I want to be artful, and for Art to be my mission.



My Hedonistic Desires:

I want to live out of a suitcase, in Paris.

I want to wear a natty beret, and take copious notes inside some small café.

I want to live and love and dance and sex and live and love and dance and sex.

I want to send my company home, write deep into the indigo hours, and then to sleep, the sleep of accomplishment all day long.




My Beauty Pageant Desires:

I want world peace and unity, now-- dammit!

I want for there to never be hunger in any part of the world again.

I want every man to realize this own humanity, and to appreciate that same quality in his fellow man.

I want every child on the planet to be safe, and happy, and disease-free.




My Selfish Desires:

I want to go on an escavation to all the ancient places within me.

I want every song I ever loved easily accessible to me.

I want to possess every book and manuscript ever placed on my wish list.

I want at least one famous friend who thinks I’m truly “brilliant.”

I want my first book made into a movie with my illustrious dream cast emoting in it.

I want to laugh and cough in the face of every editor/editrix who ever chose to rape my words and sentiments.

I want to be comfortably rich and successful within the deepest regions of my soul.

I want to be known and respected for my gift, and yet remain paparazzi-free.

I want that dream of my grandmother’s prophesy for me to become a wonderful reality.

I want to make sweet Mrs. Ferreri (my 1st grade teacher) be mad proud of me.

I want the astute Mrs. Lang (my high school English teacher) to have been right about me.



I want “The Next One” to be the Best One, and The Blessed One.

I want to buy my beloved mom a modest colonial home in Virginia.

I want a better home, a flyer wardrobe, and finer art on my walls.

I want to throw a huge NY party for all my friends and thank them for their unceasing love.

I want a certain well-loved face to be right beside me throughout my journey.


I want my last play produced on Broadway, and a fabulously memorable opening night.

I want the homeless cat down the street to have and lead a better life.

I want the ease and ability to pay off the bills of all the people I love.

I want a grand piano, topped by a mess of photographs, each with a sepia glow.

I want to compose the perfect sentence, perfect poem, the perfect torch song.


I want to hitch a camel ride somewhere out of mind.

I want to sit with the Maharishi at the foot of the Himalayas, and ohmmmmmmm... from deep within my solar plexus.

I want Heaven to truly exist for all people I love and miss; I need to believe they are there.

I want my spirit to breathe free and my eyes to be wide-open on this journey of self-discovery.


I want to be healthy

And wise

And well…

Always interesting

And interested.



*See, 'I wanna go where the wild geese go.

I wanna know what the falcon knows.’


I want to paint my most enduring masterpiece.

I want to write like no one else on this planet, but me.





Peace-out, Universe. Thanks for listening.

Again, this be Your boi, Lin. Aiight?


One.




•*Partial lyrics to the song “Right On, Be Free” by The Voices of East Harlem
 

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 your 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, damaged hearts 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 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 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 darkened dens of their wretched Motherfucked-ness.


So, upon the Great Disappointment in my life, caused by another kind of Motherfucker entirely, I sought and needed friendship, instead of unappreciated 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, if they require space, you give them space.
When you love someone, if they ask for peace, you give them peace.
When you love someone, and they need to be left alone… you grant them their alone time.

But a Motherfucker won’t care about any of that shit. Why?


Because, a Motherfucker has his or her own agenda.

A Motherfucker will always 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 is a stranger to the word "loyalty."
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 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 sure others recognize your wretched Motherfucked-ness, too.


One.




Note: This is a repost, the remix, the encore... which is just as necessary as it was before.

LMR

An Adventure In JOY-Snatchin’

My iPod & I cruised in a slow throb around the brown side of town,
Where Lolitas in tube-tops & booty-shorts set flames inside
A papi's cartoon eyes.


Outside the local bodega, old men of espanol descent, style
Straw chapeaus & engage in dominoes while low-riders blast
High decibel Salsa as flashing ojos watch me on
The Sly.

I’m just a vacancy inside my own hotel of thought, too distracted
To care if I happen to wear that darker skin of suspicion.
In some dens, I realize, I am hated by proxy. See, I know
The lingo of assholes. I know how people can silently curse me,
And say fuck you(!)... with a shrug of their shoulder.

But I was casually shopping for JOY. I said, JOY! Damn it!

No, not the dish-washing detergent!

No! Not that shit most folks rent in cans of Bud or
Heineken! No! I don't need a six-pack of Corona, mi amigo!
Joy! Felice!

Umm… Can a brotha get an interpreter up in this piece?

Apparently, they were out of stock, again! I copped my usual
Newports, said gracias... &... I stubbornly tipped eastward.
I was seeking the simplicity of JOY in a cool summer's breeze,
In a smile from an aging stranger, in a sighting of swift
Black girl's feet jumping in double-dutch rhythms: yobaby,
Yobaby, yo!

I was seeking JOY, because sometimes I can't find it in the noise of
My thoughts, in my iPod, or in Jill Scott’s voice. I could not find it
In the arms that sometimes soothe my so-called savaged beast.
I could not see it in the blue-gold-burgundy flaming sunset, or in
Those denim-clad nymphettes & mascara-wearing Angels downtown, yo.

I could not taste it in that surreptitious Rasta’s product
After the sale goes down... could not find it in that slim joint
Of light that sometimes keeps me strangled in the scenery of
Empty laughter & coughing Cadillacs, low-riders, st. toughs, &
Nubile Lolitas in tube-tops & booty-shorts setting
Flames inside a papi's cartoon eyes.

The moral of this shit: Joy-snatching & Hell-catching
Are sometimes just concepts that collide like drunken
Planets out of orbit, out of time with this waltz of life, out
Of tune with the cosmic synchronicity, out of step with the
Routine universality, out of rhythm, the rhythm of the time
And space continuum.

JOY is a rare commodity. Maybe it's inherent in our chemistry
And maybe... it isn’t. But maybe only fools & dreamers believe
They can purchase it. And if you’re irrational enough to go
Looking for it, sometimes the whole damn world will shrug
And simply say, Fuck you! with its shoulders.

Me? I’m determined to snatch a little piece anyway, once
I can decipher its language, read it in a kind stranger’s eyes,
Figure out its handshake, discover its natural high, & simply
Learn to roll with it. Meanwhile, I’m pretty sure it's embedded
Somewhere inside that street corner symphony of my soul.



One.



copyright © 2010 by L.M. Ross

NEW YORK... WHEN IT SPITS...

Some misshapen thing w/a mean tattoo
Some chic, urban island of random cool
Some street corner cat steady screaming: “REVOLUTION!”
Some mythic steely smile, w/ its front teeth missing...

Some blues-chick blonde diggin’ on black sounds...
Some den of poor poets all tryna be profound...
Some Jeep's street banger w/ a hip-hop fury.
Some downbeat varicose bluecity alley.

Some screaming people howling how their lives are so shitty.
Some shafts of pink neon painting everybody... pretty.

Some east village hipster decked in all black drag...
Some tripped-out tranny, keeps vogueing all fab
Some ditzy debutante on the cover of a mag...
Some pissed-off black man who can’t hail a cab.

Some carefree limousine flying down Fifth Ave...
Some subway atrocity, but what else is new?
Some Wall Street slick thief finally paying his dues...
Some poor soul in winter, cries, devoid of any shoes.

Some glossy picture postcard you had as a kid...
Some whore's fishnets, revealing everything she did.
Some terrible sickness that's left unchecked...
Some two-bit priest w/ a Messiah Complex.

Some bleeding fist swingin in some ig’nit beatdown
Some new minority w/ his face on the ground...
Some canyon full of sirens, w/ not a single cop around
Some scream that gets drowned by the constant citysound...

Some black poet cat that keeps taking steady notes
‘Bout a tribe of soulless eyes… devoid of any hope.
We joke, we smoke, we sip on our Snapple
While choking on the core of what’s called:
“The Big Apple.”



One.




copyright © 2010 by L.M. Ross

Bon Voyage, Mon Vonetta...

One of my very first and most lasting cinematic crushes has sadly made her transition. Actress Vonetta McGee, who appeared in such films as "Melinda," “Blacula,” “Hammer”,“Shaft in Africa,” and the Clint Eastwood thriller "The Eiger Sanction" died last Friday, on July 9th, in Berkeley, Calif.

She was 65 years old.


She was blessed with a remarkable presence, and it's hard to say what it was about her that initiated my boyhood crush. I just liked her, and she drew me into her silent spell, much like a rose draws you in with its singular fragrance. Even in an industry so thick with a populace of pretty people, she possessed one of those stunning faces and shimmering talents that stood out, and like some haunting hypnotist, she made you remember her. She was not only compelling and very beautiful, in a quiet, non-showy way, but she had loads of subtext written inside those glorious eyes of hers.


In “Blacula” (1972), Ms. McGee portrayed the love interest of Mamuwalde (William Marshall), an African prince who, after an ill-fated trip to Transylvania centuries earlier, re-emerges in modern Los Angeles as a member of the thirsty undead.

Reviewing the film in The New York Times, Roger Greenspun called Ms. McGee “just possibly the most beautiful woman currently acting in movies.”





Personally, I liked that this critic didn't place her inside that marginal professional ghetto of some all-too-common yet limited racial context, like 'the most beautiful black woman', but instead, he rightly acknowledged her universal appeal.


In “Hammer” (1972), Ms. McGee appeared opposite Fred Williamson in the tale of a young black prizefighter. In “Shaft in Africa” (1973), the third installment in the private-eye series starring Richard Roundtree, she played an emir’s daughter.

Ms. McGee’s other films include “The Kremlin Letter” (1970); “Detroit 9000” (1973); “Thomasine & Bushrod” (1974); and “The Eiger Sanction” (1975), directed by and starring Clint Eastwood.

Lawrence Vonetta McGee, named for her father, was born in San Francisco on Jan. 14, 1945. While studying pre-law at San Francisco State College, she became involved in community theater. She left college before graduating to pursue an acting career.


Ms. McGee’s first film work was in Italy, where her credits include the 1968 films “Faustina,” in which she played the title role, and “Il Grande Silenzio” (“The Great Silence”). After seeing her Italian work, Sidney Poitier arranged for her to be cast in her first American film, “The Lost Man” (1969), in which he starred.


In later years she always maintained her beauty and quiet elegance. She would have recurring roles on several television shows, among them “Hell Town,” “Bustin’ Loose,” “L.A. Law” and “Cagney & Lacey,” on which she portrayed the wife of Detective Mark Petrie, played by Carl Lumbly. Ms. McGee and Mr. Lumbly were married in 1986.


Besides Mr. Lumbly, Ms. McGee is survived by their son, Brandon Lumbly; her mother, Alma McGee; three brothers, Donald, Richard and Ronald; and a sister, also named Alma McGee.

Though she was associated in public memory with the genre, Ms. McGee deplored the term “blaxploitation.” It wasn’t the “black” that troubled her — that was a source of pride. It was the “exploitation.”

“She was constantly a person who preferred roles where women got to make choices,” Ms. Nayo said on Friday. “Where women got to be strong.”





* * * *

Rest in Peace, Lovely Sister. I shall always remember you with a certain youthful smile inside my heart.


One Love.

Lin

Between Fractured Verse and Poetry

The following was written, after someone asked me the pointed question: "So, who are you, really?"




Between Fractured Verse and Poetry


I co-exist with bits
And pieces of me,
I am the stuff of
Fractured verse
And poetry.
Open door and barbed-wired fence,
Comic relief,
And dramedy.
Half-Asian eyes and Negroid lips
Half-conscious Hip-Hop,
Part Jazz purist. I
Breathe in rhythms
And gasp through lungs
That pace and race thru
Conflicted emotions.

All heart
And bone
And bullshit parts
Chronic bum, and work of
Art… I am
Full of soft blues
And vivid reds, and
Could use a little more
Green…

I am full of visions and
Still-born dreams,
Pristine memories,
Joy and Pain…
Thick with quiet
Words and screaming
Silence
Muted expression
And hovering
Violence...

Full of stars losing
Their vital shine
Like black holes
Dead… or slowly

Dying.


But I co-exist with
Bits of me
And sure-footedness pimps
My uncertainty.
Half-broken man,
Part ravenous child,
Fed on cannibis,
Muse and an innate
Dose of wildness.
Part reticent kid,
And verbose man… I am
Contradiction’s poster child.


Behind this gaze
Behind the maze
Inside this flesh
A primal haze
Of fear and bravery
Freedom and slavery
I am all of these...

And you can't save me...


From these
No trespass signs and
Barbed-wired
Fences protecting me
And what’s mine. I am

This selfish work,
Of complex parts.
A Cosmic dancer
A work of
Black Art
So just
Scratch the
Surface…and you’ll find

A piece of me and
My partial heart…

Lodged somewhere
Between tears...snot
And fits of laughter
Between
Coltrane bleats...
And emotions fractured
Upon my tongue
In stuttered verse and
Still-born riffs of
Poetry.




One.


copyright © 2010 by L.M. Ross