Different day, same sh....

Michael Jackson: f..... up in court again today.
What words could describe?

Martha Libre!

So I've been taken to task for not actually mentioning Lil Kim last time out. I love hecklers!
Even though it's morally suspect on my part I have a huge problem with the government prosecuting either Lil Kim or Martha Stewart.
In fact, I had an ongoing dialogue going with a member of the bar about the whole Martha Stewart situation. I feel sorry for her. She's a mean-spirited, obsessive-compulsive, tart baking dingbat. When I was in grad school I'd sit in my shabby apartment reading that glossy rag of hers wondering why couldn't I find just the right shade of fondant for my homemade pastries. It is OK to care about the details, dammit.
So she catches a case--as the kids say. And what is she charged with? Insider trading. Excuse my french, but what the fuck...I mean I think it is totally appropriate to use that charge for corporate executives and high level employees. But I'll tell you if my broker calls me and tells me I could lose my tank top on a deal, I'm selling. I can't see how that could possibly be considered a crime in a free market economy. Martha was an investor--a pretty minor one at that-- not a principal. And though she knew the bio-tech guy--dated her daughter, ewww--by all accounts she got her info from her broker, Bogdanovich. Good broker. If I heard after the fact that my broker could have prevented me from losing my tank top...clutch the pearls!
So Martha sold her stocks. The feds couldn't get her on that so they took her down for lying to the government and ostensibly obstructing justice. Now the lying to the government thing rested on different colored ink notes on the broker's files...I have three different pens on my desk right now. Just because the notes were written in different colored ink doesn't mean the notes were doctored is a foregone conclusion.
And in fact, the government could not make a compelling, iron-tight case on the insider trading so they charge her with lying. Again WTF! I know it is morally wrong to lie. I avoid doing it as much as possible. But really. Lying? Don't you have a Fifth amendment right against self-incrimination? And if the feds can get you on lying to them to stay out of trouble, aren't they going to need a whole lot of jail cells?
Imagine you're Martha...Ms. Stewart, did you commit a federal offense by falsifying the chronology of events that led up to your stock exchange? Ms. Stewart's reply: "Um, no."
Of course she lied. Who's gonna tell the feds they're guilty? I watch L&O. First, you get lawyered up then you deny, deny, deny. That's the American way, baby.
Meanwhile across town..."No I did not kill my wife. I was fishing that night." OK, maybe that isn't a good example. How about this. "No I did not kill my wife. I went back to the restaurant to get my gun and when I came back she had already been shot." Ok, yeah, that one will work.
So Martha ends up wearing a commissary-knit poncho and an ankle bracelet cause she lawyered up and denied? That seems like a waste of my tax dollars.
And what the hell does that have to do with Lil Kim. She raised her right hand and swore she didn't know those gun-toting knuckleheads who shot up Hot 97. And the government pulled out photographs, letters and DNA to prove she lied. So fuckin' what.
Every person in America has denied someone they know out of embarassment at some point. "Hey Chuckie, your mom's outside in rollers and hot pants..." Chuckie: "Nah-uh...that's not my mom." Get the cuffs, Danno. What would you expect Kim to say. Yeah, I know those mofos...they my homies. Get real. Another waste of my tax dollars.
Meanwhile, the government can't find the money I put into Social Security and I don't have enough money for lunch and gasoline. Gimme a break.
You know who should be prosecuted?...Justin Timberlake. I didn't know Janet's breast was gonna come out. My ass, he didn't. The stiffest penalty he's gotten is a revocation of his temporary ghetto pass. Now he's ass out in Cameron Diaz's house. That's crime people. That's crime.
I have to go on without Lil Kim's fashion debacles and inappropriate rhymes...That's like a day without sunshine. The government is out to get us.

Dial-up Sux

Yes...It's true. Dial up is the bane of technological progress. It's like taking your fancy convertible down an unpaved dirt path. But dial-up is what I have and dial-up is what I must use.
I am most excited to have a 'new' computer. And as soon as I figure out how to install the new driver, I should be able to edit video footage from my camcorder and create all kinds of havoc. Whoo-hoo.
So maybe I'll put my picture up later. Kisses!

Free Lil Kim

I’m in one of the moods where I might say or do anything. A funky mood. A positive influence might inspire jokes and a little unexpected fun. A cross word and it’s on and cracking.
Yeah, baby. I’m walking the line. I’m edgy. And I like it. It’s the time of year where every time you leave the house you risk being dressed inappropriately for the weather. My choice this morning is just all wrong. In the mornings I loathe feeling the cold, so I overcompensated by putting on a heavy sweater. Just in case that wasn’t bad enough, I put on my leather car coat. Now I’m sweating and fighting to keep my eyelids propped open.
As much I as I am enjoying how I’m feeling, it’s probably best I lay low. I mean it really could go either way. And it’s like my little secret. I’m feeling all Sade inside—you know what I mean—but nobody knows.
I don’t even know what going on in the world that I could comment on. Baretta got off, Peterson didn’t. Michael Jackson’s still wearing his pajamas to court. When I first heard about these things, I had strong opinions. Now I could give a rat’s ass. Baretta probably wanted his wife dead; Peterson had no business fishing on Xmas eve and telling he was at the Eiffel Tower while he was attending a candlelight vigil. Both of them are off their marks. But I guess insofar as Baretta only was a threat to the dearly departed, I’m not worried about him walking the streets. On the other hand, Scott Peterson is a crazy mofo and solitary might be just the trick to curtail his comings and goings.
I see Michael Jackson like I see Bush on the WTC- he hit before, he probably will hit again so how can you plausibly claim you couldn’t see it coming? How can you claim this fool is completely innocent when he’s been ‘under a cloud of suspicion’ since Kriss Kross were kids. On the other hand, I’m not saying it justifies MJ’s actions, but who sends their kids to sleepovers at the kid-friendly compound of a wacky, 47-year old, drug addled, wig and pancake makeup wearing…dude. Even weirder he’s a former pop star. Now that he’s wearing his pajama pants and a jacket to court, I find it hard to believe he’s been containing the crazy in other contexts. What could probably be the motive for a woman to send her kids to hang out with that ninny? And on the opposite side of my WTC imagery, what the hell was MJ thinking? It’s beautiful to share your bed? He’s craaaaaazzzzy! And I say that with all the residual affection I ever had for Michael Jackson intact. Off the Wall was my jam—as they say. I even had a Michael Jackson poster …until I discovered Prince and Mike started getting those nose jobs, then it was a wrap. I turned in my MJ fan interest at the Wiz….But he’s talented. He’s weird for anybody to see, but that in and of itself is not a crime. While I suspect otherwise, let’s say for argument’s sake that MJ is telling the truth and he didn’t lay a hand on those boys. OK…well what’s with the porn parties and Jesus juice. That’s the goofiest shit I ever heard.
I have trouble understanding the porn stash right off the bat. Why was MJ stockpiling porn magazines like they were government bonds? Why not just go to Scores? Heck, Luke would probably make him king of Club Rolexx every night of the week. Why drink wine out of soda can? He can swig his from the bottle or a brown paper bag. Nobody would raise an eyebrow.
Unless it did have something to do with isolating little boys from their families…If that happened, MJ gets no love from me. And if it did, he’s craftier than a set of Lego’s because he was dastardly enough to victimize the child of a wholly unsympathetic, amoral mother who by credible account has been trying to pimp this boy for years. It would not surprise me if MJ moonwalks right out the courtroom. You can accuse a man of molesting you in one breath and concede you lied under oath in court on previous occasions. It’s called reasonable doubt. If he does get off, I hope for everyone involved’s sake someone checks MJ into some sort of treatment facility. He is a menace to himself and others. He looks high everyday in court and the whole situation is a five alarm cry. If MJ is innocent, he has got to be the craziest mofo on the planet for getting himself into this situation.

Swaddled--continued

She breezed right into work. The tension crackled in the air. When she got to her seat, there was a note in it. I hate it when people put notes on your damn chair, she thought. Next thing she knew she was in her boss' office. Drone, drone, drone. All of sudden a voice that sounded like hers spoke up. She heard it say that today was her last day. Her boss rose to protest. But as her mind processed the words, she felt her hand gesture him to stop. Today was her last day. Notice, schotice. If she hurried, she could be sipping cafe au lait within the hour...

Author's break: I don't know how this is going to work without a workplace. I had all these Hawthorne-like references to Bartleby the Scrivener in mind. But now, no little nitwit can make the case that I'm writing about work. Satisfied?

Reality Check

Let me state the obvious. First, my name is on the blog address. So anyone who knows who I am or wants to know who I am can figure out additional information about me. I used my name in the address because I want people to know I am writing again...all kinds of writing. Which gets to the second point. "Swaddled" is fiction. Like many stories some elements paralled things about me. But it is entirely fiction. Some dim bulb at my job is complaining that I am posting things about where I work on my blog. Remember 'dooced?' I am not posting things about my job or where I work. Check if you don't believe me. I said some things about me--which I will continue to do--but nothing about where I work.
I was pretty pissed to get this report, but it makes no sense to defend the indefensible. I will say this, especially for the benefit of the little coward at my job who reports that I spend 'all my time' at the computer. There is a computer at my desk. If you are looking over my shoulder looking for something to complain about, it definitely looks like I spend 'all my time' at the computer. Many people here have a computer at their desk, and it looks like they spend 'all their time' at the computer too. It was pretty obvious from the time stamps when I posted. All the time it took to cut, paste, and post to the blog was done at my job. I am a bad person. From now on, I will do all my cutting, pasting, and posting somewhere else. That means it will be even longer between blogs. Which gets to my next gripe, posts every week= all the time? Whatever!
My last point is that whoever reported that I spend "all my time" at the computer and some of it on this blog apparently spends a lot of their time watching me. Way to be productive. So now I know what you did and you can wonder if I know who you are and what I reported about you...
For my friends, whom I invited to read my blog..."Swaddled" will continue. If you know me, you can already tell that the narrator is not me. You can also tell what overlaps and what doesn't with me-the author. I really want to explore fictive writing and I won't be stopped by someone who is too dim-witted to tell the difference between expository writing and fiction. Too bad. I will also continue--when I have time- to write and post esoteric essays. I won't bother to label which is which, because for those whom these posts are directed it neither makes a difference nor is hard to distinguish.
I really hate it when some gremlin tries to squeeze the joy out of my party orange, so I'm not having it... I will post again.

Swaddled ---continued

I scooped the cell phone from my bag and sat back up in the driver's seat in one smooth motion. It was D...... Well, what the fuck did he want? Anything we had in the past had dried up and blown away. But I hardly had the heart or the courage to stick a fork in it. Though he grated my nerves, sometimes insulted my sensibilities and just plain got on my nerves, I had a soft spot for the guy. I really didn't see the point of taking his call. There was always the chance that whatever he had to say would completely wreck my mood and I was glum enough about work. I dropped the phone on the passenger seat. I'll call him back later, I promised to no one.
Leaving the parkway, I turned onto St. Charles Avenue. I loved the oak lined horizon. Once again, I conjured alternatives to work. I could ride the streetcar all morning smelling the smoky vapors as the electric car clattered down the track. From there I could walk the side streets of the Garden District, looking at houses, browsing little boutiques.
In the distance, I saw the campus. I focused to find a parking space. The two adjacent colleges meant that it was nearly impossible to find a space after 8:15 and it was almost 8:45. Finally I saw a spot about five blocks away from campus. It would be nine am before I made it to my desk. So what. At least I bothered to come.
All day long I processed medical records. At first, it was a relief. Such a change from my last job. The work only engaged maybe a third of my attention. The rest I could set free. Sometimes I'd listen to talk radio, sometimes I'd find an internet article I could read over my busy hands...other days I'd talk on the telephone, receiver cradled against my shoulder as I shuffled papers and filled in logs. If I wanted a change of pace, I could go to the front desk and help the harried med students or answer the phones. People had strange ideas about what a medical research center was and sometimes we got the wackiest calls. A woman called claiming to have proof her great grandfather had discovered the polio vaccine before Salk; parents would call asking how to tell if their kids had the flu or a cold. Random people would walk in looking for information about health insurance. All the medical records from the university hospital were closed; only medical personnel can access them. There were shelves and shelves of journals, these, textbooks, and other documents. The med students always wanted course materials. Trawling for old exams, I bet. They'd pore through the boxes in teams of three, looking bleary eyed and desperate. A few would come in to study and end up asleep, face flat on a cool table in the quiet reading room. Every once in a while a faculty member would host an event, but soon enough all the activity would stop. Some days would be pretty hectic, but more often than not, things were pretty quiet.
As soon as I arrive, I log on to my computer and check my email. If no one's around I read the paper online too. Then I 'll look up and see it's only ten minutes after nine. I still have seven hours to kill.

Swaddled- A Fictional Tale

I vaguely heard the beeping from my alarm. It was five am. Another day. Great, I thought dryly. The alarm was set early so I could get out for a walk.
Every night I pulled the covers over my head vowing that the next morning would be the one I got up and exercised. Got moving. Greeted the day. So far, when the morning came despite my sincere desire to go walking, I was overwhelmed with resentment. The day was not my own. I had to go to work. I had to be there by a certain time. I had to stay there all day. When I realized it was a new day, I would have a bright idea. Maybe get some cafe au lait and beignets down by the river. Maybe read a new book. Nope. Got to go to work...
This morning I toyed with rolling over, pulling the down back over my head. The morning chill made the sheets feel even warmer. Even though they're only cotton, my body rubbed against the mattress like it was covered in cashmere. Instead of stretching out, I roll into a tight ball. And drift back to twilight.
When I come to consciousness again, I don't move right away. First I try and guess what time it is. Six-thirty, seven? I reach between the pillows and grab the remote control. Finally shifting my weight, I aim the control to turn on the television. When I hear Matt and Katie, more calculations in my brain. If I get moving right now, I could still leave for work 'on time.' Sometimes I take the challenge. Sometimes I say, fuck it, I'm already late, why bother.
This morning I split the difference. Instead of seven-thirty, I leave the house at eight. I figure I won't get to work by eight-thirty. So what. Maybe I should stop for breakfast. If I'm going to be late, there's no need to be hungry too. I think about it all through rush hour traffic on the parkway. McDonald's? Wendy's? Starbuck's? Who gives a ? I can't believe I am still dragging my ass to this joke of a job anyway. When I got fired from my last job, I took it really hard. My self-esteem was lagging and my mother swooped in and convinced me to move back home. It's not that I hate it here, but it's pretty close. I'm in my mid-thirties, up to my ass in debt. And now I'm back at home with a crap-tastic job. Excellent. I realize my cell phone is ringing. How the hell am I going to reach the phone and steer at the same time? And who the hell calls during commute time? I hold the wheel with my left hand and lean over to fish the cell phone out of my purse. When I check the caller id, I wonder if this is a call I want to take...

Awaiting Spring

There are so many ways that we hold ourselves back from our greatest possibilities: self-doubt, self- sabotage...We bog ourselves down with the everyday, we surround ourselves with negativity, we create failure. Often we aren't even aware that we are stacking the deck against ourselves.
Rather than radical changes sometimes it is very small adjustments in behavior that can make huge differences in outcomes. This morning I chose to have an Egg McMuffin for breakfast. Even though I had just watched SuperSize Me. Even though I could have had a more healthy option--grits--when I got to campus. Even though I could prepare for morning breakfasts on the weekends. My alarm is now set for five AM. I still get up at around quarter of six though. On the positive side, though the weather took a cooler turn, I have been getting my midday walks in this week. I have been taking care of my skin. I've been taking my vitamin supplement and the two tablespoons of flaxseed oil everyday.
With the eminent rise in gasoline price, I am thinking again of getting a bus pass. Riding while my car was in the shop was hellish. It was time consuming and sometimes uncomfortable. But a bus pass would save me gas money, would guarantee an additional thirty minutes a day of walking, and a chance to enjoy the outdoors. I have revamped my desire to relocate. By month's end, I'd like to have my resume ready to go--finally--and get started on networking.
I'm getting rid of the clutter in my surroundings--I shredded so much stuff that I filled two big garbage bags.
The whole process feels like learning to juggle. I have to keep up what I am doing to improve every single aspect of my life at the same time. I am trying to be in the moment and making decisions that will accumulate into a a positive day. I am being mindful without worrying.

What moves me

Whenever I've come to post, I've managed to churn out some body-obsessed rant. I was laying awake last night tries to figure out what holds me back, physically. I literally find myself not moving and it is a metaphor, I believe, for my life.

I have a great thrist for stillness, serenity, peace. That has driven some of my inactivity. When my body is still, my mind and imagination soar. I can go to faraway places and contemplate unreachable extremes. I can approach the limits of sensory inquiry. But without the benefit of experience. In many ways, this has been helpful. When I am still, I can think and reason to conclusion. I can sort what is good and bad. And I can move without obstacle.

But then, at the same time, there is no escaping the fact that my stillness does not produce tangible evidence of progress. There is no movement.

I made a move this morning. I intend to follow it with another...

Shocking revelation

OK...I know she was joking. But right before I left the house my mother suggested I wear a girdle. ouch. I know I need to lose some weight. But really, a girdle. I guess it is time to face facts. Already unhappy at size 12, I am getting fatter. I must act. Decisively.
I finally got around to watching the Oprah Boot Camp episode (I love TiVo!). No white food? I guess that means grits. What the hell am I going to eat for breakfast? I am guessing more pancakes from Wendy's are out of the question....
Oh woe. To think I was once a size 6 (well, that was ridiculous and I looked like I was about to blow over). It is time to rouse myself out of bed and back down to a size 9...

Health kicked

Since I bought my car in 1999, I've gained twenty pounds. I'm not saying there's a causal relationship; but I exercise less since I've gotten a car. It is also true that since I've gotten a car, I've also worked at a sedentary positions. So I don't get a lot of exercise at work and I don't get much after work.
A friend who's a personal trainer suggests that if I would walk strenuously for one hour per day, I could lose the weight in several weeks time. I got this advice in October. Since then, I have struggled to find a time in my day that I could commit to the hour constitutional.

I tried after work...Well, as soon as fall fell and daylight savings time was over that fell apart. I get home, change clothes, decompress...I'm ready to start walking at 7PM. But now it's dark. At first I ignored my mother's warnings, but there were, in fact, a couple of times I felt unsafe. So that ended the evening walk. Maybe it'll be different when daylight savings time comes back.

I tried during lunch. For many months, I walked at least forty minutes at lunchtime. But I'm sure the meal I consumed made up for the effort. And I was wolfing down my lunch...If it takes twenty minutes to get seated and twenty mintues to walk back, that leaves twenty minutes to order, eat and pay the check. So I started going to places closer to campus, which meant a shorter walk, and less calories burned.

I tried indoor exercise. Too much furniture, not enough personal space. We have too many couches and cats under foot to make this work.

So that leaves the glaring option of early morning. My alarm clock has been set for 5:45 since spring 2004. I have not yet been able to actually get out of bed until 6:30. I think this is psychological issues with other things, but the result is that I do not get out of bed and walk for an hour. I have left my exercise clothes out. I have gone to sleep earlier. Nothing has countered this near paralytic sensation I get every weekday morning that I come to consciousness and contemplate having to go to work. Exercise has become a casualty.

While I grapple with the issue of exercise, knowing intellectually that the morning walk is the clear solution and even having experienced the good post-exercise feeling, I have turned my attention to my diet.

This morning I bought a fruit bowl at Wendy's. For a ridiculously steep price, I got a spread of fresh fruit with a dip cup of flavored, sweetened yogurt. That would have been a wonderful, healthy shot...except the fruit bowl is chaser for the stack of pancakes I had first. I have become a flavor junkie. When I am anxious, I need to taste something and that has led to poor nutrition and overeating. A parallel problem is that even though I enjoy healthy food, I am not stocking it at home. So when I get these bouts, I am eating what my parents have which is not necessarily healthy.

My point? I don't know. I ramble. I do know I need to get a grip on my eating and my exercise. Riding the bus this week has been enlightening. My biggest issue has been how time-ineffective it has been. For example, it would take me two hours each way to commute to work. That is unacceptable. Wasted time in my opinion. Because you can't multi-task. Monday evening I was lucky to wrangle a seat at all and for the entire ride a very pretty, but ripe-smelling young lady has lodged herself so closely against me that I could hardly think straight much less read. Yesterday, I did manage to read part of an article but I was constantly distracted by people yelling into their cellphones and some young man who tapped me on the shoulder to compliment me on my hair--whatever.

So I'm flabby and frustrated. I saw a woman on television who is my height and weight. I also used my videocamera to take an objective look at myself. I am not as fat as I feel. I am below my healthy BMI and understand that the weight I consider ideal other people think is 'skinny' for me. What is the case is that I even if my weight is not a health issue, I am not as fit as I could or want to be. And explanations be damned, I have to do something about that.

Follow-up and new chat--Mark Burnett...

So I promised the fur would fly, so of course it didn't. When I came in for those meetings yesterday, I was prepared to leave my job. That bode well for me in a number of ways. Most important, I did not compromise and leave the table feeling like I hadn't fairly represented myself or challenged issues that were relevant for me. I still think growing older is growing into oneself. For me that means embracing rather than suppressing myself and my sensibilities.

Today's topic: I read in the New York Times that one of the contestant's in upcoming boxing reality show The Contender has committed suicide. Producer Mark Burnett has promised that the death of Najai Turpin will not affect the content of the show and that he will not edit the show in anyway to reflect the occurrence. *I am paraphrasing, not intentionally plagiarizing the NYT. So if my memory is working today, cut me some slack.* Commentators are already speculating about the relevance of Turpin being African American to this brou-haha.

First, condolences to Turpin's family. According to the article he has a very young daughter and I'm sure that he was very driven by his willingness to participate in the contest which provided one million dollars for the winning boxer. But my focus is not on Turpin, but Mark Burnett...

This season's Apprentice had three African American participants. One has already become the first ever contestant to quit, and the two remaining get less screen time and development than their counterparts. My opinion is that since neither of the two appear to fit an obvious racial stereotype, it has been difficult for the editors to carve a storyline around them.

On the first season, America loved (and apparently continues when they remember) to hate Omarosa. Even black media outlets, decried Omarosa's treachery and called her a black bitch for letting her 'brother' Kwame down in the clutch. White america hated Omarosa long before she left Kwame hanging. She was haughty and detached...who wouldn't dislike her. While her white female counterparts fought and whined, Omarosa refused to compliment their mini-skirts, told them to take their hands off her and generally refused to be like the self-effacing, subordinate black women they usually interacted with...She didn't want to be friends with them and she wanted to win. How un-Oprah-like! Black women are friendly and helpful at work; they make less money, don't get promoted, and even when they boss people around no one gets mad because they never get promoted to positions of authority...That damn Omarosa. For the second season, the new girls got together and booted Stacie J out because they were 'afraid' she was crazy and might hurt herself or them....Black women ARE scary! Kwame was a great guy, he was quiet and friendly and finished second. But that was Omarosa's fault...of course he wasn't passed over for the job because Trump didn't recognize his qualifications.

And Survivor is no better...the first season featured a black man from New Jersey who was constantly edited in being nothing other than shiftless...laying in the hammock so much he such have developed a bedsore and seemingly contributing absolutely nothing to his team by way of strategy or effort. He was all potential energy, spring up every now and then to drag something from here to there. Another season featuring a sassy, finger-waving, neck-rolling body builder. And, of course, there's Vecepia who won a million by being meek. There's your reward.

So that's how black people fare on Mark Burnett shows. They unstable, disposable, ultimately aberrational creatures. We can't complain they aren't being represented, and ol' Mark says he's not sure if he's responsible for how they get represented...

I wonder what the Contender will be like and how Najai Turpin has been depicted...

Haven

Haven
This is going to be a two post day. After fretting with a friend over an article I saw about a guy losing his job for blogging about it--getting dooced--I am going to risk exactly that. In about four hours, I am going to be ready to blow. I have back-to-back meetings about my job. More later..............

I've already noted that blogs don't write themselves and that I need a damn computer so I can update more frequently. So no more about that.

So on to other topics...

I've been in this reflective mode about my life for about ever, but especially the past three years. I'm starting to feel pretty enlightened. On the one hand, I am really satisfied that I reordered my priorities and gave up a career that was taking me away from the values and experiences I really want my life to be about. On the other, I've replaced that career path with several babysteps toward I'm not sure where. I actually have a pretty cool idea of what I'd like to do, careerwise, but I've been much too self-deprecating to believe I could pursue it. Instead I've been making lateral moves and painfully small steps forward. I've also literally built a coccoon around myself (must lose twenty pounds). Of course, that's just how it is. As I've already covered, I'm done with the pity parties and weeping jags. I'm actually feeling pretty good (aside from some wicked bouts with PMS...another day). These days I'm actually feeling like I'm ready to spread out and deal with whatever may come my way.

I was talking with a friend about a lecture Cornel West gave where he mentioned the pain of living an examined life. I used to marvel at how people could go along without having invested any thought into who they were or where their lives were headed. Then I spent a time wishing I could be among them. Examination in and of itself does not lead to enlightment or satisfaction. Sometimes the best you can achieve is acceptance. What I've realized is that my challenge is to become more like myself and instead of changing myself to suit life, to change my life to suit me.
Certainly not original revelations, but I am at a point where I can see past my fears to my own self-interest.

In my youth, I learned by painful experience to consider only myself. Once an adult, I decided that way of being was a survival strategy that had been successful, but at the cost of my isolation from others. Letting others in means risking disappointment and pain, but it also means the possibility of abundance and joy. So it's like Powerball...even if you think the odds suck, you can't win if you don't play.

Today is the first day of parade season for Mardi Gras 2005. It is also overcast and rainy. But I'm sure le bon temps will surely roulez...

On other fronts, I as you can see by the delay I continue to struggle with access to technology and editorial uncertainty. An essay I intended to post still seems entirely too personal, especially after I last wrote about MLK. I'm going to post the essay eventually but I need to ease into it. I'd certainly appreciate any input about where you'd like me to take things. Do you like esoteric musings on current goings-on or would you like me to rummage through my innermost thoughts? Or both? Or neither? Let me know.

In the meantime, I'm pleased to report that two of best friends have managed to have daughters exactly one year apart! What a coincidence! Well, maybe not so much. But I appreciate having one date to remember for birthdays. And I can shower them both with garnets! My own birthday has just past and a few friends' dates approach. Birthdays are a good time to reflect upon life and oneself. My life right now does not reflect my adolescent or early adult projections. I am, as I already remarked, back at home in a transitory professional phase with a great deal of uncertainty about where life will take me personally or professionally. Do I stay or go? I find myself asking that question a lot--literally and metaphorically. And I usually come up without an answer. At the same time, I am finally feeling comfortable in my own skin making it easier for me to re-examine a lot of issues I hadn't been able to address objectively before. I think my quarter-life crisis may have plateaued. Perhaps happiness is right around the corner.

Apparently these blogs don't write themselves. And if, in fact, I'm going to keep this up I need to develop a schedule of when I'll actually do this.

Right now, my entire 'schedule' is in flux. Between my side projects, my full time and all the stuff that comes up unannounced, I am not exactly optimizing my time.

Today is W's inauguration. Try as I might, I just can't muster up any strong feeling about it all. I find it mildly annoying that he continues to insist he has a mandate for leadership. But then that is set off by my amusement at the very same assertion. A fifty percent mandate? Come on.

I am interested in seeing what the Bush twins will be wearing to the Inaugural Ball this evening. But I am sure they won't be as tarted up as the entertainment shows have promised, so I am already trying to manage my expectations downward.

Congress bent over and confirmed Condi Rice for Secretary of State yesterday. So maybe I should call Colin Powell and invite him over to the house to watch the red carpet pre-show or whatever it is they do for these things. I'm sure he's already cleared out of his office and is padding around his basement in fuzzy slippers with a remote in one hand and his honey-do list in the other. Condi and Colin also generate cross-polarized responses from me. I'd be angry at Colin, but geez, the man has been handed his hat and surely has learned a lesson. And Condi, well, she'll get hers.

On a completely different tangent, Russell Simmons is being considered to succede Kweisi Mfume (!?!) at the NAACP. Now that is a thought provoker....

I'll be back with an esoteric essay soon...

WWMD...

Well, it wasn't my intended topic but it sure is an interesting one...The whole notion of co-opting a dead person to validate a contemporary issue, organization, or political platform...
Though Coretta Scott King had already 'lit a torch' in March 2004( http://www.advocate.com/html/stories/825/825_king.asp ) and said her late husband Martin Luther King, Jr. would have been a proponent of gay and lesbian rights, just recently daughter Berniece King 'lit a torch' at the King Center to express her certainty that her father would have been against gay marriage as a violation of Christian principles.

I think it's a bit wacky for a group of black people to have a torch lighting ceremony 'against' anything. The whole image is too surreal for me. After decades of terrorism against African Americans (and other ethnic groups) literally by fire and rope, it is sickening that any group of African Americans would go out and light a flame against anyone. But it is certainly their right.
But while the fact that Berniece King called the man I know from history books "Daddy" might seem to give her a certain credibility, I'll have to side with Coretta on this one --especially since she called the man her husband and had an adult relationship with him. Berniece's hearfelt religious beliefs notwithstanding, it is difficult for me to reconcile the image she presents with the public intellectual that Martin Luther King, Jr. was. Her position causes me to question how familiar she is with her father's work and writings at all. Not because I disagree with her--though I do--but because even a passing familiarity with her father's political activities and writings would belie her position.

King positioned himself as a radical--though he was not always as much in his leadership, and I find it wholly incredible that he would take a political stand proscribing the rights of any social group notwithstanding his own religious beliefs. I have no idea whether homosexuality was problematic for King's Christianity, but given his own sexual shortcomings, I'd like to believe he'd be at least tolerant, if not forgiving of others. I don't mean that as an ad hominem attack, but as a relevant observation of aspects of King's character that might have influenced his opinions of other individuals' sexual preferences and the consequent political position he might have developed vis a vis those individuals' social rights.

I have no confidence that King would have taken a public stand for gay rights at all. Though Coretta Scott King suggests her late husband would have supported gays and lesbians, I'm not as sure he would have joined them publicly. Optimistically, one might hope he would have evolved, but King certainly did little publicly to prevent the ostracization of Bayard Rustin from the civil rights organizations and efforts he deserved credit. King's definition of what fell within the boundaries of the civil rights movement seemed to expand as his definition of what was of relevance to African Americans grew more nuanced and complex. That would seem to bolster Coretta Scott King's view as well, given that African Americans have diverse sexual orientations and religious beliefs in addition to their complexly shared ethnic identification. Berniece King and others depend on defining gay and black as mutually exclusive, but that formulation just does not compute.

Which brings me back to the underlying problem with all this torch-lighting. Besides being her father's daughter, Berniece King really has no more credibility or authority on Christian issues or African American social justice than her mother has on gay rights. At the end of day, the only reason either of these women have any platform is because of their relationships with Martin Luther King, Jr. Neither has led political organizations nor produced their own intellectual platforms. I observe that not to demean them personally. But the truth is these women are only as useful as their ability to invoke the image of Dr. King. For over a generation, pundits have fretted about the void of black leadership, even as they jockeyed for the very position. Apparently, since the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. black folks have been adrift in the wilderness, leaderless and lost.

The problems I have with this image are myriad. First, even during his lifetime King hardly enjoyed a mandate of African American support. After his decisions to combat poverty and oppose the Vietnam War, King was not exactly embraced by his peers. Similar to the mythologizing of Malcolm X, who was even more of a fringe figure during his lifetime, contemporary images of King would lead one to believe he was like a rock star enjoying public approval and adoration wherever he went. In fact, King struggled to keep even the support of his own organization's constituency and many African Americans were indifferent to his efforts. Even King was not the leader we make him out to be.

Which leads to the second problem...why do black people need a leader at all? No disrepect to Coretta or Berniece, but I don't need either of them to represent my viewpoint. Part of the problem of charismatic leadership is that it seems to suggest that the constituency represented has neither the responsibility nor ability to speak for itself. Especially in the United States, the chagrin over the lack of African American leadership is consternation over the ability to control what the group thinks or will do politically. For the Democratic party, for example, if the African American vote cannot be delivered by a leader perhaps someone will actually have to do the work of creating a platform that is attractive to African Americans collectively. For the Republican party, if the leadership is not delivering the African American vote to the other party as a bloc, perhaps egregious moves like kicking off Reagan's first Presidential campaign in Philadelphia, Mississippi will have to be foregone for more subtle moves like having Bush ignore the NAACP and Congressional Black Caucus...But I digress. My point is that some are desperate to hold on to the model of charismatic black leadership, it is their cache. But Ella Baker warned as far back as the civil rights movement that such a strategy was inherently dangerous for African Americans and bound for failure.

My hope is that Berniece King will find better uses for her torch and Bible than condemning others, that image was as frightening in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein as it was when the KKK invoked it. She can do much better. I also hope that she and other members of her family will stop speculating upon the legacy of Martin Luther King, Jr. He also deserves much better. He left a very articulate body of work and does not need them to interpret his legacy. What would be much more interesting is if they would create legacies of their own based on their own works and contributions. In the meantime, I will think and speak for myself and don't really need a leader, dead or alive, to vouch for me.


Edited on 1/20/05

In September 2003, I moved back home. Literally. This was an unexpected turn and not at all desired at the time. But by now, I have come to terms with the situation and actually see it as a positive. Being back at home has allowed me to examine some of my decision-making processes, especially where my "career" is involved. It has also allowed me to address some very real material concerns. The issue of career had become convoluted with other concerns like self-definition and lifestyle.

I realized as far back as 1997 that the tail was wagging the dog. I was pursuing a career path merely because I had already embarked upon it; with little consideration to whether it was fulfilling or enjoyable to me. This went on until 2002 when I finally decided to jump out of the hamster wheel and see the whole, wide world. Since then there have been some bumps. I had a position at a non-profit that turned out to be a hellish experience. It lasted only a year, but ended badly. Having no previous experience with such, I had a lot of difficulty figuring out how to handle the situation. It took an objective observer to point out to me that the mess had been largely engineered by someone whom I trusted.

Well, that threw me into a different sort of tailspin. But it did catalyze me to consider that I was handling what I started calling my "quarter-life crisis," all wrong. Rather than finding career security and then being able to address my personal goals, I needed to honor myself first and let a career that complemented those values manifest itself. That may sound idealistic or completely flaky, depending on the day, but that's my plan and- as is my way- I'm sticking to it.

Being back at home has been a great help because it's encouraged me to distinguish between a job and a career. What one is willing to do for the sake of career, is not the same as what one is willing to do for a job. A career is a journey, a job is a financial arrangement. Since I am not concerned with where I will lay my head, I have looked at myself and work with a new perspective. That has been very enlightening for me.

Though I was under no dire pressure to do so, I took the first job that was offered to me when I got back home. I definitely need income, but I could have held out for a better position. I had time and latitude. That I did not was all wrapped up in how I see (saw) myself. Not just as an individual entity, but in relation to other people in my life, society, and so on. I could not bear the idea of not having an answer when people asked, as they will inevitably, what do you do? I could not bear the idea of taking up space and resources in my family home. I could not shake the fear that by not 'succeeding,' I had failed. I loathed myself for not 'knowing' what I wanted to do next; even though I realized that there was no way I could 'know' without exploration.

And the failure wasn't failure. I knew objectively that I was doing pretty well. It was the lack of control and ownership over my accomplishments, my choices, and myself that was bothering me so. In A Voice From the South, Anna Julia Cooper poses the question of human validity in her essay "What Are We Worth?" Mine was a crisis of self-worth. I could measure that worth externally--by how well my job was going-- or I could measure it internally--by how well my life was going. I had the opportunity to walk away from the external measure back in 1997, but I was not ready to face myself. It seemed easier to go with the superficial, to listen to what others had to say- and so I went for another six years. But I think I always knew that eventually I would have to reckon with myself.

I have had to systematically challenge every fear I have ever harbored to get to this point. My fears of betrayal, scarcity, and failure have all been manifested. My ambivalance about trusting others, my hesitance to hope...Some may call it a crisis of faith, but I see it now as an opportunity to re-learn something that as a child--when things were far more desperate-- I knew instinctively. That God would never bring me this far to leave me and that I am destined to see and do great things. I was a pretty cool kid, right? Yeah, I was. And I still am...