Aerial Blogosphere of the Spiritual Mind meeting Earthly Matter.
Southern Gothic Bloodline in the tradition of Flannery O'Connor, Carson McCullers, Truman Capote, Tennesse Williams and others.
Love covers a multitude of sins. Humans embrace a large canopy of emotions. Blogging is about sorting through those emotions until it comes out right.
"The whole law is summed up as this: Love your neighbor as yourself." Jesus
Standing in front of a mic for the first time since my last open poetry night about 15 years ago was not monumental. It was more like a pebble splash in a scenery of hipsters. The first open mic act was two guitarists with one man primarily on vocal. He was a man who underestimated his talent and smooth line delivery in the midst of singing songs about being an ordinary Joe. He trumped the ordinary Joe song with an oom-pah-pah beat and curious lyrics: “On the canvas of your mind, are there demons that you find? Are there secrets that you don’t show, things that we already know?” After his fifteen minutes of guitar showcasing with tongue-in-cheek lyrics, it was my turn. No one was dressed in black capes, and the ghost of John Berryman wasn’t waiting for me at the door. There were casual drinkers and random strangers covering gaping positions in the bar. A man with dyslexia adjacent to my bar stool asked me to spell “scared” as I was sorting through my poems between the 1990s and the new millennium. I headed up on stage with no specific swagger, just a tempo that exuded enough confidence not to trip. I thought the chitter chatter would die down from the two twenty-somethings engaging with the sound man, but it did not. They just kept up their distracting dialogue as the band played on. I held the microphone like a staff to command attention. “I am a victim one of them, a slave passing pilgrimage through the night, his honor was bearing me as his sight, naked from fright, he desired that night. I am a woman surrounded and plagued, by evil choices he has planted and made; desire and innocence, a birth within himself…” My voice trailed off into the murky cross-dialogue and gaiety of the room. I was no one special. I didn’t make an impact, except when one line I spoke indicated a lamp swayed by supernatural influence. For that I got a rapturous applause. The vacancy and shadowy cult of poetry is often an individual journey. It is not a public confession in a beatnik or modern coffeehouse, with glossy eyes fixed on the orator. It is a narrow experience, driven by a cryptic selection of identifiable words from the heart to the paper. It is a bleak ritual of a chosen anthem to rid oneself of the pain, whether it be love or purging release. I am not Jim Morrison, twisted and bound with flesh and drugs. I am not Terri Witek describing someone’s hand-painted face. I am not Louise Erdrich, mythologizing feminine and masculine creatures of the night. I am just an ordinary Joe, like the man who preceded me in the public confessional, using a personal language no one can fully interpret. The experience became too much of a risk for the stranger who might have been listening in order to understand me. Yoko Ono succeeded me as the third performer. A fair-skinned girl who had the beauty of a geisha but the composure of Jewel. I realized the audience wanted to be entertained with an upbeat tempo. Isn’t that what open mic is all about? For the trendy bar in a historical part of town, fifteen-minute acts must covet the flow of the audience’s attention. Tonight I am singing my single “Full Blood Indian” from my play “Father, Save Your Skin,” which was aired on cable television in the 1990s. My cold is over and I no longer have to be a blonde-haired Albert Camus, fanning the crowd with existential darts to arouse their conscience. If I sing it, they can capture the mood benign of the meaning. Thanks, Red Herring, for giving people a chance to express themselves. Between Joe Ordinary and Yoko Ono, I will carve my path into the New World.
Is there dignity in thinking that all your movies are Oscar worthy? Get a grip, Jada Pinkett Smith. You speech was delivered well but what would be the impact of not saying anything at all and not showing up at the Oscars. Would have anyone really noticed?
Climatic change is an awful thing. I am speaking of the climatic change of my own doing by moving to a frigid climate. I came from a place of eternal sunshine, endless roads, mountains and valleys. There were also a steady stream of people around me. I had money. Living in many places has created a lot of holes in my soul. I have often tried to fill the gap of nostalgia with returning to places that may fill me up. After receiving my inheritance in 2011, I did choose to come back to Minnesota in 2012 so that my son could experience a normal education similar to one I grew up in. He liked it and I made the right decision for a time. He will be graduating this June and I will return to California shortly after that. Some people can handle six month winters. I can't. I grew up in Central Minnesota in the Twin Cities which is very eclectic and stimulating. Duluth is the epitome of hardship. The landscape is ragged, the buildings ancient, the conditions fierce. I cannot endure Duluth. That is why I chose gambling for a time. I chose it because it was a short term solution to a long term problem. I suffer from depression. I probably did not even think through the entire decision to move here. I am glad it was a good one for my son and that I created another solid foundation to discover a new aspect/lifestyle in America. He may stay when I leave and I will have to provide him a supplemental support system. But I have to leave. Things happened here that did not happen anywhere else. Painful things that I am through support able to put behind me. I have now relaunched my running career and am running a 1/2 marathon in July or so. I am not picking the top race in the region here, i am picking a lesser one. The comradery I will feel with my body when it is fully developed once again will give me the strength to make better decisions in the future. I thank God for all the good things that have happened to me in the last two years and I put aside all the painful ones. I am also involved recently with some educational websites that will gain me more income in preparation to leave.
Statement: Certain people are obsessed with me. I am what defines them. Whether I am present or absent in their lives, they are obsessed with what I do. Right now, I am not focused on you or the past. So stop stalking me. I am working on a screenplay I started in 1991 and I will finish. I have written 3 pages this week. I am in recovery and any attempt you make to remind me of my past life will be ignored. This blog is where I release it- so if you want to gain insight, start here. Since you are so interested in everything I do, I know you will read each word. Chew on it awhile and try to gather it's spiritual meaning. It all comes down to that.
This review from Yelp is a reminder to me of the hell I experienced at FDL... RUN RUN RUN!!!!! Dont ever ever under any circumstance set foot or walk past the fon du luth casino unless you are looking for meth,a trick, or to get raped. I'm going to give you the short version of my experience there since I really have no intrest in re living that night. Walk in, smell smoke( found out its the only place in MN you can smoke?),guard checking ids is twitching, old 70lb lady comes creeping in and then darts out the door before the cop could get her, saw a drug deal go down, Had some lady tug on my pink hair in the bathroom to check that it was real after asking " HEY WHERE'D YOU GET THAT HAIR?", saw a cop escorting a lady out while telling her she cant have a knife in here and her replying well its not like its a butchers knife and him then questioning himself and asks well how bigs the blade..wtf? At that point we slowly moved towards the door and ran to the car! -Review of downtown casino in Duluth (not written by me)