Please Read These Words

It’s been a long time, but I’m back.  I was looking at my last post, and even that was a “few and far between” set of words.  Anyway, who knows if consistency will reign supreme, or the usual periodic scattering of ideas.  I figured if I put an intention out there in the world wide information traffic jam, maybe I’d follow through with regular visits.  Who knows, maybe a few of my ideas will find their way onto the smooth, clean highways leading to those informational ivory towers.  Maybe some Rupert Murdoch-like folk will see my words and say, “Hey, this Fender Marks guy really knows what’s going on!  Send him some cigars and a gift certificate to that spa!”…

So anyway, one of my favorite things to write about is politics (as you know if you’ve read my stuff).  Considering the year, why not weigh in.  Politics is fun to write about because it’s supposedly not suitable for friendly conversation.  Obviously, with all the “news” having been turned into nothing but people spouting political opinion, why not join in the fun.  People shit on the media, but with the “news” still being mostly about “murder massacre and mayhem”, I can see why “journalists” want to sometimes just hang out and talk.

Please feel free to join the conversation.  I plan to go out of my way to bring up disturbing ideas that might make me unpopular.  Fortunately, I learned a while ago that there is no “me.”  The “me” or the “I” is just something I walk around with to make things easier.  Being popular, unpopular, straight, gay, strange or smart are all ideas in flux.  Perspective is everchanging, and that’s what makes political discussions so attractive.  They’re all about demographic perspective.  Peace.

I can hardly breathe.  I don’t know what to say.  Wait, maybe if I make the text bolder, that will give me some confidence.  Yes.  There we go.  Now I can see a little better.  I think I’ll do it like this from now on, and that way it might be easier for you to read, too. 

Well, I’m still not sure what this is going to be about, but I can feel it coming on.  It’s like daydreaming.  It’s like listening to RunDMC on a Saturday night.  We’re all just sitting here in the everything right now, all those simultaneous firings of neurons creating trillions of beats per millisecond.   “I’m gonna get my kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames…”  I don’t know, Jim, that’s kind of a lousy attitude. 

“Die young and leave a good lookin’ corpse…”  I’m dying old and leaving a good looking corpse.  Rock ‘n’ roll will never die, and neither will all the kids dying to get to the show.  My body may fade away, but the spark never leaves. 

We are literally killing each other because we’re afraid we’ll all disappear.  Look at the stars.  Look at an MRI.  Look at your eyes in the mirror, the flowers in the vase, the shine of the blacktop after the rain…  Listen to the voice of Alicia Keys or the guitar of Keith Richards.  We are eternal.  Life never stops.  There is plenty in the afterwords, the during, and the in between.  You are more than the boundaries of that tender skin. 

Be who you are.  Don’t blame.  Be more than the sum of experiences that make you feel less than.  Cancel the subscriptions to your limiting beliefs.  Eat well.  Drink well.  Love well.  This ride is forever, but our enjoyment of the ride is always compromised by the fear that the ride ends before we get to climb aboard. 

Call me crazy for writing this…  Or just read Deepak Chopra.  He’s considered not crazy, and has helped a lot of people with his ideas on physical and mental well being.

I have a hard time admitting it; but I love ultimatums.  “Live Free Or Die”–New Hampshire’s state slogan–is a great statement.  As an old Volvo driving therapist, people always assume I’m soft.  That I have an eternally open mind, longing  for the world to tiptoe through tulips together, holding hands and  listening to John Lennon sing, “Imagine”…  Sure, I like peace and serenity.  I can even empathize.  It’s my job for chrissakes.  There’s another side to the story.  Hence the birth of Fender Marks.  

The command to live free or die resounds in my ears like a refreshing fuck you to all that inhibits humans from being who they want to be.  I take these words as a celebration of our diversity.  We are Irish, Jamaican, Dominican, Republican, Gay, Korean, Laborers and Monarchs.  Especially in the United States, we can be many of these things simultaneously.  Living in New Hampshire, where “good fences make good neighbors,” and where there is great diversity in opinion, socio-economic status, etc; people seem to come together regardless of bank account size to discuss their woodpiles.  We all need to stay warm in winter, and beyond that, it’s anyone’s guess what’s best for all.  This attitude doesn’t mean that the school board meetings aren’t full, but there seems to be civility and respect for the process; and the meetings are more about the love of coming together for coffee and fresh baked goods. 

Freedom reigns when we do less.  Freedom reigns when we listen to the wind rattle trees.  Freedom reigns when poetry rules over punditry.  Although people in New Hampshire love politics, revelling in their role as first stop for the presidential candidates, I get the feeling that a well stacked woodpile is way more satisfying than having your guy win or lose.  Neighbors from both sides of the aisle inevitably stand at the ends of their driveways after shoveling some snow, sharing in the ultimate vulnerability of being human, taking simple pleasure in the the glorious task at hand.

If you’re upset, there’s probably a good reason for it.  If you’re disgusted with yourself, there’s something behind it.  Chemicals in that hunk of cheese in your skull are likely firing into the wrong sockets, creating unpleasant, jagged pulses of electricity.  The symphony in your head has become full of violins with rusty strings.  When things are better, those pulses take on a smooth silky rhythm.  Our facial muscles relax, and we walk on the springy lightness of brand new running shoes.

Is it chemicals?  Are some souls born to bear the hassle of a vessel with lousy wiring?  This seems like an important question–especially considering certain Republican musings about God. Some would call me a liberal, secular humanist, commie, etc.  What I aspire to do is understand what people say when they invoke the creator.  Even an atheist might acknowledge we come from somewhere mysterious.  Calling the mystery God seems pretty harmless…  Or is it?  Anyway, let the pondering continue.

On the “You Tube” debate, Republican participants were asked whether they believed in every word of The Bible.  Without getting too muddled in theology, the overall Christian message is to believe in One God.  One who is all-powerful, and benevolent as long as you believe in Him. The candidates all asserted that to a great degree, they believed in this book—it did in fact represent God’s Word. Each seemed to be in a sparing match to profess ever deeper levels of faith—certainly attempting to shout their Amens and Hallelujahs loud enough so their voting base could hear them.

The reason I bring up brain chemicals and Republicans, is to ask whether all of us are really created equally under the power of this God guy?  I would agree that we all deserve equal respect and reverence, simply for being walking miracles of life; however, to say we are created equally is false.  The playing field is not level.  Some people need help to get back on their feet, and I’m happy to pay taxes to help them get there.

When cowboy Ronald Reagan—that odd pillar of conservative worship—closed down all those mental heath facilities, I guess he didn’t understand that chemicals can indeed fire in very depressing directions.  People hear voices that they attribute to  (ironically) God’s—and He tells them all kinds of things, but forgets to tell them to shower and not drink so much.

People can change—and it’s always a combination of things that bring about change.  Chemicals—perhaps with the help of other chemicals—can begin firing in more pleasant pathways.  Maybe this God guy, and some faith in a benevolent force can help, too.  There are indeed great words of wisdom in The Bible…  as there are in The Torah and The Koran.  People need faith to wake up.  Even atheists have faith that doing this or that will bring greater peace to their sense of self.  They wouldn’t call it faith; but this sense of self is often clouded in a mystery that some choose to call God.

When our sense of self is fogged, when our identity is in crisis—we often lash out at the world around us.  Our soul puts the chemicals on red alert and we sometimes step on the toes of others.  The stomping is always empowering.  We feel like we matter because we’re “better than” for a fleeting moment.  Later, we realize we’re all in the same boat.  We realize that our chemicals can misfire.  We realize life is fragile.  Our minds are fragile.  In these moments, it is possible for gratitude to enter our hearts and we feel connected to that mysterious source, and more important, to one another.  Our minds become strong.  Our life and sense of self feels true and steadfast.  We get back into the ebb and flow.  The chemicals of the soul flow in and out the power outlets of the Great Spirit, in those big hunks of cheese, floating precariously above our shoulders.

Here we are at the brink of it–eternally.  Maybe.  The “lion” has passed and we sit waiting for a public option.  Or is it the beginning of Germany in the 1930′s all over again.  I feel like Neo sitting down with Morpheus for the first time.

Ever wonder why people can’t get it straight?  Wonder why we kill our idols?… Or why they kill themselves even when we build pedestals for them that rise through the clouds?  I don’t know either.  Anyway, I was thinking about this health care thing…

Why not pool our jing so everyone can afford a few family checkups; or  so single parents working minimum wage jobs can get fixed if they get hurt.  Not everyone can be V.P. at a bank; and I think most would agree that flipping burgers or digging ditches is just as difficult, and deserves the same access to antibiotics or insulin.

People say the uninsured already get care because the emergency room never turns people away.  That may be true, but let’s give people their dignity back. Why shouldn’t every working man and woman be able to access health?  This is about human rights.  If we can pay for cutting edge bomb technology with our tax dollars, we can pay to take care of one another.

We must be able to meet somewhere in the middle.  No one is taking away private, exclusive health care options.  This is America.  A whole new business will open up for those who mistrust the liberals who supposedly want to kill the rich people, take their money, and give it to poor people.  Insurance companies will find a way to profit from the paranoia that this move to partially socialize health care will somehow degrade patient care, underfund research, etc.

Again, this is America.  We are always on the innovation track… sometimes for our benefit, sometimes our craftiness backfires.  Let’s just ask ourselves what we have to lose?  Why weren’t people this upset when the government handed all that money to the banks and the auto industry?

People really need to wake up.  Take a look at what insurance companies and drug companies have raked in from you over the years.  Do these people care about you, or their shareholders?  I’m not saying the government is a beacon of hope and fiscal responsibility, but what do we have to lose?  We can at least write to public officials, and it is their job to eventually respond.  We can even vote people out of office!

Corporations have been ruling the roost for too long.  We sit here fearing a mild experiment with social democracy, and our access to health has been increasingly gouged by a corporate oligarchy for years.

The mega businesses are the ones who stand to lose something here.  Not you. They  have a fleet of lawyers and PR people to make sure “Joe the Plumber” feels like he’s being taken care of while his well water gets polluted.  And even though I think Joe the Plumber is a dumbass, if he gets sick from drinking the water and can’t afford insurance, I’m happy put my taxes toward getting him on the mend.

What’s this shit about “mom jeans?”  The President supposedly wore some while he tossed a game opening pitch last week.  From what I read, they are unflattering jeans.  Fashion critics were aghast because Obama could’ve worn something more snug, showing off his fit bod.

If I were a mom, I’d be really pissed.  I happen to be married to one, and I’m still pissed.  This is another sign of the apocalypse.  Let’s all diss on moms.  Let’s diss on their “frumpy” attire.  Let’s reward their role of furthering life on the planet by making fun of  their bodies and fashion sense–as if the trials of childbirth were not challenging enough.  Let’s just keep on protecting the idea that Pamela Anderson jeans are the only way to go–and apparently, that goes for men too.  No thanks.  Obama, I’m glad you stated you go for comfort.  Room for our buddies to breathe is paramount.

We are no longer life forms; we are sex machines.  We have created the standard on the world wide web, in the fashion mags, on TV, movies, ad infinitum.  We are to be athletic, proportioned–or with breasts so big we’re in danger of needing lower back surgery.  It’s about time someone reminds people about this fact:   Sex appeal comes from within.  It is the secret recipe out of which our hearts and minds interpret our experience. 

I’ve met sexy fat people, sexy skinny people, and sexy in between people.  The unifying principle was a confidence transmitted in the subtle realm.  It is an it, that people possess.  And it, is always in the eye of the beholder.   Never forget, Another person’s trash is another person’s treasure.

This is not a rant against aesthetics and a healthy looking body, I think we’re all attracted to health; go ahead and enjoy a well-sculpted frame.  I just want to offer a plea for a broader perspective in what it is that turns us on.  There is a whole package that needs to be assessed.

To the women wearing “mom jeans”…  I think you’re hot.  There’s nothing sexier than breasts engorged with milk under a spit-up stained shirt.  I know you didn’t have time to take a shower because the kids didn’t take a nap today, and I want you to know, I crave your womanly stink.  I even love your sleep-deprived angry vibe.  You want some relief.  You want that tension gone…  I’m your Huckleberry.

Yes folks, the title of this post is the time I’m writing it.  You might call this lazy, but it stems from the fact that, for me, this “blog” thing is a creative writing exercise.  I sometimes have a subject in mind that I want to write about; or,  more often than not, I just click on “new post” and start typing. 

So what’s on my mind today?  Well, let’s just say that it’s been a little weird to have some actual people commenting on my writing since I put an actual book out there for purchase.  I sort of used this blog site as a training ground for confidence.  I put stuff on the web, not telling anyone that it was here for a long time.  I think the fact that people could have read it if they accidentally found this site was enough for me.  I’ve said for a while that I enjoy writing, but I never said I liked the idea of people reading what I wrote.  That’s just plain terrifying…  Or used to be.  It still gives me a sick feeling but I do it anyway. 

I have written many a sentence that kept me from throwing in the towel.  The process of getting a notebook and a comfortable pen, and watching the pen puke out the demons on a coffeehouse table has healed my soul sickness again and again.  I also learned to type in 8th grade and it seemed to stick.  I’m amazed that my brain can tell each finger what to do, and I don’t even have to look at the keyboard.  I’ve reached that point where entire words just appear on the screen as soon as I think of the word.  Amazing. 

I guess my point is, if I didn’t learn to type, I might not think stringing words together was nearly as fun.  Typing gives us instant access to what our thoughts might look like in a book.  And I like books…  especially ones written by other people.  I’m still learning to appreciate my own words, and I’m simultaneously trying to stop caring.  For instance, when I look at that phrase, appreciate my own words, I get that sick feeling.  Really?  There are people dodging bullets in Palestine, and I’m worried about self-appreciation.  I’m reminded of a Stuart Smalley Saturday Night Live skit making fun of self-help gurus or psychotherapists.

Anyway, kidding aside, words are indeed thoughts and observations about the world I live in, and the world I believe others inhabit.  Words are important.  I am important.  You are important.  We all are.  I came to the conclusion that I write because I love life, and whether or not it’s good enough is not the point.  We all have songs to sing and stories to tell.  There are way too many songs and stories underneath headstones.  Humans are here to sing, dance and sit around the fire enjoying the glow of our faces, laughing and crying together as we share the days’ experiences. 

Thank you to all who have encouraged me to keep stoking the fire.

A few months ago, my 3-yr-old daughter Izzy learned about Michael Jackson from her 5-yr-old friend Maya.  Maya’s mom is a big fan of MJ.

Since Izzy’s discovery of the King of Pop, we’ve been regularly watching “youtube” videos of all MJ’s hits.  Since Thriller was one of my first cassettes, I felt like I’ve had the chance to re-experience the magic of Michael Jackson’s legendary talent through my daughter.

I remember breakdancing to songs in my friend’s kitchen in 1982, and just two days ago, I was singing along to, it don’t matter if you’re black or white… with my daughter.  Izzy sat mesmerized by the costumes, the dancing, and especially the faces of humanity blending into one another at the end of the video.

Michael Jackson is one of the greatest singers, dancers, and performers our world has ever seen.  Because of my daughter, I was able to able to put down the cynicism and cruel opinions that have been promoted by the media circus surrounding MJ’s later life.

Whether or not Michael Jackson behaved dangerously with children we will never know; but we can all at least agree that he was never given the chance to be a child himself, and that a life like his has psychological repercussions.

The day before Michael Jackson died, Izzy was at pre-school talking about her “boyfriend”–an entirely new topic for everyone–and one of the teachers asked her who her boyfriend was.  She said it was Michael Jackson.  It felt pretty weird that he was the talk of our household on Wednesday, and on Thursday, he left the world.

Fortunately, the music lives on, and we can always visit MJ on Youtube; today however, I write these words to honor the King of Pop, and Izzy’s first boyfriend:

Michael Jackson, thank you for inspiring my daughter Izzy, and for all the memories–especially Billy Jean, hearing that song’s baseline and beat was a religious experience!  Thank you for your message of peace, hope, brotherhood and sisterhood across creeds and colors; thank you for your dedication to the craft of song and dance; and thanks for giving my MTV generation some of the best music videos the world will ever see.

I stand corrected.  This post used to be titled, Nelson Mandela Kicks Ass… I fell prey to the false information that he wrote these words for his inaugural address.  These are actually the words of Marianne Williamson, from her book, A Return to Love.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.  Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.  It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?  Actually, who are you not to be?  You are a child of God.  Your playing small doesn’t serve the world.

There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.  We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.  It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone.

As we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.  As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.