6/3
There is writing for arrogance
and writing for accuracy,
there is writing as pastime
and writing as truth-facing,
there is writing as generational capture
and as fictionalized entertainment,
there is writing as catharsis
and writing as persuasion.
What then would you call this?
Writing as the clouds, I reply.
________
There is no margin of error when it comes to sensationalism. It either hits or it doesn’t, and when it does, it has the potential to hijack an entire populace and move it at will. You ask if this is moral and just. I say it is your choice whether to be moved, so there is no morality or justice at play here. Which way do you choose?
I countered that with an alternate proposal. What if instead, each of us, in whatever role we held, took responsibility for our role in the collective? Understood that what we did had broader implications? What if we drove our awareness deep into our hearts and souls to see our connection to all living things? How would this alter our choices? Do you think you would check sensationalism then?
I roped us into this, and I’ll work on how to rope us out.
________
Reality is in the eye of the beholder.
6/4
It had been a long road. The band was finally taking off and able to call some shots. From London to Madrid, Charlie traveled doing what he loved best. The crowds were growing and it wasn’t the money that was fueling him, although that was nice. It was the way he was able to use what he knew was his god-given gift. There is such strength in purpose when you are able to grow your divine artistry.
On the last night of the European tour, they finished the set with a bang and the crowd went wild. After much celebration in the green room, Charlie sat in the plush chair and let it envelop him. He had finally made it. It was almost too good to be true. He took his hand and pinched his thigh. “It’s real,” he laughed to himself.
At that moment, a gorgeous red-head entered the room, clad from head to toe in sparkles. There was so much light dancing around them, she looked ethereal, and her poise and grace added to her otherworldliness. “Hey, Charlie,” she purred, as she took a seat in the opposing chair.
“Hey,” Charlie answered quizzically. No one was supposed to be back here and the show had ended hours ago.
“Whatcha up to?” she asked as she leaned over and took a handful of pistachios from the coffee table. “Oh, these are my favorite.” Pistachios were also his favorite and had become a prerequisite for any green room he found himself in. Most would perceive such a request as self indulgent, but anything that could make the faceless and nameless green rooms feel more personal was a huge benefit on the road. It gave traveling life some semblance of home and everyone wants to feel that sense of being rooted.
“Mine, too,” he replied.
“So, watcha up to?” she coaxed, softening her penetrating gaze as if to draw out his answer.
“Well, I was actually just taking this moment in,” he explained, surprising himself with his immediate honesty. “It’s been quite a trek to get here and I’m finding myself in awe of all of it.”
“Yeah, I get that,” she concurred. “I’m a musician, too.”
“Oh, yeah? Have I heard your music?”
“Maybe,” she replied with indifference. “My band is Spitzer.”
“What’s the name?”
“Spitzer. We’ve been together for almost fifteen years and just finished our seventh tour.”
“Why are you messing with me?” he barked. “You know, I’m a bit tired for this. I’m not into games, especially now. I’m headed back to the states in the morning. I’ve got to get going.” He glared at her, but she didn’t seem to notice. She just kept popping pistachios into her mouth without a care in the world. “Say, what did you say your name was?” he ventured, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“Annie,” she replied. “Annie Dorsey.”
“Dorsey as in my last name?” This was beginning to feel unsettling, not in a scary way, but in a strikingly unusual one.
“Dorsey. D-O-R-S-E-Y,” she professed.
“So, your band’s name is the same as mine and your last name - how is that possible? I don’t know you!” he challenged.
“You may know of me, but you certainly don’t know me. Few people really do, but my husband Charlie is the light of my life. We make magic out of our music. Neither of us had any idea what our collision would bring.”
“Charlie?” he sputtered.
“Yeah, Charlie. Surely, you know him. He actually started Spitzer five years before he met me. We met after his final European show that year.”
What the f*** was happening? Charlie felt like he wanted to both leave and stay. His body wanted to escape the frightening situation, but there was so much he had yet to understand.
“What brings you here?” he asked, taking his own handful of pistachios.
“I’m here to meet Charlie,” she replied.
“I thought you said you were married to Charlie,” he puzzled.
“I am,” she insisted. “Oh, wait. Are you one of those who still thinks time is fixed? Come on now, it’s time to leave the dark ages.” She laughed out loud, not making fun but thoroughly amused. It was like she was in on something that hadn't yet permeated his brain. It was getting late. He had to go.
“Well, it was nice chatting with you. As I mentioned, we’re headed back to the states tomorrow, so I’ve got to get some shut-eye.” Charlie stood to leave, grabbing his bag from the floor. She didn’t move a muscle.
“Okay, thanks for the pistachios,” she smiled as she took another handful.
“No problem,” he replied. “Take care.”
Charlie left the room, and walked down the long hallway towards the exit. It was so late, everyone had gone home. The stillness, after his recent encounter, was welcome. Walking outside, Charlie marveled at how the dampness of the road glistened in the moonlight from the rain. He looked around to determine if a cab or uber was better at this late hour. Out of nowhere, a cab pulled up in front of the building. Clearly, his exhaustion was getting the better of him. The driver rolled down the window. “You looking for a ride?”
“Yes,” Charlie replied.
“You’re not going to find many of us out here at this time. I’ve got another passenger in here, but I’m happy to take you both.”
“Oh, that would be great,” he sighed.
“Hop in.”
Charlie opened the door and the vision took his breath away. It was a convergence of everything he’d known and would ever know, all things natural and supernatural, a sudden knowing, the truth of everything. He was immediately transformed and transfixed. The fellow passenger moved her guitar to the floor, so he could sit.
“Hi,” she said as she bent her head down to peek up at him. She extended her hand. “My name is Annie.”
6/5
Do you think if we captured everyone’s stories,
we would all look a bit more human?
6/6
That’s you,
ferrying actions
seen by no one
that carry all of us.
6/7
It feels like violence has become the only answer. I’m not solely talking about physical forms of violence, although those are certainly prevalent, but other forms of violence, too. The way we mobilize, creating mob-like behavior against another, the way one sits behind their phone anonymously and spills out all the venom they feel about themselves onto another, the way we demean another’s humanness.
Ultimately, though this may be difficult for them to hear, their projection onto another is solely attributed to emotions that live within themselves. I don’t blame the people from my homeland for turning against me. There was a massive effort from powerful forces that built the apparatus of vilification, but I do think it calls for our attention. When it becomes right or just to attack another, you know you have lost true righteousness or justice.
Many times those attacked aren’t able to fight back as the numbers are stacked so far against them, it would only incite the mob further. This was the case for me. I also felt such dread about what could happen to my family, so we had no choice but to escape. But then, I felt unrooted. The land and people I had worked so hard for, that defined my identity , were torn away from me. It felt like ripping away a piece of my soul. And so, I sat in a new land only a shell of the person I was, and that is why I made the hard decision. There was nothing left for me to give. Without service, I felt nothing.
I share this not to place blame on anyone involved, for it was my choice ultimately, but to encourage a different form of disagreement. It is not just my country experiencing this new form of terror. I see it everywhere. You might bristle at my use of the word terror, but that’s what it is. When you pile hate, no matter how justified you believe it to be, onto someone else online, or at a rally, or outside their home, you are fueling terror. Hate is terror, and terror is hate, even against those with purported power. The choices, the system, the establishment are all up for grabs with free speech. However, speech against another with vitriol and incitement is never free. We are all connected by our humanness and our distance from another is fabricated and isolating.
My hope now is you consider this before you tear down another for the person that they are. Acts of violence are never acceptable, no matter how virtuous you believe you are. Everyone, even the labeled terrorists, believe they have morality on their side. Thank you for taking the time to listen, and reconsider the acts and words you attach to people known and unknown. I can tell you the effect on the person, as I lived it, but now from here I can see the effect on you, yourself, and the world. If you want a different world, love is the only way through. Would you consider that?
