Listen, She Spoke of Mama

She spoke of Mama, but from where did she come? From what distance traveled and at what cost?

People see the likes of her and they think they know: the leopard stance set to take things, the golden halo elevating skyward, the animistic smile that out-whites a camera-flash. They think they know – but they are idiots and thank Jehovah you’re not them.

Shifts in perspective are needed, lives lived in the blink of an eye and many assumptions abandoned. If you are wise you will not think of this as another week-long runway, you will not assume another romance sans chance? You will say Are you ready? and jump in as if the rest of your life depends on it.

And as the sunlight reflects off the bay and soaks into her bronze-black skin, And the intuition that this is no ordinary human begins to set in, You won’t jump to conclusions or you’ll miss it:

She’ll let you carry her for a minute, She’ll speak with care about small things and laugh about people back home, She’ll speak of Mama and you’ll listen and wonder when you should go into your usual things – which now seems senseless, like wiping down the table before a hurricane. Save your questions and listen. No one knows just how far she has come.

MASQUES! Poetry by Leopold Senghor

Let us answer “present” at the rebirth of the World
as white flower cannot rise without the leaven.
Who else will teach rhythm to the world deadened by machines and cannons?
Who will sound the shout of joy at daybreak to wake orphans and the dead?
Tell me, who will bring back the memory of life to the man of gutted hopes?
They call us men of cotton, coffee and oil,
They call us men of death, but we are men of dance
whose feet get stronger as we pound upon the ground.

…

Que nous répondions présent à la renaissance du Monde
Ainsi le levain qui est nécessaire à la farine blanche.
Car qui apprendrait le rythme au monde défunt des machines
et des canons ?
Qui pousserait le cri de joie pour réveiller morts et orphe-
lins à l’aurore ?
Dites, qui rendrait la mémoire de vie à l’homme aux espoirs
éventés ?
Ils nous disent les hommes du coton du café de l’huile
Ils nous disent les hommes de la mort.
Nous sommes les hommes de la danse, dont les pieds
reprennent vigueur en frappant le sol dur.

- Leopold Senghor

This poem popped out at me last night. It was previously unknown to me. I guess I needed to know. You can read more of Leopold Senghor’s “Masques” here.

English translation by Melvin Dixon.

Universe, let me grow old.

One cannot live in both the present and the past. – Picasso

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What’ll We Tell The Children?

*** The Next Great Generation will come of age thinking that this is news ***

Urban Dictionary : Early Adopter

I’m not an early adopter, I’m a wait and seer. So, in 2005 when I was talking to Doug Peckham (a friend and mentor) and he dropped the name of Urban Dictionary, I let it pass like I knew what it was, but I didn’t. I learned.

Urban Dictionary (as you know) is an infectious site. It was developed by Aaron Peckham, who is Doug’s son. Aaron is also a former student of mine from Sacramento High School, not that I taught him anything. He was well on his way to success because he is extremely intelligent, has rad parents and he is genuinely nice and acts compassionately toward the world.

So, that’s just full disclosure before I attempt this critique of how some people engage each other on-line:

I don’t like when people send me messages or post things that read like directives. Like this for example: “Go to urbandictionary.com, type in your first name, copy and paste this as your status and the first entry for your name under the comments” .

Now, this attempt to generate the next meme on facebook probably didn’t originate with Urban Dictionary or Aaron himself. Which makes it an even greater example of how modern culture works. And it’s rooted in positive behavior: people find something fun and useful and they want to share it with others. They want to be IN and they want to GET IN EARLY. This is just an accepted way that people interact on-line and I should just live with it or step off.

But, look at that statement, “Go to … type in …” It’s very prescriptive. It reads like an IKEA manual. It asks you to diminish your ability to make any decision that is not binary (yes/no). I ask you, is that anyway to talk to a friend? Where is the cordiality? Where is the romance? What are you offering to me or the world? Is the id steering the ship? Are we just here to harvest sex-type-feelings and/or ego strokes from tangential relationships in Anonymous Land?

1—> I ask myself How and Why and the answer is not because I can.

Ok, I’m done with my little old grampa rant. In truth, I am vicariously proud of a former student who created something ubiquitous, something that adds levity to daily life and is actually quite useful sometimes. And the larger question that looms for me personally is this: If I taught Aaron when he was in high school. Does that make me 1 ) a character on Lost who can go back in time to try to affect the present or 2) more than a little bit old?

Sorry, that’s a bit of a binary question. Anyway, the student surpasses the teacher, Hallelujah! Where would I be without them? I’d be without a band, without many friends doing rad things in the city and apparently without a place where I can easily go look up the meaning of “Lee Bob” which apparently has something to do with masturbation. Well, Life is a Miracle!

I’m a fan of Doug Peckham

Life is a Miracle # 1

Are you living in a world
far beyond your comprehension?

Are you spinning the wheel of fortune
in the midnight hour?

Are you migrating around
a plexiglass Ka’ba?

Are you worried that your child’s livelihood
will be sold like indulgences to the highest bidder?

Are you flexing imaginary muscles
from a remote undisclosed location?

Are the texts coming in all night?
Have you forgotten where you keep the passwords?

I cant even remember my own name sometimes.
Smile. Go Small. Look at your feet, look at the sky.
Life is a Miracle. Yr alight. Yr alright.

Artwork by Richard Coleman. Visit Richard Coleman Art