Connected

I think the reason Martin was such a great speech-giver was in his delivery. His speeches were like songs, and so we remember not only the words, but the emotions, his and our own, that accompanied them. Doesn't he look like he's singing here?

I know I post this every year, but I like that quote at the end.

I was listening to someone on the radio talking about Dr. King yesterday and was surprised to learn that he made up (on the spot!) the last part of his most famous speech; I also learned the following:

-More people in the world recognize and can identify the I Have A Dream speech than any other.

-He was born with the name Michael but his father changed it to Martin Luther when he was 5.

-He went to college when he was 15.

-He sang with his church choir at the premier of Gone With the Wind.

-He was (and still is) the youngest recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize.

-He was stabbed in the chest at a book signing in Harlem and almost died 10 years before his assassination.

-At the time, the March on Washington was the biggest gathering of protesters in history.

All I'm saying is simply this, that all life is interrelated, that somehow we're caught in an inescapable network of mutuality tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly. For some strange reason, I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be. You can never be what you ought to be until I am what I ought to be. This is the interrelated structure of reality.

— Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Sunday Devotional

Good day to fall in love with this beautiful girl again.

When The Rock Came Sailing Through The Window: A Sketch

When the rock came sailing through the window,  Mr. Bevins had been talking about what Hamlet meant when he asked if it was easier to play him  than it was to play a flute. I was just about to understand it.  It was just beginning to make sense, and then I heard glass shattering and the rock rolled up between two seats in the front. We all watched it spin across the floor like a grenade until it finally stopped. Cy Kerr yelled out Holy Shit, and Mr. Bevins told him to sit down, “Is everyone okay?” his voice was high and quick. He was freaked. I remember that. His face was red.

When the rock came sailing through the window, John Fraybeck had his foot on the back of my chair.  He had been jiggling his leg on and off all morning. Every time I turned around to tell him to fucking quit it, he looked at me with such honest surprise I knew he didn’t know what he was doing. He was just a body that couldn’t contain itself. The only thing that could get him to stop was the sound of violence, but even then he was only steadying himself.

When the rock came sailing through the window, I remember it was grey outside. On and off grey it was.  The heat from the furnace came in blasts and then made a banging sound like a hammer against a metal pipe. I could smell Sheila Bouras. She smelled like BO and onions. She was tall and had no idea that one day she would be beautiful. She sat in her chair like a giant question mark.

You know that point in understanding something when the fog is clearing and it’s almost like you are remembering; you almost have to stand still as things come into focus. That’s what it felt like. When the rock came sailing through the window, I knew it was you. I remembered in quick succession: your mouth when you spoke, your arm as I held onto it, and the snow coming down so hard we couldn’t see.

Re-Routed

Unresolved pain, can I help you.
Wait...what?
Unresolved pain can--
No I mean, I heard...just...I..is this Dominoes?
No babe it's not.
Oh...sorry I, I think I dialed the...
Nope, you didn't.
No I did.
You were re-routed.
What...why?
You tell me.
I just--
Don't be confused, I'm sure you know what I'm talking about.
I really don't though.
Think about it.
I can honestly say I really have no--
It's usually something in childhood, but that's just-
You're serious.
As a crime scene.
I don't know who you are but--
Yeah you do actually.
Can you just reconnect me to-
Whatever that thing is in there? You're bigger than that. Don't let it define you--
You should write a fucking book.
Oh! Here she goes. She's up! She's swingin'.
Jerk.
Come on baby don't get mad, I'm just playing.
This is not some stupid joke.
You're right. Don't cry.
I want this to work.
It will. Be patient.
How do you know?
I just do.

Sunday Devotional

Thoughts for the day:

I took a full week off all phone, texting, emailing, blog-writing, IM-ing, facebooking, twittering and going down a swirling black vortex of internet surfing. Okay that's a full and complete lie; I didn't stop any of those things; even for a pretend second, in fact all of those things may have even taken up 65% of my waking time and that's a lot because I also visited new schools, worked, had a few fights, had my car break down twice, went to the gym every day, stole a pair of sneakers from the lost and found, fixed a clogged sink, replaced a light bulb standing on top of a chair on top of a table, went to basketball practice and did about 25 piles of laundry. But I didn't post last week and just wanted you to think that it was for noble reasons. It wasn't. I swirled down the black vortex. I lived and I swirled.

When I was home over the holidays my mom watched me texting on my phone and said "You're like a teenager on that thing", to which I responded "Psshh. Sorry. This is for work." though what I should have said was Yes I am like a teenager. I am fully, completely and in every avenue of my life right now, like a teenager. I'm stuck here in this weird place that is real and virtually real and imaginarily real and well, not real.

You know, I have to say something, I really hate reading the diary-entry style of blog post. I can't help feeling like I'm stuck in some strangers house, where the host goes on and on about what she had for dinner and the various digestive situations that followed. Really. I try to make this a little more than just that; I mean I started writing a blog basically as an exercise to make myself write every day, something with a beginning, middle, and end that's complete once I hit post, something that's the opposite of writing a script. I didn't want it to be a diary. But of course it is. Usually I try to keep up the fourth wall; I show you what I want you to see, but sometimes that's not possible.

My best friend would argue that it's never possible. She says I have a problem with showing my hand/saying inappropriate things/saying the wrong thing which she refers to as shitting the bed. I always thought she was referring specifically to my behavior in meetings where we try to get people to give us money, and I've always sort of secretly known this was a compliment: Even I don't know what I'm going to say! It might be stupid and wrong and inappropriate, but it could just as likely be fantastic and charming and golden. That's a beautiful thing. Isn't it?

So after this week I decided I'm trying to figure out a way to exercise a little more self control and work on my bed-shitting, in life as in this blog: I'm not going to write a diary style entry just to fill space. I'm not going to write about the internet or how confusing/distracting/like a bump of a drug it is to live with one hand on my iphone. Or I mean, I'm only going to do it on Sundays.

Amen

Sunday Devotional Constitutional

Soldier: A Freestyle from MuseBK on Vimeo.

I never knew that the word "constitutional" (aside from "of the constitution" or "inherent") means specifically, a daily walk, which is a good thing to do instead of going to church.

Happy 2014: Push Pull and Tear

Here's some slogans that me and some teens thought of last night while bowling:

Don't Be Mean It's 2014
Check out The Scene it's 2014
Smack your ween it's 2014 (who said that?)
Say What Ya Mean it's 2014.
Go ahead, your turn.
And PS I kicked everyone's butt in bowling (everyone under the age of 6) but I think I might need a wheelchair for the next two days.
Cheers! Here's to singing in your mother's living room, crying in your car at random moments, and true love forever.