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Is Your Messiah Fully Resurrected? Pt. 2

Monday, March 28
I didn’t have an analytical paper for Cleveland State University, but they required that I have one—even though it was for writing. It’s their way of understanding how I think. I didn’t know where to start it so I turned to my other friends [actually, just my one friend that continually bails me out from this life].

The paper was based on the expansive definition of the intention of death in poetry, and it was my contention that death was and is always the background to a bigger notion. Simply—poems about death have very little to do with death. I read Louise Gluck, Billy Collins, Stephen Dunn, and Jane Kenyon—writers that were either past Pulitzer Prize winners or poet laureates, and what I discovered is that no one [to my knowledge] has ever written an analysis paper on these poems. They write reviews.

”Brilliantly managed…” says the Library Journal.
Perhaps none can lead us so deeply into our own nature…” says The New York Review.
”She has written a masterpiece of restraint in a clairvoyant voice…” says Magill’s Literary Annual.
”He uses ordinary words…” says some illiterate pig-fucker from The Boston Globe.

Who says shit like this in workshops? May-I-Kiss-Your-Ass-Comments, defined as glowing reviews so that the PR people will hand these to their publishers so they will either insert these in either the front or back of the book. Where are the real comments, like, “These words are an abomination on the English language, may the Lord and Literature have mercy on your empty shell that you call a soul.” Where are those comments?

But again, I’ve digressed—it’s just that the process of writing these analytical papers on poetry is already difficult, because there aren’t many ready sources—it’s all conjecture, based on intellect, and God help your monkey ass if your stupid and not well read. Then you’re simply fucked—in that Gimp slash Pulp Fiction style of being fucked.

But the bigger question is—am I egotistical enough to not only interpret what the poet said, but more importantly can I point out what the poet’s intent was. It’s easy to say this and this happened in said piece, but to ID the bigger picture—even I don’t feel that bold. Most of the time I don’t even know what my intent was—it was inspired from something that I witnessed or am vaguely admitting to, but bigger picture intent? Thought about it, never got to it—like that book that so-and-so recommended to me. It’s not that I can be wrong, but in this case, it’s how wrong or wrong in so many degrees. If you’re completely off then people will either praise you for your outside-the-box thinking, or pity the fact that no one, earlier in your life, has pointed out your obvious learning disability. Challenging my writing skills, that’s all right—I’m accustomed to it, but to challenge my thought process, that’s a little bit more personal.

Is Your Messiah Fully Resurrected? Pt.1

Sunday, March 27
Kris called me and said, “Robin’s water broke.” She was in Mississippi at the time, and then I went to the hospital. Later I learned more about the female human body than any man should [dilated, centimeters, and pumps]. A man should only know the female body during special occasions like sex when it comes to the do’s and do-not-do’s, because any more than that would take any allure that is “woman” away. For instance, take Dr. Drew from MTV’s Love Lines, this man knows all there is to know about sex, and yet when he speaks on the subject he’s completely disinterested, as if talking about sex was equivalent to my Cingular phone manual.

As I was looking for Robin’s room, I felt this undying need to tell every helpful nurse [who was hot] that it wasn’t mine. Pre-emptive strike comments to: congratulations or weird interracial or baby wedlock looks, because her name so didn’t match whatever mine would probably be. I sat in the room, which looked better than most hotels that I’ve been accustomed to, with Robin and her mother, and all I could think of was Tom’s mantra: Don’t have kids, Don’t have kids, Don’t have kids. We watched “Everyday Italian,” something that Kris turned me onto because she thought that I would think that
the host was hot and—she is. And then we listened to Charlie’s heartbeat—which sounded amazingly like house music.

That was two Friday’s ago. Kris came in Sunday. I saw him Monday, and then it was a few visits with the doctor to make sure all things were in order. I sat in the waiting room with Tom and we both stared at the sign that read: My Breast Friend: A Mother’s Guide to Breast Feeding. Note to Reader: It is a real pamphlet and not me just being all witty. He looked at me and said rule number two [which means don’t have kids]. But I'm sure he is re-evaluating that rule. I don't blame him though, the idea of breast, sexual icon, to breast, milk tap, is a little bit hard to swallow [pun intended].

It's March Right?

Thursday, March 10

I think of the cliche - tortured writer. It must be why great writers live in Iowa, the Ozarks, and in places with dirt roads with mailboxes named "Salinger." You can't write that great novel in NYC or LA. You can't write it in Chicago - well you can during the winters. But you can write it in Ohio, but for what other reason could there be? Why else would so many talented writers I know actually live in Ohio. Living in Ohio or stubbing your toe? Living in Ohio or visiting Neverland Ranch? Living in Ohio or Living in Pittsburgh? Living in Ohio it is.

It's March right? And for those that are looking at the picture - yeah, those are cardinals on my mailbox and they can so kick your monkey loving asses anytime, anywhere. Want none, get none. And for those of you in Louisiana, Mississippi, and California - I hope the skin cancer gets you, because I have feets of snows to protect me.

[JK] Kind of

Churchill, Freedom of Speech, and Fuck

Saturday, March 5

We were watching an audience at the University of Colorado, in attendance for a speech by Ward Churchill
on C-SPAN. I was in Ohio. She was in Mississippi. She asked me what I thought about Ward Churchill, and my first instinct was to hesitate – how was I going to word my answer. Shape it and make it fit in a nice way – but better yet, not get into an argument.

That was when I realized that talking about your beliefs, frankly, was more difficult than it used to be. You either fall into a category that believes that the country has gone to shit, and it is your God-given responsibility to inform the public about the deep evil that is the government, or you fall into the group that believes that the government has finally come around and it is up to you to protect the establishment against communist-esque, unpatriotic, liberals that are too self-righteous to understand the greater good at hand.

We take turns yelling at each other – hating someone for hating the President. Hating someone for supporting the president. And even our voices get horse, so we put on bumper stickers, patches, and t-shirts to do our talking when we are asleep. Enemies with labels – it’s easier to know which direction to hate. When we’re driving. When we’re silent. But still, hating and arguing, listening is just too passive – leave that for those MLK fuckers – with their candles and kumbaya.
And because of this, I think we’ve lost the ability to have a conversation, which is defined as: the use of speech for informal exchange of views or ideas or information.

I don’t think I’ve had a good conversation about politics in a long time. I’ve had yelling matches and stalemates instigated by my exhaustion, instead of an impasse.

You’re stupid.

No you’re stupid.

We’re 7-year olds with a larger vocabulary in a pissing match over who is right.

I read the Ward Churchill Essay. You see a few words. German, Holocaust, American Government, Ignorance, and September 9, 2001. You call the man unpatriotic because he paints a picture about America that isn’t flattering. You don’t challenge the facts, you just call the man a villain. You call him Michael Moore’s fuck-buddy. Call him a traitor and ask for a charge of sedition, and ask then you ask for his career to be terminated because you think what he has to say is dangerous. Kids with guns in school. Michael Jackson raping children. Soldiers dodging bullets and suicide bombings. Landslides and earthquakes. Bird flu even, and somehow this man’s essay is dangerous. What would the terrorists do with these words – tape a bomb onto his typewriter, put a stick of dynamite on his dangling participle.

Sticks and stones will break my bones, but Ward Churchill’s Essay will kill me?

He can say whatever he wants to say, and I don’t look down on the man because he said things that challenge the government. Everything should be challenged. Every circle should have their own John Bender [Judd Nelson from The Breakfast Club] in their midst. It’s the basis for us, isn’t it? All great ideas are questioned – the Socratic Method asks us to simply ask why. Scientific Method asks for proof to substantiate the answer. Art, music, and literature – all are dissected by critics and fans – but the government can’t be?

I think after the ten pages, Ward is asking for one thing and that is for the government to answer for itself, and he asks only one thing in return – justify it, and use something less trivial than the name of God and Liberty. Hugh Grant admitted that he got a blowjob from an ugly black hooker. Pete Rose admitted to gambling on baseball. Jose Canseco admitted to using steroids. The least the government can do is say – “yeah, my bad.”

Addendum: And yeah, Kristalyn agreed with me on Churchill. My bad - see Government, take some notes. It's easy.

Religion, Flipping Burgers, and Alanis

Thursday, March 3

Inspired by Yahoo Article
: House Oks Job Training Bill for Faith Based Provision

Does believing in God allow you the right to flip burgers? I’d like to believe that God is all caring and he [He or Alanis] wants all his [His or Her] children to flip burgers if he or she deems that it is his or her path, or at least flipping burgers is an avenue onto a greater path – like swing shift manager or sandwich artist or is it sandwich technician? I forget.

The U.S. House of Representatives OK’d a bill that would support federal aid to job training, which isn’t a bad thing, but the problem is that it is based on faith. So based on faith-based criteria, a person can be accepted or denied based on their religion. I’m not going into this country was founded on religious freedoms and how our dollar was the motto “In God We Trust.” I’m not going into the entire Pledge of Allegiance “Under God” mantra either. All those are old and tired arguments. Is there a God or isn’t there a God, or what he [He or Alanis] wants us do is always, in my belief, a private discussion.

I have daily battles about religion. Not so much as if there is a God, but more importantly what happens when I pass on to the next world – or worse yet, is there a next world. In Buddhism, it simply says no matter what section you look at it – live for today, be good for today because they will carry you onto the next. I’d like to think of Buddhism as the Cingular and ATT of the religions – you kind of get roll over minutes that will transcend into the next plane of existence or into the month of billing – whichever comes first. And with Catholicism, think of it as Verizon’s roaming fees – might as well stay with this analogy – you can do this or you can do that, all within the confines of the rules or coverage area. This constant state of fear is what frightens me about Catholicism, because everything that you do compromising your place in Heaven,, because let’s face it – no one wants to go to Hell.

So what happens? Do you see your family again in this perfect garden? Do you come back as a lion that impregnates the pack – all day, everyday – that is until some young upstart takes a whack at you. Do you come back as a dung fly, and you know – eat dung? Do you go to that place that will torture you from 9 till eternity because you missed something on the Lord’s Ten-Point Checklist of What Thou Should Not Do?

Like I said, I battle with religion wondering what more there is to this life, because tears, people in black, Danny Boy in the background, and a bad eulogy that will make me better than what I was isn’t what I’m looking forward to at the end of the road – Dear God, maybe they’ll play that at the end. I deal with my own spiritual salvation each day, and so do many people – fighting born again Christians and people telling me about their great rebirth. I don’t want to hear it, and let’s face it – no one wants to hear anyone’s one nightstand with Jesus. Not to cheapen spirituality, but it is a personal thing, and this leads me to my long awaited point: the thought of spiritual salvation equated with economic salvation sickens me. God is already giving me a hard time in one aspect of my life, he doesn’t need to transcend into other avenues. Premarital sex is already difficult enough on me.