… a gasp. No, not even that. All the air went out of the room, the shop where we learned “Industrial Arts” in the 8th grade in East Rochester. For at least those few seconds where our not yet adult minds we were all on the same page. There were no jocks, no nerds, no cheerleaders, heads, goths or whatever label young people like to apply to themselves. The only label that mattered after what we just saw was heartbroken. Continue reading
I just have been busy with a million other things including writing projects I don’t share here for one reason or another. I have been working toward my (yes I made one despite my snarkiness on the matter) New Years resolution of treating writing like a job and so far I have been somewhat successful on that end. A sort of working stay-cation house sitting for my former employers (they sold the book shop and hopefully are enjoying their retirement) is giving me the opportunity to kick those efforts up a notch and drastically improve my time management, with the help of a work schedule that gives me time to do that (thank you Cody and John.) In any case, I am back, with a burning need to post and be read.
I am sorry. It is getting too hard. I want to write. I want to create my art or write essays that motivate people to do the write thing or at least view their fellow human beings as just that. Giving a shit, though, is starting to hurt too much. I read so much hate and it reaches into my chest and squeezes, and some days I cannot stop crying. I see, or worse don’t see, people outraged about poor folks being denied water in a city in the wealthiest nation on Earth. I read people demonize an entire people and blame them for the deaths of their children because how dare they not be happy about being occupied? I want to have hope, I want to have faith, but it is seems so impossible sometimes. Continue reading
Quick Laundry List: moving out of Buff under crap circumstances, family crisis 1, living back in the closet, family crisis 2, living on the edge of poverty, listening to whiny white kids with better finances than me complain that they live in poverty (triggering much?), and watching a party I had a bucket load of faith in make the worst mistake of their 15 years. Did I miss anything? Probably, but I think this will do. It has been a really, really lousy 9 months for me, and frankly I am spoiled for choice when it comes to periods of crisis. No one thing the last year tops the worst event in my life (though the two family crises, both related, come close) but it feels like a dog pile. Continue reading
It has been ten years and two days since you left. Really, it has been longer than that. Those last few months you weren’t really you anymore. That tough broad with a razor-sharp wit had been reduced to a frail creature whose mind was addled by pain drugs months before you finally let go. Some of us believed you were holding on just to see your newest grand baby and you went ahead and confirmed that suspicion by passing on a little more than a day after you got to hold her. Continue reading
I really do try to be an optimist. I stand by everything I wrote earlier today. I do believe there is hope. I have to believe it, because if I did not, I would be crippled by sorrow. I have days like that sometimes, or even just a few minutes. Sometimes it is just random, but there are reasons for it, there have been events in my life that it is just too hard to not scream about how unfair it all is. I do not ask for much out of life. A little security, a place at the table among those trying to help make the world a better place. Not even a prominent place, just to be there. I don’t want a lot of money (not that I’d turn that down) I’d be happy with not struggling. I’d be happy not to have to beg just to have a roof over my head. I try to be one of the good guys and I don’t do it for any reward but I find myself asking for one, even if it is just to not have it so hard. Continue reading
I never met the man. The closest I ever came was a few hundred feet away in what is now the Finger Lakes Performing Arts Center. He had a quiet way about him, but there was no denying the fierce, loving, energy beneath it all. His fellow folk artists, those who sang of justice, like Arlo Guthrie, Peter Yarrow, Paul Stookey, Mary Travers, and Joan Baez, just to name a few, were my Sunday Church growing up (I know I have mentioned this before.) Pete Seeger was my Pope. Continue reading