- It’s time to do some writing.
- Fuck me.
- I’m serious.
- I can tell.
- You just –
- One word down, then another –
- And another, exactly.
- You know what gets me?
- It sounds so easy. Just sit down, or stand, whatever works, and then just start writing anything. Just set words down and pay attention and the words will just come of their own accord.
- That’s not so easy.
- What – ?
- “Words will just come of their own accord.” That’s an act of faith on your part. Faith that if you begin the words will follow. The weight’s on you to begin, then it’s pretty much stay the hell out of the way. It can’t be the same experience each time you write, is it?
- Now that you mention it, no.
churn muddy strides
up a steep hill
“I am tired; my heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands I will fight no more forever,” said Chief Joseph (March 3, 1840 – September 21, 1904) of the Nez Perce Indians in 1877 after he and about 700 members of his tribe travelled 1,500 miles in an attempt to escape the pursuing United States Army and take refuge in Canada.
The words, I will fight no more forever, mean a great deal to me. They reflect how I feel about life in general, particularly when it comes to my private life. I think most understand there is a big difference between fighting and arguing different views and opinions.
I hate fighting. It’s violent and I am sick to death of violence, in any form. Other than protecting my life, or the life and safety of another (this includes animals, folks), I see no healthy reason for physical and emotional violence.
Fighting wounds. It damages. It’s scary. It’s sad. It causes pain which is exactly what it supposed to do, because it’s fighting – because it’s violence. Fighting makes healing and understanding impossible because it prevents healthy communication. Also, fighting takes no talent.
This is not a long missive. It doesn’t need to be. To quote Chief Joseph: “It does not require many words to speak the truth.”
Donald Trump, you’re a racist and you’ve always been a racist. I drove a cab in New York City in the 1980s. As you know, the primary turf for yellow cabs is Manhattan. It is not unusual for a cabby to be “invisible” to passengers immersed in conversation. So, let me say I heard enough conversations in the backseat to know you’re not only a racist, you’re a flat out misogynist pig and pretty much a crap business man.
Arguing over whether or not you’re not a racist is like arguing over whether or not Mount Everest is really a mountain. First of all, I think the whole discussion about race and races needs to change There is one and only one race — the human race. Within the race you find different eye colors and skin colors and hair colors and somehow, the skin pigmentation part of the equation gets people like you all bent out of shape.
I was held up and shot by a teenager back in 1984. From time to time someone asks me what color and race the kid was, or they presume to already know. I never answer the question. Well, that’s not quite true. I do have a bit of fun with a stock reply of my own making when someone asks me what race the kid was. I always say, “The human race, why?”
Now, you would like the world to belief you’re a tough guy. Someone not to be trifled with because you’re so big and tough. I think you’re a wimp, but I’ll give you a chance to show a little backbone. If I’ve got the backbone to say I am not a racist, then you should have the backbone to admit you are. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but at least the likes of Lester Maddox and Bull Connor and George Wallace openly acknowledged their racism. They were honest.
So go on, tough guy, have the guts to admit you’re a racist. Otherwise, the following observation still holds. Lester Maddox and Bull Connor and George Wallace had more integrity than you. Wrong and dangerous, just like you, absolutely — but honest.
Sometimes a dream dies. Something you may have held on to, believed possible for as long as you have memory. Age may decrease this distance. I wonder if this is an act of kindness.
Our body’s seem to pitch in too. Our vision fogs, a tender erasure of the imperfections of aging — everyone still looks wonderful.
What an experience this life.