If you’ve not read it and you are at a crossroads in your life or relationship or self then I think this is probably the book for you. Funny that somehow, though I am getting a lot done here in New York alone, I feel as though I a married to time traveler. Normally I don’t put most personal things on my blog, preferring to sit behind a nice veil of social commentary and random begs for someone to read my fiction, but today is different.
If I could be clear as to why I’m here and my mate is over there, then I think I’d probably have my own show and not be working for a living. I’d be animated on camera, getting my nose de-shined during commercial breaks and assure my team that next week we’d get the sweep on writings. Alas, I write to you from my couch. In front of the television, contemplating how to make the current screenplay’s transition work a bit more smoothly than it does, trying not to be nervous on the reading of my first play in over five years, wondering when the work will translate into paper. And trying to figure out why I feel so akin to Clare in “The Time Traveler’s Wife”, waiting for my mate to pop in from somewhere in the past or immediate future (because the distant is the most unknown) and wondering if that appearance will be enough. I’ll not stand my expectations up to other people’s sense of “normal” (my girl Maritri has a fantastic song on that one - Voygage in the Village on Mondays 8pm - check it). I read my mate’s work as though I’m on the outside. He is completely social on the keyboard with everyone but in person adorably awkward and professes most closeness to me, which is kind of flattering and disturbing given I feel like I can see him from the other side of the ocean.
For years I have adored the wrong men. The ones who are unavailable, distracted, figuring things out in a solitary manner, shamed in their oblivion. Recently, while flirting with a cute guy, I realized he was the younger version of the cute, irresponsible, vacant, absent, oblivious older version I dated five years ago. A cycle! A cycle I don’t like!
Most days are harder than others, being separate like this. Today is hard one. Like Clare, I wait for either a wounded mate who needs me or a mate who’s come from some place joyous that wouldn’t translate in words so therefore I must have infinite trust that it was, in fact, joyous. Don’t get me wrong. I am enough for myself. But if you are going to have gravy, you want it to be outstanding gravy.
Perhaps I’m just moody today, not enough sleep, too many walking lunges, sad about Jena 6 and how people think we should “get the fuck over racism” (please see former America’s Next Top Model’s rant about how we are all one so black people need to get over racism - funny demand coming from a white girl who’s never experienced racism)…I am not sure. The root probably came from reading the comments from Curry’s page and how many white people concurred that she was just saying what most white people were thinking and then my heart broke. Tirelessly defending and critiquing my generation, my people, my art, my man, my friends, the world…it seems to be an easier choice to time travel than to be the one putting one foot in front of the other. But then I don’t find I have any other choice.
Listen. All this talk about Jay Z needing to give it up and trying to hold him some imaginary contract of retirement is really annoying (it doesn’t keep me up nights, mind you. Not like my student loans, world hunger, young US troops coming back with missing limbs for a ridiculous oil-driven war, whether my screenplay will sell, etc.). Let the man come back and do his thing. Haven’t you ever done something you loved so much that it’s hard to let go? And I’m not talking about another person (mind exit the gutter). I’m talking about you finding your path towards self satisfaction. Some talent that has given you the ability to pull yourself up from your meager background and see the world while putting money in your pocket beyond anything any of your ancestors (from drunk Uncle Bobby to your great great great runaway slave grandfather Josiah) could ever fathom? A hundred or so years ago black people couldn’t even gather without getting beat. Now you want to diss somebody because they can’t leave what they love alone? I vote for less “This Is Why I’m Hot” and more “What More Can I Say.” What am I talking to you guys for? Show of hands how many bought the new Kweli joint…you bums.
This is my 100th post! Pass the BRUT! Tilt ya bowler hats back!
If you’re like me, you got some folk in your family who think Asians can do no wrong. All the stereotypes just go straight to their heads and soon you have Uncle Johnny thinking that “the Asians (or Chinese)” (because obviously either a) all Asians are Chinese or b) most folks are too ignorant of Asians to distinguish the difference between the many tribes) are the bees knees and will have us all living on Mars in no time. Well, not to hate on any Asians because that would be dumb and ignorant, but I would like to add some depth and point out that all people are capable of acts requiring slaps upside the head (as a minimum).
See below. And if you’re in LA, be on the lookout for this deadbeat dad.
Hunt for abandoned girl’s father
New Zealand police have issued an arrest warrant for the father of a child abandoned in Australia after confirming the death of her mother.
They asked US authorities to find Nai Yin Xue, who flew to Los Angeles after allegedly leaving his three-year-old daughter at Melbourne train station.
The body of mother Annie Xue was found at the family home in Auckland. Police say she died in a “violent episode”.
The plight of the abandoned child has made headlines around the world.
The body of Mrs Xue, who was also known as Anan Liu, was found in the boot of her husband’s car outside the couple’s Auckland home on Wednesday.
10 Sept: Last sighting of mother Annie Xue
13 Sept: Father Nai Yin Xue arrives in Australia from Auckland with Qian Xun Xue
15 Sept: CCTV shows Nai Yin Xue abandoning Qian Xun Xue at Melbourne train station. He later flies to LA
19 Sept: NZ police find body of woman outside family home in Auckland
20 Sept: Police confirm body is that of Annie Xue, issue arrest warrant for Mr Xue
Police had begun searching the house after the couple’s daughter, Qian Xun Xue, was found abandoned at Southern Cross railway station in Melbourne, Australia, on Saturday.
Security cameras showed her father - a Chinese-language magazine publisher who had lived in New Zealand for 10 years - leaving the little girl behind.
Just hours later, he fled to the US city of Los Angeles, Australian police say.
Senior Sergeant Simon Scott said that police efforts were now focused on finding Mr Xue, 54.
An arrest warrant for murder and kidnapping had been issued, he said, and investigators were liaising with agencies in both the US and Australia.
The little girl, who rescuers initially called Pumpkin because of the brand of clothing she was wearing, is being looked after by foster carers in Melbourne.
Her maternal grandmother, 53-year-old Liu Xiaoping, is travelling from China to Australia to be reunited with her.
“What she is going through now has no doubt left scars on her heart,” the Australian Broadcasting Corporation quoted her as saying.
“The Australian government and people have given her great caring and support, for which I feel very grateful, but it will take some time for her to recover and walk out of the shadow cast on her heart.”
Story from BBC NEWS:
Published: 2007/09/20 06:40:03 GMT
© BBC MMVII
No, I’m not a mean hearted son of an asshole (I’m a daughter actually and I’m sure you could trace my lineage up to find an asshole somewhere and it probably won’t take long either). At least I don’t think I am. I get pleasure out of seeing the Britney’s, the Nicoles, the Paris’s, the Fiftys fuck up. It’s not because I want people to fail. I just want everyone to see that these people we’ve put in a pink glass box, following their every move, buying all of their shit and believing their hype, are actually just like us.
Flash back to high school. You were a:
Pick one (thanks to the Breakfast Club, that was an easy multi choice). You fit in one of those categories. You can get up in arms about your specifics and you may even bleed over into another category but in your heart, you know what table you had to sit at. Princess and Jocks, take a backseat for a moment. The rest of you, remember how it was to walk past the table full of cool kids and have them laugh and joke and look so effortlessly joyous about how easy things were for them. How did you feel? Did you conjure up shit bombs for lockers? Did you spend hours in the mirror deconstructing your body? Did you write your name and Fill-in-the-blank-popular kid over and over? Are you recognizing a pattern? If yes, congratulations and cancel your Us Weekly subscription immediately (go online. It’s free and you can get snippets while juggling between that site and some real news like BBC – ying and yang, buddy. Ying and yang). If no, please continue.
I will cut myself open here for the sake of evangelism. Not Jesus or anything. Just trying nip this fake magic star power in the bud a bit so we can get back to focusing on people who do real stuff for a living (I am not counting celebrity entrepreneurship. Paris’s perfume is NOT an acceptable burden of proof. You wouldn’t buy her piss water if you didn’t know who she was. Therefore, no business.). When I was in grade school, I felt like an oily round Ewok-cousin. My legs were short and stocky (ahem, now they are “shapely” for you Judy Blume “Blubber” fans – good ole “shapely legs”). My hair felt more like Miss Celie’s pre-Shug Avery visit. My acne gave my mother nightmares. My teeth were bigger than any Warner Brothers cartoon character’s chomp. When I looked in the mirror, all I saw was a female Fat Albert.
Enter Kelly Thompson and Dealie Luckett. Ask me why I remember these names and I could probably go deep and tell you that they represent the first time I really ever felt like I was never going to be good enough. And it has absolutely nothing to do with them! All they did was come to school with the latest Cabbage Patch Kid (including the stroller and baby carrier – please believe), the newest Guess Jeans, the longest hair, the newest Lottos (various velcro colored logos included), the lightest skin, the newest dances, the richest parents (so I thought – Kelly and I got to be friends later and that always helps demystify the dumb stories you tell yourself), the funniest jokes…in other words EVERYTHING. They walked down the hall like they were the astronaut crew for Apollo 13. People got out of their way. Boys desperately tried to find something to make fun of about them (boys are good like that). Girls just felt bad…well, this girl did. I desperately wanted their long legs and Guess jeans, to put on colors they could wear without looking like I’d escaped from the orphanage, to be without care or effort. Why oh why did I have to look like an Ewok when they looked like Princess Leah?
For those who didn’t see the connection before, I beg you to see it now. We have never really left school. There are always Cool Kids or In Crowds that we all need to feel like we can belong to. Celebrity-ism just a big old high school superimposed on the world. When you give In Crowds enough power, they believe their own hype and you continue to give them the story to pump up. That’s why I’m glad Britney bombed on the VMAs. How dare you come out, after all that hype we gave you, and do your worst? Do you think we buy your albums for the minimal effort you can do? Hell no. You are not that fresh. There is always somebody after you to slide into that In Crowd (see the movie “Heathers”) and do the damn thing. Do I feel bad that Lohan is in rehab? No! I wish my Uncle Tony was in rehab more than her. I wish he would get his life together and stop riding dirty since he has kids now. Never mind Uncle Tony, MOST OF MY FAMILY NEEDS REHAB. So while Lindsay drives drunk and crashes shit and runs people down, I’m too busy thinking about whether or not we give her chances to other people. And that’s a quick answer of, “hell no.” So, Dina Lohan, I’ll not give your daughter some alone time. She didn’t ask for it when she was riding high. She asked for more attention. Just like any member of the In Crowd.
Which brings me to…
Princess and Jocks (don’t think I forgot). Learn your lessons here now. That insatiable need to feel fulfilled through the undying attention and devotion of others will definitely get you on a reality show if you’re dumb enough but will not ever make you feel secure enough. There is always a balance for what you desire so be ready for the downs that will for sure follow the ups. No need to take it out on those of us with less charisma and slightly less symmetrical facial features. Find something real instead of bullshit. Don’t call yourself a role model until you really can define your own role. Read a damn book for crying out loud instead of letting your stylist pick one out for you in case the paparazzi catches you.
With age I know that Kelly Thompson and Dealie Luckett did not forever lead the life of a Disney character, with birds and animals following behind them while some fairy plays a flute. I was lucky to find that out though. Can you imagine how many Britney wannabes or Nicole stalkers would never find out that being in the In Crowd has consequences? I say continue to fall, Famous People. It’s a reality check for all of us.
This is the kind of nonsense I am forced to bring up to people who think racism is a moot point (Ward Connerly) and that hating on black people is a thing of the past. I’m not going to say all people do it because that would be ignorant and I’m not ignorant like the dummies below. What I will say though is that this fools are operating under the same MO as the ones who blew up the four little girls forty years ago, killed civil rights workers and, most recently, dragged a black man from the back of a truck. Until this dumb shit is gone, we got problems. Jesse, Al, Oprah, etc…this is the kind of case y’all need to come down on. Forget your war on words. Hate Crime in 2007?
Woman tortured for at least a week, officials say
* Story Highlights
* Six West Virginians charged with kidnapping, torture and sexual assault
* Logan County Sheriff’s Department answered anonymous tip Saturday
* Tip directed authorities to house where they found woman with stab wounds
* She limped toward the door with her arms held out, saying, “Help me.”
(CNN) — Six West Virginia residents have been charged with kidnapping, torturing and sexually assaulting a Charleston woman for at least a week, the Logan County Sheriff’s Department said Monday.
Sheriff’s deputies went Saturday to a Big Creek, West Virginia, residence in response to an anonymous tip that a woman was being held against her will, the department said in a news release.
As they spoke with a woman on the front porch, “a female inside the residence limped toward the door with her arms held out, saying, “Help me.”
The 23-year-old woman had stab wounds on her left leg and bruises around her eyes, authorities said. The wounds were about a week old, the release said.
“Deputies found her with two black eyes, part of her hair had been pulled out, she had lacerations on her neck, and she had been physically, mentally and sexually abused,” Logan County Sheriff W.E. Hunter said.
The victim was forced to eat rat and dog feces and drink from the toilet, according to the criminal complaint filed in magistrate court, The Associated Press reported.
Deputies arrested Frankie Brewster, 49; her son Bobby, 24; Danny J. Combs, 20, of Harts, West Virginia; and George A. Messer, 27, Karen Burton, 46, and Alisha Burton, 23, all of Chapmanville, West Virginia. All six were held Monday in lieu of $100,000 bond each, and all have asked for court-appointed public defenders, according to AP.
Charges range from kidnapping and torturing to malicious wounding and battery.
Those arrested are white and the victim is black, and the FBI plans to investigate it as a possible hate crime, according to AP. The sheriff’s department requested the FBI’s participation, an agency spokesman told AP.
I like the Prince song better but if you must be up in arms, pick your shoulder exercises wisely. Debates happen when two or more people get involved. I’m posting this dammit. What?
My horoscope mentioned a desire for intimacy today. So I will share my journal entry:
I continue to run from my thoughts because I am afraid of them. Why would I want to leave this lovely middle place where I know where everything is, at least I think, and squeal in delight when I have a pretend discovery of something new, forgetting I discovered said thing last week? The fear of the unknown, good or bad, is a terrifying thing. It makes us all do things that we subconsciously don’t even realize. Watching Harlem dig at her hot spot, I realized that she was living in that moment. She did not care if her leg was bleeding; it was itching and so she scratched it. Sometimes we miss things like that because we tend to rationalize the behavior to fit our own. It is simpler than that. She just wanted to scratch right now. What do I want to do right now? I have a hard time thinking about right now independent from tomorrow. The past keeps changing so I don’t necessarily think about it so much. For example, in relation to my dad, I had stock memories. I remember telling him that snow looked like flour. I remember his desire for new Sunday cars and nice clothes. I remember he always had money in his pocket but did not spend as though his pockets were too deep. And now I see my dad probably made a smidge more than I did. Had hustles on the side he carefully shielded from us. Bought furniture that would last for decades. Only bought nice suits. Very rarely wore everything in his clothes immediately. He lasted. I’m reading Joan Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking and finding it to be the only thing I can relate to in terms of my mourning process. Yes, she lost her husband with him she had a daily individual codependent relationship with. We do have differences. But the desire to recount what one was doing prior to the collision course of death, trying to recount the times you could have prevented the inevitable, rehashing what you now see as “signs” that your departed one had to have known something was awry and that there was a time coming, even if subconsciously…all these things are familiar to me as my face in the morning. I vow to not forget my father’s long strong hands, always smelling bee pollen moist lotion because they tended to be dry. He will not be a coffee table book I have put away. Sadly, my grandmother, who passed not long after my father, is a different story for me. Actually it’s not terribly sad. She had a long life. She was a ghetto Jackie Kennedy. Always in fashion and style, never any money with eight children. In photos she is the epitome of Vogue for the streets of Cleveland, social circles that were grandpa’s poker parties, lodge parties, fur stoles and collard green dinners. I inherit her socialization. Things can be like they are in your magazined head no matter where you are. You can be at the Opera when you are just going to the neighborhood bar. She was always happy. I can’t imagine the secrets she took with her. Her family is now fraying at the seams. So much drama, so much left over grief that has not alleviated itself, so many Peter Pans stuck in the real world…I wonder what she says to us all now. She didn’t have many answers while she was alive. She was one of those people who agreed with you all the time. So I don’t ask her things in death. I do ask for her prayers since she was a social church goer, she is much closer to any religious favors than I would be, in most Christians eyes. I usually ask my dad for answers. Daily. And I get them. Eventually. This is the magic in the thinking. I assume since I ask, it is my father who answers. Via God. But still the magic is that I am answered. Having someone with whom I shared so much love on the other side of a mountain known as death, in a valley I cannot know for sure, answer me says that there is a faith there worth exploring. My father was by no means a church goer. He had respect but he did not have the desire to believe he needed to be told what to do by a man who had the same Cadillac as he did. That tends to be my thinking. I am not sure what this process says so much as I know that it clearly outlines my own sense of desire for an intimate bond with someone or something beyond earthly boundaries. There is a spiritual intimacy that I would like to spend more time with. I don’t want to be the crazy girl who tries to get you to her young hip traveling church extolling the virtues of a Rock Star Jesus. In fact, I don’t want to tell you anything at all. I am content with quietly moving up passed the middle.