if you live in a glass house

Funny how life brings it isn’t it? I mean we all sit in our glass houses hoping desperately that nobody among us thinks they are without sin, all the while looking for a chink in our brother’s armor—even if we aren’t his keeper. (how was that for mixed metaphor? at this point I’m not even sure what I’m talking about, but stick with me for a bit and we’ll learn together). This morning as I lay in my gloriously puffy bed with freshly washed sheets, reading e-mails, checking the news and wishing for breakfast in bed; I came across a thought of momentary noteworthiness that washed my struggling heart with serenity.

You see, I’ve had sort of a shitty week. Now I wouldn’t go so far as to say a totally shitty week, and it has got absolutely nothing on last week in the total stank department—in truth, things started to brighten up for me at least by Wednesday—so “sort of” really is a perfect descriptive in this case.(I’m just good like that.) What’s funny though is that the change from total to sort of just really insisted on inserting itself whether I liked it or not. And frankly I did like it; I have actually been doing some strange ritual of supination and begging this week and even considered various methods demonstrated in “agnes of god” for the truly devout to bring about a lifting of the proverbial gloomy cloud that has been pouring down, frizzing my hair and plainly ruining my make-up for nigh on a fortnight now.

When the breakfast in bed never appeared I roused myself for an outing to the local coffeehouse to enjoy a warm, ritualistic cup of eye-opener and some friendly banter. The banter was altogether at least 5 times as friendly as it has been for many Sundays and the learning was profound. My coffee companion began to describe a Sundance documentary by stacy peralta of "dogtown" fame called,"made in america" about the genesis of gangs in america and how they began from a genuine desire to build community and a sense of place in the world in the early 50’s—with no real intent or need for violence. My oversimplification (for literary purposes) of the plot linked my thoughts to the brief film I watched just last night about the favelas/slums in brazil and the nature of the gang violence and destitution lived there and the overall stinkyness of my past few weeks.
Then a little question arose in my brain or maybe from my heart…is it any wonder that the people of the world faced with amazing hardship and strife have a hard time rising above their trials when those of us with puffy beds and even the remotest possibility of breakfast being served there can’t seem to get out of our glass houses, quit trying to cast the first stone, wanting to find a chink in our brother’s armor and aren’t even the least bit interested in being his keeper? (not in the zoo sense of the word, but more in the jungle sense of “we’re all in this jungle together, why don’t we want to run in the same herd” sort of way).
The documentary told of how the men who started the gangs, or in their words—clubs, were looking for a place of fraternity where they could come together and form stronger bonds, hold their accomplishments up with pride—a place that wasn’t being allowed to them from the white community.
What is it in the nature of people that would not want another man or woman to be able to join with them because of a common bond? Why it is that human nature does not imbue in us an unquenchable desire to form these bonds wherever possible, to overcome our differences, rejoice in them and relish our similarities as well? When viewed in the global sense, this question is timely and oft disheartening…our nation and global village are crippled because of shortsighted behavior, but my question is posed on a poignant and purely personal level. If we can’t learn to see our literal brother or sister through the lens of unconditional love, even when they behave atrociously; if we can’t embrace our lover or best friend because we love them even when they disappoint us terribly, then at what point is it safe to say that nobody’s house will be left standing—glass or otherwise?
I don’t ask this question to imply that we should all abandon our opinions and differences, nor that we should hesitate to defend or even reveal them, I merely ask in recognition of my own learning…is there a way that we, as the closest of beings, can see each other in all our differences, embrace the fact that there are as many opinions and differences in this world as there are people and we are lucky to have people who love us enough to dispute those differences loving us all the while?
I suppose it was the experience of truly connecting with a few people this week, who while so different from me, were amazing and magnificent in their own right that I began to love them for it—which lifted the gloom, inserted the opportunity to connect through my heart, found the way to express diversity—even resolve conflict, all the while cradling it with compassion. It is this place which instills in me great hope for the people of the world—as we, as I, learn to see all my brothers with the heart--the differences no longer present a conflict, they present the opportunity to more deeply know another and through that, myself—and this will be our global village’s greatest triumph—whether we agree on it or not.

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Now playing: Peter Tosh - Glass House
via FoxyTunes

is it the beatles or something i swallowed?

Just a little prose from my current blogtag challenge. thought i would post it here, until i am inspired with another topic...

Jansen Bright had always been interested in saving lives and the sea--including seafood, in that order. It didn't surprise his mother when he joined the coast guard instead of going to college and was still the youngest man on his crew. For his youth and puppy like willingess to “go overboard” to do a job right, jan endured frequent verbal rib poking and practical jokes. Rather than going ballistic and ending up on some criminal science survey course list for “must study serial-killer psyches”, he would blow off steam crabbing in the early mornings to keep his head clear and bring in some extra money.

The bright family had always lived quite an austere existence and jan had not learned extravagant needs, the money he earned was tucked away quietly for a rainy day. The best opportunity crabbing did afford him was time to think and become quiet for a few moments each day. Not a luxury he found among his shipmatesin the guard , jan came to love the silent moments on the water, whalewatching and crabbing, as much as he loved the adrenaline rush of jumping into the drink to pull a waterlogged survivor to safety. Now reflecting on the silence around him, jan realized both the silence and the chaos in the water represented his fondest memories of love—remembering his deepest connections had come from time spent at the shore or sailing with his family. His spirit soared when he was allowed to express his inner nature while on the sea, in whichever outlet it took. In certain moments he realized when he expressed, what his girlfriends had always classed his-- "chewy center” through these labors of love, he was at his most joyful.

As he looked around him at the floating sea kelp and distant reef--out of the corner of his eye, jan thought he glimpsed his father coming in his direction. Long since gone from this world, it didn’t seem possible and the image faded as quickly as it had arisen. A whisper rippled through the water reminding him of how much he worshiped his father. Never having been very close, jan had always fought to earn the approval of his dad and had chosen a path that mirrored that of this man he admired so keenly. The “ghost” of his father quickly changed into a memory—one of his very few from childhood that didn’t include the sea—watching his parents swirl about the living room to the notes of yellow submarine. Typically his father would be dressed in a crisp, clean uniform and his mother just returned from the beauty parlor with a new up-do with some sort of waltz in the background, but on that far-distant day they sensually and almost casually circled each other in grubby jeans and t-shirts after a hard weekend day of clean-up and chores; the looks passing between them obviously the secret language of love that jan sought to decipher his entire adult life.

For a moment jan wondered what part of what he was seeing was real; the dancing parents or the breaking waves? He had spent countless hours gazing out at the sea already in his lifetime; watching whales pass by with their young ushering them to safety through treacherous waters, considering the migratory patterns of the waterfowl that appeared during high season each year, and imagining himself as a part of that amazing journey. Now jan’s eyes blinked back tears—if that was possible underwater—as he realized his imaginary life had finally returned to encompass his real life. As the storm raged overhead and finally bested his youthful strength, jan let go and took the water into his lungs. With his final, saturated breaths, jan recognized his father as he beheld him approaching through the water. How fitting to see him again here, in this lyrical, underwater garden where the arm of the starfish is magically re-grown and the eight-arms of the octopus, like the powerful, weaving legs of the spider; reach out to offer another life-giving safety net. As jan sank into unconsciousness his thoughts turned to regrets of moments in his own brief life that had not yet been lived; it wasn’t until much later, sprawled out on the deck of the search and rescue boat and coughing up saltwater, that jan felt he had finally opened his spirit just enough to realize he had always had the approval of his father, and his underwater apparition had been the liminal, lifesaving moment of the recognition and embrace of that love.

blogtag 2: going to the show

i usually post my blogtag on my myspace account, but am having technical difficulties. you can follow the blogtag at www.myspace.com/baliunderconstruction . the assignment for the game was to use the 2 photos (to get the entire gist of things you must follow the thread of all the blogs of the challenger)

(to be read out loud with a childish british accent, as if you had a slight cold)

me before the show

Dear diary— Today was the bestest day of my hole life. Mummie told me way long ago that I could go an watch my favorite game at the show, not on the tv. Me an mum wach a lot of tv an that is my favorit, but going to the show is rilly my best favorit. The day did not start so good, mum made me eat nutrishunal biscuits agin cause she thinks I don't poop emuch—I hate pooping, it stinks.

Then the day got verie, verie, verie good when my girlfriend came round. She is calld penny and I laff al the time when I here that because she is not monie. But I call her penny now because she cryed last time I calld her carol. I like the name carol way more than penny, but mom said you cannot just call a different name to someone if you don't like there name. weerd, huh My name is Gordon, the kids call me gordo and I never cry about that cause they are rilly my best frends.

When penny got there, I got to stop eating those gross biscuits and finish getting reddy for the show. I love the show, I get to ware my best tennie runners cause that's the game. Evrywon wares there tennie runners, but theres are way more classic than mine. Mum says I can by classic tennie runners when I have a job of my own and no the valu of monie. I think mum is funny, I already do all the hard jobs cleaning the w.c. and I make my bed everyday, and she still dusnt give me the rilly good shoos—what kind of job is she talking about?

We got to ride the toob to the show and there were so many people, I almost wet my nikers when a big ugly guy sat rite next to me on the toob. Finaly we got to the place with the rilly big doors and the huge grass, where they play the game. Penny acted sort of stupid is you ask me, she acted like she had nevr seen so many chaps in one place and wanted to ring her mum. Sometimes I think penny acts like a baby, but she has soft boobies and smell like peprmint so I ignore the baby stuff. Mum says we all haff to do are part.

I loved the show, the chaps in the best wihite shortpants I ever saw were the ones who got to play for the tv. Only are seats weren't so grand. Mum said that thing about a job again when I asked her why we had to sit at the tippy top—why do I have to clean more w.c.'s just because we have stinky seats? then she said something about nosebleeds, but i havent picked my nose til it bleeds for a rilly long time.
Then the best thing happened at the show that I ever saw, and not just on tv—some one very fast in a big coat started playing on the grass. He was not supposed to do that, it was not his turn, but he brot decorations for his game and started putting them all over the grass—they lookt like big pink popsicles and I felt hungry. Me and penny were laffing a lot and so many people by us told mum we better shut it. Other people in blue coats (I hate the blue coats) started chasing the guy on the grass only he finished his game first and pushed the button before they could catch him. I guess he must have practissed so much to be so fast and his game was so fun.

Wonse he pushed the button, the fireworks went off—and then me and penny rilly started to have fun. the fireworks sent a hot spark that cott my hair on fire. Mum didn't think that was fun either. Old people do not no what is rilly funny like kids do—I want to go to the show evry day. One old gent said people do not no how to show respekt to wimble dome like they used to—I think he was crying. Was he talking about my new haircut that looks like a dome?

after the fireworks we had to stop on the toob stop where haircuts are—so I could get this new haircut, my ears feel cold, but penny thinks I look like corky from the tv, so I like it to. I'm hoping mum will let me go to more shows soon, I would like that for a job

me after the show