The horror we are in today…is not new! Minorities on all levels have to pay particular attention when going outside. We have to beware of all that surrounds us. For indeed, all that surrounds us…can kill us!
Some extremism experts believe that may not be an accident. They say historical data suggests a link between heated rhetoric from top political leaders and ensuing reports of hate crimes, only adding to the fears of those who could be targeted.
“We can’t say that Trump is at fault because these mass killings have existed for a long time,” said Carlos Tarin, a Mexican immigrant who has lived in El Paso for three decades, but the recent rancor over immigration “has woken up that feeling that had been sleeping.”
Most, enlightened beings, understand, ‘what love does not do!’ Yet, it appears, with the world; in particular, America, that love does need an updated…clarification.
IN which to understand it better.
Sad but true. The highest step we can climb and/or the deepest footing into despair…is one simple emotion. The Art of Love. And, it is fading into tweets, face time and other tangible matter, to which, it does not belong!
Not just love, as in lovers, soul mates,spouses…Love in friendship, kinship, four-legged, two-legged, whatever. Love does indeed conquer all. When it is blossoming? It has the aroma of our most memorable moments. Secret times, alone, when we are reminded of such things as; Grandma’s homemade jam. Stolen seconds with someone else..and, as they depart, you still have their scent on your skin. Gently caressing all the right things in life.
Love, in opposition? Is, nonetheless, just as poetic!
The women, a stranger, who passes by in a whim. And, for just the slightest tick of time, a remembrance of the love that got away. The heart break is just as fresh as it had been years before. An ache. A loss of breath. The anxiety that only a high speed carnival ride…can compare to.
The idea that beyond the great physical barrier, a fist sized, heart; there is poignant, passion . In all worlds, above words, between and below the fine lines…lies, a wonderful tendering ache.
The In Between of Love by Tom Robbins
Nobody else can provide love for us, and to believe otherwise is to delude ourselves dangerously and to program for eventual failure every relationship we enter.
Tell love you want a memento of it and obtain a lock of its hair. Burn the hair in a dime-store incense burner with yin/yang symbols on three sides. Face southwest. Talk fast over the burning hair in a convincingly exotic language. Remove the ashes of the burnt hair and use them to paint a mustache on your face. Find love. Tell it you are someone new. It will stay.
Love easily confuses us because it is always in flux between illusion and substance, between memory and wish, between contentment and need.
People are never perfect, but love can be.
…our lives are not as limited as we think they are, all things are possible, laughter is holier than piety, freedom is sweeter than fame, and in the end it’s love and love alone that really matters.
Love, and, red hair, is caused by sugar and lust.
What is not Perfect Love by RandomwordbyRuth
Love is not fashion
Love is blind
Love cannot be bought
Love is not bias
Love is not found. It is not in politics. It is not in religion. It isn’t even in…our social media.
WE should not believe that of the most exquisite of experiences, love. Is a choice. Placed ever so unevenly balanced, before humans…LOVE is not a controversy. It is there by virtue of a Higher Power, alone! A personal experience devoted to manipulate us, antagonize us, provide us with the wrong road-maps. To consider LOVE as something, that words, laws, and lowly, dull, strangers, can give us a definition for… Is to underestimate…the power of LOVE.
Are we the first? Is New Hampshire as…un-diverse…as many critics say? If so, is that significant? And, what of our ancestors? How the hell do those naysayers think we ended up in this land…north of a frigid witch’s tit?
In my own family, up until the mid 1990’s, I had not been told about my own exclusivity on ‘being in the minority.’
My grandmother, who had been often referred to as, the dumb Pollock! My father who deliberately and without forethought, distinguished Native Americans as, drunks, lazy and no good!
Funny, in the midst of my confusion of being gay. Ironic, standing in the land of women ‘should be seen and not heard.’ Strange…with all these supposed, bloodline infirmities, I had not been told the following:
My grandmother in actuality was Polish and Russian! Something she had been too ashamed to share until much later in her life. My father? Well, it wasn’t until I became a fully pledged addict that he stated,
“It isn’t so surprising. Her being an alcoholic. Indians are known for their love of drugs!”
Course, it just so happened my paternal grandmother, who died of complications due to hard living…was half Cherokee.
Needless to say, there I stood in the depths of minority. An addict, a woman, a lesbian, part Russian, part Native American!
This is not about politics. It isn’t even related to living in the minority. Perhaps, it is quite the opposite.
The ‘melting pot‘:
Multicultural surrounding where all the different cultures slowly become more uniformed generation after generation by adopting bits and pieces of other cultures and giving away some of their own traditions.
Melting pots…had been something that encouraged me to be different. To seek the unique. To be proud of the idea..we all didn’t row over to America at the same time or on the same boat. That each and everyone one of us…who proudly calls themselves, Americans, looked for a better life.
In that manner, I am no different from my adopted dogs. Both mongrels. Each of them quietly called, Heinz 57’s! A collaborative mixture of everything they ever were…and, everything they will ever be.
…funny I think we were on the same boat back in 1694
Let’s face the facts, it maybe 2015, but it sure feels like the early 1960’s! Unrest and ambivalence are never a handy combination.
Are we a nation divided under color? Are we a nation poised for battle in the bedroom?
I have a nasty little quirk. A formidable habit of becoming stoically silent and ferociously quiet…when I feel forced into a corner.
Anger, to me, has been such an over explored emotion, at least, in my family. Violence with the threats or without? It did not matter. It, anger, felt like a choice. A sort of sink or swim. Do or die!
I ran so fast from the scenes of my childhood. I ran as fast and as far…as my empty wallet and dying from alcohol to kill the pain, body…would take me.
The world to me feels like a grander scale of Alcoholics refusing to get help. People shooting people for no real reason. No real reason other than a wanting to be center stage, top dog and/or the actor, director, producer…of our own play.
Dear Old Grandfather had been in law enforcement. He saw anger. Therefore, he brought anger home. It had nowhere to go. He died a dry drunk…angry and without remorse for the aches he had left behind.
He also had disowned my homosexual ass! Declining any contact with me. He opted out of my young adulthood years. And, to that, I felt anger.
And so, the cycle went on and on and on.
Anger has nowhere to go…if it is left to it’s own.
WE are all faced with choices. Whether we are the dirtiest of poor or the richest of the self appointed jesters in our court of It’s All About Me!
The question is:
Has America hit rock bottom yet? Or, is there still room and time to play around with the idea that…the white man is better than… and the heterosexual couple will go to heaven?
I don’t think there is much time left. Even so, I’ve gone back into hiding.
Hiding in my Alcoholic’s Anonymous books. Finding salvage amongst Native American philosophies. Packing up my soul and psyche and heading into the written word!
On our own will alone, the world just isn’t holding water.
Goddess, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.
The courage to change the things I can.
And, the wisdom to know the difference.
Three simple sentences that stopped my ass from being on fire…many moons ago.
Later along I learned that anger is unnecessary when going to a fight. The concept should be…I didn’t have to go to the fight in the first place.
Can I change someone else? Make black blue? Make queer straight?
Should I even worry about those persons do anyway?
I suppose the best we can do is join or don’t join. Be party to the hysteria, the back turning, the name calling and the discrimination?
Or, we can write, vote, standup to, one voice at a time, the misplaced anger.
My grandfather passed away leaving me with a vivid memory…
He had been insistent that my grandmother had been having an affair with a Puerto Rican cemetery man. (His words, not mine.)
Day in and day out, right up until the end. He made my grandmother’s life a living hell topped with resentful spite!
He was becoming senile and the violence in his soul was getting the best of him.
Shortly after the wake and the funeral. Shortly after my grandmother relieved herself of fifty years doing the dirty with a bitter man.
Shortly after the smoke cleared and the feverish fog lifted…She, my namesake, my grandmother…told me this:
I loved your grandfather but it was anger that did him in!
I often think of her, him and those words…as I watch the world unravel!