Tag Archives: thoughts

Another Forgotten Soul

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I hear the steady rhythm of a familiar beat
The beat that belongs to my heart
Each intake of breath induces own brand of sweet

I’ve been lectured its beat won’t last through the night
A motif I’ve heard several times before
This new morning again dispels that tale and again I’m alright

Well as right as right can be with these tubes in my chest
The clicks, chinks and whoosh, a daily orchestration of my machines
I half think to ask to take them out they’ve done their last test

I’ve buried children, a husband, and friends
The blessing and curse of having a long life
Outliving those who would be with me at my end

No longer with the ones of my long life’s sharing
To pillow my days with fond memories
I slowly die alone attended by some other’s caring

Who will last close these feathered eyes is out of my control
With no one left to rescue the memory of my name
I wonder how long before I’m another forgotten soul

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At dVerse we’re asked to pen our fears. This is mine – that I will outlive everyone who would love and advocate for me. That I will die, not necessarily by myself, but definitely alone.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics: What Are You Afraid Of ?

Real Toads – The Tuesday Platform

To Serve With Loath…

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Ah jury duty!

While I can’t speak for the rest of the country, or even the rest of the state for that matter, here in New York City a summons to jury duty seems to fall into 3 major camps:

  • Yay! I get out of work!
  • Damn! This shit again!
  • Whatever!

Then there is the subset cross twixt the Yays and teh Whatevers in which I fall. I do not relish jury duty, with glee, nor do I find it abhorrent or am apathetic to it.  I get the whole “what if it were happening to me” aspect of it and that it’s my civic duty. If I think myself to have the wherewithal to decide whether a candidate is worthy to be president surely I have the same to decide whether the average Joe is innocent or guilty. I merely hope if sellected for a case, I can serve with as little interruption to my life as possible, but I serve. Believe me when I tell you most NYCers report for jury duty with less joy than going to the gallows.

After herding us cattle, I mean joining us prospective jurors together in to  one large hall, the court clerk begins to read the rules and expectations of serving on jury duty. Clearly she s reading from a script so memorized that the sheets of paper in front of her is just a mere formality – it’s akin to watching a flight attendant who has done the Y M C A of flight safety nth times too many. Moreso, the clerk delivers her instructions with a monotone that would make a Ben Stein monologue seem lively and engaging by comparison.

Luckily, being allowed to use our phones as long as we were quiet I gratefully distracted myself from the acute boredom by snarking on facebook. Commentary from yesterday:

“Anyone who has a letter from their boss, explaining why you cannot serve jury jury, please bring the letter to the front so we can stamp it “Denied” to return to to your boss. You will not be excused.”

The “Aw fuck!” disappointed expressions around me are hilarious.

There was a woman a few seats from me who nicely took the tri-folded paper in her hand, put it in her purse, then not so nicely swore under her breath. Whoops. I can’t swear on it, but I am reasonaby sure I saw her get it stamped at the front desk later. Sometimes it bes liket dat – as the old folks say.

For the first couple of hours a max of ten names were called. For a bunch of peope who clearly did not wish to b there, I was surprised by the general chatter around me from those who names were yet to be called. It became repetetaive and annoying quickly. There were four or five people conversing around me being really whiny about the whole thing. I actually said to a guy trying to draw me in to the madness “Look. Very few of you actually want to be here. But you are here. You can’t get out of it. Constantly bitching isn’t going to get you out any sooner. Grow the hell up and shut the hell up.” 

I don’t think they are going to let me sit with them during lunch. I’m truly heartbroken over it.Speakng of lunch – another facebook comment:

The alacrity with which people hauled-ass out the juror waiting room for lunch is only going to be beat in humor by the comparative lethargy of these same folks upon reentry when the break is over. I could be grossly wrong in my assessment, but I don’t think my fellow jurors-in-waiting want to be here.

Suffice to say my facebook friends were amused.

Now we were warned from onset that if our name are not called, we may be realsed as early as 3pm, however, we may indeed be there until 5pm. When I looked uo at the clock at the front of the hall and saw 3:20pm, I prepared myself for the long haul. Minutes later Lady Ben Stein cle at the front desk announced “Ladies and gentlemen your service for today is concluded. Please return at 9:30am tomorrow…”. 

 Going by the speed with which many bee-lined for the doors. What was heard was:

“RELEASE THE HOUNDS!!!!”

As nearly all headed out as though the buildng were on fire. I say nearly beause some of us remained seated clearly observing this mad dash with bemusement. Then there was the cutie-pie who had not move at all because he was lightly snoring, about to drool asleep. His complete look of bewilderment as woke him to a near empty hall was priceless.

Today is day two – Let the games begin…

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Slice of Life Writing Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

The Heat Is On

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And to think I once thought my PMS was annoying. The cramping, the headaches and downright bitchiness that was the bane of my existence these past decades was a cake walk compared to the hot flashes I’m having now. No articles, no discussions among matriarchs and friends – nothing had fully prepared me for the phenomenon of feeling my body go 98.6 to 689 degrees within the span of a single minute.

Let me tell you “Flash” as a descriptive of this is sorely misleading. Flash evokes the idea of something “short”, or “over with quickly”. Alas, except in relating to the intensity and speed of its onset, that is rarely the case. I’ve had flashes that lasted for 15 minutes or more where all time slows and each minute of that flash feels like an eternity in Hades’ personal sauna.

I have semi-jokingly called it “my own personal summer”, however it is considerably less amusing in the stifling heat of actual summer. I’m at the train station this morning furiously wiping at my face with a wash cloth, for mere paper towels cannot handle this, barely able to keep my sweat from stinging my own eyes. Being in air-conditioning hardly helps. Even within the, usually only slightly warmer than Siberia, confines of the training room, I watched helplessly as my students tried hard not to watch as beads of sweat form and drip down my face and neck as I conducted my class.

At home I’m feeling trapped, often too hot to move out of the blast from the Dyson fan in directly front of me. Dinners have sometimes turned into pints of ice cream and gallons of ice water in desperation to quickly cool off when my internal thermostat goes wonky.

Yes, and this too shall pass, I know. And I’m likely to have even more fun things to look forward to…

But in the interim, seriously – if I no longer have any buns left in the oven to cook, why is the heat turning on?

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Let’s hope my fellow slicers are having a cooler time of it – check ’em out:

sol

Slice of Life Writing Challenge – Two Writing Teachers

The Beholder

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Beauty: sells tanning lotion in one area and lightening creams in another
Is: the TVs, magazines and runways of thinness attainable
In: a land where the curvy is passable, yet too fat is unacceptable– too? 
The: rhinoplasty done to make noses look smaller while
Eye: get surgery to make them look wider. 
Of: braids deemed unprofessional or locs truly dreaded in
The: root of – the problem?And if it can’t grow is it clip, glue or sew to a
 Beholder: in the mirror who wonders…

But who is the beholder?

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At dVerse an interview with Anthony Desmond, and Gayle hosting, prompts us with beliefs; pondering what we might believe in, or had believed in.

I was struck by a conversation among friends of the (in)constant state of beliefs in what is considered beautiful and by whom.

dVerse  Poets Pub | Part Five: Revisiting Anthony Desmond

Stop History Repeating

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Sunday morning was not some knuckle head popping off a couple of rounds in drunken celebration, but an intentional act to eradicate as many people as possible in a club of smiling, happy, dancing people for no other reason than the patronage of Pulse, where Sunday’s massacre happened, are known to be gay. It’s no coincidence Mateen’s attack took place where it did and when it did, he had been there before and knew he would find a lot of people there.

That he was on a federal watch list yet was able to purchase his assault rifle and handgun legally. This post is not about gun control. This nation still argues over the accessibility of guns and I will leave that there with them.

On its website, Pulse, describes itself as “a place of fun and fantasy.” It was anything but as Omar Siddiqui Mateen killed at least 50 people and wounded 53 others in what is the deadliest mass shooting in US history.  We have a history of attacks against the gay community – Roanoke, VA 2000, Atlanta 1997, New Orleans 1973, Stonewall 1969 – those are the major news making events, but there are countless others; some make the headlines, but the majority of the day-to-day-to-day conflicts do not.

The news reports are quick to report Omar Siddiqui Mateen’s Islamic ties; but his religion had nothing to do with his actions. They also report how he was born in New York – as though that should automatically negate his potential to hate gays; I wish. Omar’s father is quoted as saying he was shocked and saddened to learn that his only son is behind the carnage at Pulse. He does not believe his son was radicalized. Apparently, the final straw for Omar Mateen was walking along the street and seeing two men kissing.  So whether Mateen’s killings were a product of religious leanings or abject homophobia it is undeniably a hate crime. And that is where history repeats itself anew.

We repeat these histories through the generations in finding different ways to spread the same hates. Not always recognizing it for what it is until the damage is done. Still we try to do better. And for the most part we do succeed. It is why when the horrible things such as Orlando happen we do recognize it for what it is. We know that this is not our norm and we can/should do better.

That this attack occurs at a time when the country is celebrating LGBT Pride month, is another twist of the dagger in the collective hearts of those of us who mourn for Orlando.  In the wake of this, it’s a given LGBT venues across the country will be tightening their security in preparation for Pride celebrations.

While Mateen’s killing spree was focused on the LGBT community, it affects us all because what he did attacks what we hold most dear – the right to live freely, the right to live openly.  The right to go out and party without fear is a pursuit of happiness.

Whether one believes that the LGBT community is sinning against God or believes that people love who they love and it’s all good is not at the issue here.  Agree or disagree, that is fine.  We don’t have to like it, but we don’t need to hate it.

Omar Siddiqui Mateen damn sure did not need to repeat history, hating it to the point that he felt the only recourse is to murder these people:

Stanley Almodovar III, 23 years old
Amanda Alvear, 25 years old
Oscar A Aracena-Montero, 26 years old
Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33 years old
Antonio Davon Brown, 29 years old
Darryl Roman Burt II, 29 years old
Angel L. Candelario-Padro, 28 years old
Juan Chevez-Martinez, 25 years old
Luis Daniel Conde, 39 years old
Cory James Connell, 21 years old
Tevin Eugene Crosby, 25 years old
Deonka Deidra Drayton, 32 years old
Simon Adrian Carrillo Fernandez, 31 years old
Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25 years old
Mercedez Marisol Flores, 26 years old
Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22 years old
Juan Ramon Guerrero, 22 years old
Paul Terrell Henry, 41 years old
Frank Hernandez, 27 years old
Miguel Angel Honorato, 30 years old
Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40 years old
Jason Benjamin Josaphat, 19 years old
Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, 30 years old
Anthony Luis Laureanodisla, 25 years old
Christopher Andrew Leinonen, 32 years old
Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21 years old
Brenda Lee Marquez McCool, 49 years old
Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, 25 years old
Kimberly Morris, 37 years old
Akyra Monet Murray, 18 years old
Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, 20 years old
Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, 25 years old
Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36 years old
Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32 years old
Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35 years old
Enrique L. Rios, Jr., 25 years old
Jean C. Nives Rodriguez, 27 years old
Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, 35 years old
Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz, 24 years old
Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, 24 years old
Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34 years old
Shane Evan Tomlinson, 33 years old
Martin Benitez Torres, 33 years old
Jonathan Antonio Camuy Vega, 24 years old
Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37 years old
Luis S. Vielma, 22 years old
Franky Jimmy Dejesus Velazquez, 50 years old
Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37 years old
Jerald Arthur Wright, 31 years old

#SayTheirName

“They are more than a list of names. They are people who loved and who were loved.”
— Anderson Cooper

“Love is love is love is love is love,
and love cannot be killed or swept aside.
Fill the world with music, love and pride.”

— Lin-Manuel Miranda

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#LOVEisLOVEisLOVEisLOVE

sol
Slice of Life Writing Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

Makes Me Want To Holler – Again

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zimmermanGeorge Zimmerman puts gun that killed Trayvon Martin up for auction

“I am honored and humbled to announce the sale of an American Firearm Icon,” Zimmerman wrote in his online description of the weapon.

Are you fucking kidding me?!

This man used that gun to take a child’s life. Clearly Zimmerman’s only remorse is the infamy the trial has awarded him because of it. And in case you miss my sarcasm, he has no remorse.

Every time I hear Zimmerman’s name I have to beg forgiveness for the thoughts that come into my mind.  The idea that someone will bid on it, will actually buy it – I cannot begin to express the rage that fills me anew right now.  I wonder what the jury that acquitted him must feel of their decision in light of this bullshit.

When people say Karma will get him, I generally nod in agreement. However, days like this, my faith in Karma and her twisted shenanigans wavers greatly and I doubt whether I will ever see that happen.  Should I be so lucky, I am not going to lie – schadenfreude will be on full force that day.

I also cannot help, but think that was Trayvon Martin a white teen, that Zimmerman would be seen as a Hispanic thug killing innocent kids in a family oriented community. Alas, a white man “defending himself” is how it goes down in the official records. Situations like this reinforce the idea of how little a black life is worth in some eyes, how Zimmerman’s auction devalues Martin’s life even further, to the point of blatant mockery.

What profit’s a man indeed.

The fact that Zimmerman is walking around a free man doing this. Yes, he’s an American. Yes, he is well within his rights to do this.

To the person who purchases it – if your intent is anything other than to destroy the gun so no one else will profit off Trayvon Martin’s life – you are par of the problem.

I wonder what the general mood would be if O.J. Simpson auctioned off the infamous glove.

 

Princely

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prince-graphic

It’s after 11pm, the train pulls in at 34th Street and two men get on. They were young, no more than 25.  One has his iPhone connected to a Bluetooth speaker, loudly playing Prince’s Little Red Corvette.  As the doors close behind him, the one with the iPhone turns the volume down. As the train pulls out of the station, it was clear he could barely hear the music anymore. Addressing everyone and no one he asks: “Ladies and gentleman, I don’t want to be rude, but my headphones are broken and I can’t replace them until tomorrow. But I really need to hear me some Prince right now. Is it okay if I turn  this up and share it with you?”

This was Thursday night, hours after the news of the death of Prince has shocked the world. From the outpouring of positively to the young man’s question, one would have thought the pastor  just asked the church for an “Amen!” after a good sermon. I am guessing most of us on the train were still reeling from the news, I know I still was.  The reaction was about the same, so he turned it up just as the opening lines of Let’s Go Crazy was coming on.

“Dearly beloved
We are gathered here today
To get through this thing called life“

He wasn’t just listening to the music, but part quoting/singing along with it. Once it reached the part of “Go crazy”  a good portion of us on the train had joined in with him. It was an impromptu mini-concert/singalong for quite a few stops. It was continuously amusing as the unaware boarded the train and were thrust pell-mell into the ad hoc celebration. Luckily most joined the fun, or at the very least nodded agreeably with the contained madness.  And contained madness was exactly what it was until Purple Rain came on.

It seemed, as one, we all became quiet as the opening chords played. It was penance. It was salvation. It was redemption. It was church. It was a reverent moment of silence, just listening to him…

“I never meant to cause you any sorrow
I never meant to cause you any pain
I only wanted to one time to see you laughing
I only wanted to see you
Laughing in the purple rain“

And again, as one, we came out of that reverent trance to sing the chorus together. Some with heads down, but hands waving slowly in the air, feeling it. Yes, there were some people crying and it was alright. I could not help, but think Prince himself would have liked that. He would have enjoyed that moment of oneness among strangers over his songs.

“Thinking about how we mourn artists we’ve never met. We don’t cry because we knew them, we cry because they helped us know ourselves.”

— Juliette (Elusive J)

This Is What It Sounds Like

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I woke early this morning to birdsong. But not the trills that come with morning light. This was a lone note deep in the darkest before. I waited as the call went out. Then I waited some more.

Avian fantasia surrounded me as the bird voiced itself again. For somehow I knew it was the same lone bird and same lone note, perhaps calling out a name. Or was it a call awaiting response? I wondered if it was a mating call. Was there was a partner to answer?

Or was that the cry of the forlorn?

Try as I might, it sounded like crying; the gut wrenching sob of one trying to hide the pain. Is this what it sounds like when doves cry? I felt as though I was somehow intruding on something private, by just listening. As my alarm went off I rose knowing I was listening in vain. I did not hear the call again.

Just the memory of that note in the dark of night lingering on my psyche in the light of day.

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Let’s see how others are slicing it up today…

sol

Slice of Life Weekly Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

Policing the Uterus

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http://www.nbcnews.com/news/asian-america/indiana-has-now-charged-two-asian-american-women-feticide-n332761

I literally saw red as I examined the above article.  I felt my blood pressure spike at the thought of this. I mean are you fucking kidding me?!?!

Granted laws make exceptions for when a woman has a miscarriage–but only if there is no human intervention involved. Had it not been for the shame of pregnancy, Ms. Patel did not receive professional medical attention until after the miscarriage occurred, and her situation grew dire, she likely would not be facing jail time.  The shame of the pregnancy kept her silent, that silence meant when she realized she was in the midst of a miscarriage, she tried to hide it. Her trying to hide it snowballed in this craziness here.

Because the Uterine Police, not just the law, also investigates miscarriages, and whether in a hospital or without medical assistance, it must be reported and a fetal death certificate issued. If the cause of death is unknown, it must be investigated.  If the woman can’t, or won’t, tell how it happened, then the Uterine Police can ask family members and friends how.

Even if a woman has made a decision to abort, but miscarries before she can act on that decision, experiences some heartbreak.  There is no best of circumstances for a miscarriage, it rends. Now imagine going through that physical trauma and then having the Uterine Police interrogating your family, your friends and maybe even your colleagues trying to dig up dirt to punish you for it. Because in this increasing culture of “Better the mother dead, than the fetus” not all states will recognize a woman choosing to save her own life when the fetus she is carrying can very likely kill her, such as the case with some ectopic pregnancies, as valid.

The Uterine Police will search your computer, your internet history, your online purchases to use it against you if it can.  Just ask Ms. Patel.

It is not a coincidence that this has happened to two Asian-american women. Their conservative culture making them easy prey for those in the Uterine Police, who could not care less about their right to their own bodies, let alone their right to privacy. They needed scapegoats to make examples out of and these two women fit the bill. And let’s call a spade, a spade here. This likely would never have happened to a white female.  Yet even that is rendered near irrelevant in this.

Because once again, this is mostly men, (ab)using the law, using their personal ideologies to control every woman’s uterus.

Every session someone tries to introduce a bill that would outright make abortion a criminal act.

This bullshit here is one step closer to it.

Spring My Aunt Susy’s Satchel

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In winter people complain about the cold.  The deeper in winter it gets, the more people complain. It’s a given. However, there comes a point in winter, usually around Ground Hog Day, where I find myself complaining about those complaining.

It’s winter, it’s cold – uh hello – it’s WINTER – that’s what it does – get cold – duh!

Still, by mid-March I am just as happy as everyone else at the hope of spring being mere days away. And while the First Day of Spring brought light snow, and temperatures during the first week fluctuated wildly, we finally had our hopes of warming climes substantiated when last Friday came in all nice and cozy. Friday was also April 1st, a.k.a. April Fool’s Day and the joke was certainly on us.

The temps have steadily decreased from the oh so loverly 78 degrees of Friday to the whopping 43 degrees high expected for today.  I mean really now. By the time I walked in to work you could have easily convinced me that we somehow went back a month in time. The 30+ degree wind chill that greeted me this morning was just mean. Singing “Baby It’s Cold Outside” in April ain’t cool y’all. I was all set to hang up my winter coat for the next six months and this happens.  Clearly Ol’ Man Winter and the March Lion have not received their official GTFO memo from Demeter. Seriously, chick – hop to it already!

Yes, the deities of mythology and I tend to have major conversations when the weather is adverse to what is expected. Those of you who follow my blog may have already read posts referencing Ol’ Winter, the March Lion and Lamb, and Persephone and Demeter. Suffice it to say all of them had a major talking to from me this morning! From what I can read from my scattered friends online these past couple of days, very few of us in the upper parts of this North American hemisphere are happy with those fickle deities and weather personifications shenanigans.

I apologize immensely for all of you who suffer from allergies, but I am so ready for the annual floral orgy. When I start hearing the masses of you discuss (ahem- whine/complain/grumble -ahem) about your struggles I will know for sure that spring has arrived truly and is hanging around to stay, because right now my Facebook says this:

spring my

And I think that says it all.

By the way I don’t have an Aunt Susy – let alone her satchel.

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Let’s see how my fellow slicers are holding it up this week:

sol

Slice of Life Tuesdays | Two Writing Teachers