WTF?

What kind of stupid-ass dipshits do we have in charge who can't figure out how to spend money on the people who desperately need it?

Oh, that's right. I guess crooked thieves aren't necessarily in the business of spending money.

Perhaps more importantly, why did it take the press nearly two years to get wind of it?

Don't nobody tell me radio is dead

Listen to this and tell me there's no place for storytelling and the power of the human voice to transform people.

Thembi is a modern-day Anne Frank, if you ask me.

My belief in first-person narratives has been restored.

The power of the arts

Who says art and politics don't mix?

Sometimes I think politics should be handed over entirely to artists.

Serious breakfast

It led to this.

Big Baby

Remember when I was bellyaching that I got passed over for a writing award? Turns out I actually got a 1st place award after all.

I feel like an ass. Although I don't feel like I'm a better writer for being acknowledged. Hell, I didn't even know I got acknowledged until Kiki called me and said he got something in his mailbox that said so. "Maybe it's a typo," he said.

Funny thing. Got an award, or didn't get an award, I'm the same fuckin' writer.

I. Must. Remember. This. Especially when I'm feeling like chucking it all and heading for the slammer for a little R & R.

Sunday Morning ain't what it used to be

. . . and neither, apparently, is prison.
I caught the tail end of a story about a former Sotheby's chairman who went to prison for fixing auction house commission rates. He was, and is, a bazillionaire. He served 9 months at a hospital prison and spent his time catching up on his reading and being served three square meals a day. Granted, those meals cost $2.55 per day, so it was no life in the lap of luxury. But the dude managed to take an extended break from the grind, do what he loves, and drop 27 pounds, on our tax dollars. He says he's innocent, but he's not bitter, and he believes in the system.

I'd say so. I could use some of that system. I'd like an extended period of rest to read and lose some weight. I think it'd do me a world of good.

And then when I emerge from said holiday, I'll write a book about it all and receive Donald Trump, my gorgeous Miss Israel wife and Henry Kissinger among others at a fabulous launch party to sell my books and welcome me back to the glamorous life I was forced to remove myself from. More money, parties, champagne and media coverage to celebrate little, old, rested-up, smiling me. Because I've got money and I like lovely things. Funny how they always go together, no?

But the upshot of this for me? I think prison is exactly what I need right now.

How sad is that?

Jealousy

I've been thinking a lot lately about this abstract term, this most destructive of human emotions. I've also been thinking about destruction v. creation, and why destructive forces seem to carry so much more weight than creative forces, but that's a topic for another post.

Back to jealousy. It is, by definition, a desire for something one doesn't believe one possesses, right? Its meaning has some variation; it can also mean an intolerance for disloyalty, but doesn't that also presume a suspicion that someone you believe should be giving him or herself to you is not doing so?

As a kid I remember witnessing (and being somewhat baffled by) a conversation between two mothers (one who had recently endured a divorce, and one who was married) in which they argued bitterly about jealousy. Mother 1 staunchly defended her position that love knows no jealousy; that if you truly love someone, you do not behave jealously toward them, full stop. Mother 2 got physically agitated at this suggestion, and pretty much told M1 she had no idea what she was talking about. I think she might have said that M1 had obviously never been cheated on and that's why she felt she could justify her naive position.

I tend to agree with M1. And I have been cheated on. It rattled me to my core and made me physically sick. It might have even made me desire the two-timing object of my affection with greater intensity for a time. But I don't think I ever believed that he rightfully belonged to me. People do not, cannot, should not, possess each other. In the meantime, I doubted myself and looked toward outward affirmation (from said object) to bring me back to my center, but that never works.

And yet, I have been jealous. I'm not proud to admit I've experienced such a thing, but when I have, it has been out of my own insecurity, my own belief that I could not or did not have something someone else did even though I had a right to it. Destructive.

But what I now know is this: jealousy is the shadow at work. From the time I was 8 years old and thought another girl was prettier than I was to the times I've thought someone received accolades for work that I though wasn't as good as mine, each painful ripple of jealously has been an opportunity for me to see what is inside me. The people I've been jealous of have represented parts of myself I haven't yet fully acknowledged. If I despise Suzy because I think she's prettier than I am, well it means I haven't fully embodied my own beauty. If Becky pisses me off because her writing is better than mine, it may mean I don't give myself credit for the work I've done. I believe that only when I see these things in myself will I become whole. Repressing that shadow takes a whole lot of energy; elucidating it frees up creative energy.

It sure ain't easy, and I am nowhere near evolved in this area, but I'm learning. I'm also learning from people who are jealous of me. It's preposterous, but it happens. It's easier for me to turn this theory on them: they only feel that way about me because they don't see in themselves whatever it is that I represent to them. Jealousy directed at me terrifies me, but I'm learning to transform that terror into compassion.

My suspicion is that M1 was correct in her assessment: love knows no jealousy. And if we all aim to fully love ourselves, to embody our perfect natures with all their radiant flaws, then ultimately we can eradicate jealousy.

What do you think?

The Passion of M

Okay, so it's not all that; however, it was one hell of a Holy Week, folx.

Here's what I faced, in a nutshell:

On Monday, I reconnected with a past demon/lover in a way that elucidated our paradox;

On Tuesday, I ate so many jelly beans and robin eggs right before bed that I was up all night violently ejecting a rainbow of fruit flavor;

On Wednesday, I found out in a very public, embarassing way that I was passed over for a writing award; then I got the living life sucked out of me by someone I thought was a friend;

On Thursday, well, I can't remember anything too bad about Thursday; I think maybe I passed the suffering off to Kiki who had one of those teaching days that makes you question everything about what you're doing; oh, that's right! On Thursday I suffered from such intense self doubt that I seriously considered giving up on the PhD and the book;

On Friday, I went to confession, for the fifth or sixth time in my life, and I bared my soul. The priest went right to the depths with me and held me there as I wept; he counseled me, healed me, forgave me, absolved me, and issued an honorable penance. Then I did the stations of the cross on my knees and again, wept. Then I went for coffee with my dear friend where we laughed our arses off; I think I remember at one point loosely referencing Jesus and blowjobs in the same utterance. From the sacred to the profane. Two sides of the same coin. Paradox. Back to confession for me!

On Saturday I fretted about all the work I have to do before the end of the semester, but didn't actively produce anything. Found out that someone I love from my past is in trouble and pain. I went to the Easter Vigil service the local Sisters of St. Joseph do every year. They light a huge fire from which we each light a candle, twice; the priest throws holy water on us as a symbol of new life and baptism; we sing the Celtic Alleluia and receive communion. I got the dregs of the wine, I mean blood of Christ, and worried about communicable diseases, briefly. But as we left, one of the sisters said, "You must be the light." And she's right. No matter what happens, I must always return to that inner light, that divinity within that connects us all, regardless of the terror and self-doubt and misery I see reflected all around me. That is the seed of transformation. Something clicked for me. I feel like I understand differently Gandhi's "We must be the change we want to see in the world." One must recognize and be before one can do with great love.

On Sunday, I was exhausted. Spiritual transformation takes a lot of energy. It'll wreck a gal. Spent some time talking to friends and discovering we're all in some variation of the same boat. Community is a good thing. There's heaps of snow outside that have buried the daffodils, and I had no interest in going to Easter Mass. I have no Easter bonnet this year. It will come later. I read a cancer memoir that showed me what not to do with my writing, and I watched Easter Parade, my annual ritual.

After this week, I'm recommitted to my work, my passion, and trusting myself, turning to my inner light in moments of debilitating self doubt. I'm learning it will always be a struggle, but it doesn't have to be a fight.

How was your Easter?