American Art

Learn More about Burma Here

Destination: Summer Newness

Upon waking A. realized that she had completed 5 new the day before, that she had never done before:

1. hung her laundry on a clothesline in the backyard to dry.
2. left her bike unlocked and it did not get stolen.
3. rode her bike home at midnight (78 degrees)
4. saw a movie in 3D (not at disneyland)
5. polished a wood floor.
6. slid down water slides at bryan park pool for free.ninety-nine.

Destination: News channels can't stop talking about. Here are some other thoughts

So many people I have spoken to today have told me, "you know it's weird, I just had pulled out Thriller this morning and was listening to MJ."

Michael Jackson Died. I don't know why I am freaking out so much. I didn't know him. I didn't want to know him. I was never a die-hard fan. I don't know all the dance moves to thriller. I don't know all the words to to Beat It. I do remember being 4 years old and singing (and reflecting on) the deep meanings in the lyrics, "I'm looking at the man in the mirror. I am asking him to change his ways." Michael Jackson. King of Pop. Whether or not you were ever a fan in a screaming crowd. If you have been alive any time between 1968 and now, you have been influenced by MJ at the very least because those around you and your environment have been influenced by him.

I have purposely chosen to post a picture of him as child. When all that stood before him were the shiny things of hope, fame, fortune. We did not know of the future surgeries, mysteries, skin-whitening treatments, court cases, immortality chambers, Neverland Ranches. We had only hope for style, music, and fresh new dance steps. He gave those. Generously. MJ was the King. The King of Pop. And though very much loved by many around the world, he was very much an american symbol, and american phenomenon: an american product.

Perhaps what is feathering around in my conscious as I reflect on the life and death of MJ is that I can not stand to think of what he became. Dancing, singing, African American child from Gary, Indiana who earned millions of dollars, fans, status as virtuoso. This for him became unrestrained means for loneliness, self-hatred, unmitigated demonstrations of the ills and pains of abuse, and other terrors. Perhaps I am taking too much liberty in interpreting the actions of the older MJ. But it seems plausible that self-hatred was the cause of so many surgeries, skin-whitening, and other detestable, inexcusable things the King of Pop did to himself and others.

We love MJ for the moon walk, for the albums, the style. And truly I have no need to tell you that it is all breathtaking, stunning, genius. But I also fear MJ. He, no doubt, is the symbol the creative genius, dancing artistry, darkness. Michael Jackson represents the success and the sickness that is America.

Maybe I am being overdramatic. maybe not.

Jane Austen Ruined My Life by Beth Pattillo

My review

No stars for this book. Poorly written. Cliche. Unbelievable characters. No conflict (a published novel with no conflict!). Why did I even finish reading it? I don't know. I like Jane Austen. I liked the small sense of mystery the book did have. Relied heavily on chain-stores for setting, i.e. Starbucks, Chanell. It's kind of funny to me that a novel all about English Professors would be cliche and poorly written. In certain section they even tell each other that they are being cliche. Did not earn it's moral ending. I wonder if this had been a romantic-comedy video (if a conflict was somehow introduced) if I would have liked it. At least then someone would be paid for the product placement.


View all my reviews.

Prayer

Lord, grant me the grace to be free from the excesses of this life.
Let me not get caught up with the desire for wealth.
Keep my heart and mind free to love and serve you.

To Be Loved

To Be Loved: The Music, the Magic, the Memories of Motown : An Autobiography by Berry Gordy

My review

rating: 2 of 5 stars
If you are looking for the inside scoop on Motown, this will give you something! Who knows what's true. Poorly written yet a page turner. What's Berry Gordy going to do next? There are some really great lines such as, "Out of that short love affair came my son, Terry." and "From her I learned there were many levels to a relationship, not just physical." If you are in to motown or celeb gossip its a must read.


View all my reviews.

Destination: Bathroom Mirror

destination: bathroom mirror

A. woke up one morning looked in the bathroom mirror and realized she was a White American.

No. that is a lie. She realized it long ago, has known it for quite a while, say most of her life. It is only been recently that she has been realizing that while she knows in her head head that being white is not a bad thing, She did not believe it was good. Many questions and thoughts raced through A.'s head including:

1. dangit. I thought my sophomore year of college when we had that conference "mosaic" about race, that I had learned that I needn't justify myself for being white. I thought I had learned i needn't say to myself "I am white, but...." fill in the blank. A remembers that at age 19 the list had been extensive and now years later, the list remains, and perhaps even grew.

2. Why is this whole white thing coming up when I moved to a very very white state? Seriously?

3. Dangit, not another mopey sad white girl crying about her white girl pain. so cliche, so overdone.

4. Poetry is hard. Maybe I should just give up... just another white girl writing poetry.

5. Why cant I just get over this and be comfortable and confident in who I am.

6. Certainly after all these years of being asked, "what are you" I could come up with some graceful, tactful answer. Some way to say, Oh, I am white. And not feel like that is the wrong, disappointing answer.

7. Don't forget to floss.


A. was at a writer's conference this week with many other white people and a couple african-american poets. one of whom said about poetry, "i write to become a better human being." A. nodded in agreement. They were speaking of what it is like to write about other cultures. Americans know so much. War while not on our front porch, it is contained in the television. Poets write to discover humanity. Oh but the crippling pain, when realizing writing can do harm. When writing of a violent act can actually exploit the victim, can actually reanact the violent act. Make the body-harmed still just a thing that violence is done upon. Writing can usurp the voice of the voiceless. Intention, Reason, Naivity.

A. had asked a published amazing poet the question of culture and exploitation. And if A. was honest, she asked it because she wanted the poet to give A. permission to write about non-white people. Non A's-specific-life poem. And In not those words A felt like she was given permission. Why write poetry? To discover. Humanity. In words. The fun. The challenge.

In prayer at a coffee shop with a white friend, A realized that perhaps, wanting to just get over it. Just finding the method, the how-to guide for writing poetry as a priviledged white american woman was not going to appear in prayer or any other venue. That perhaps asking God to rid her of these uncomfortable feelings was not the right request. Perhaps replace it with this prayer: Give me strength to ask and continue to sit with the right questions. Give me belief, bone-resolved belief in mercy, in grace, that if I do say or write the wrong things, it is okay. There is freedom to fail. A. tried to include in that prayer to include "Thank you for making me white." but she could not get the words to drop from her lips. Her tongue was thick and awkward and unwilling to form those words. Maybe someday she will be able to.

Some day I will stop posting Youtube videos of Motown

But that day is not today.

Q. Do you know that in the group name Gladys Knight and the Pips. P.I.Ps is actually an acronym? Do you know what it stands for?

P.S. Do not be confused or mislead by the elfish costumes in this video



If I were your woman. Gladys. Soul Label. 1970.

Dreamy.

Detour

I had wanted to take y'all on a trip to Detroit, the years 1959-1972. The Decade of Motown Domination, but as of late I have been distracted by the following:

1. Grassroots organizing/party-giving. I planned an executed a wonderful party to raise awareness about Burma and the political situation there. I can say it was wonderful party because in the end all 8 people who came said they really enjoyed it. I am happy for that. I cooked Burmese food. We watched a 14 minute video on Burma and talked about it. Drank beer and ate cake. I was disappointed that all the other people who said they would come didn't. It makes me feel sad.

2. It would cost over 500 dollars to fly to South Dakota. No trains travel through South Dakota. SD is one of the hardest places to get to. My great aunt gloria is there. It's were my grandma is from. I had wanted to go visit because my mom is going there to check on my ailing auntie. but alas, it seems impossible. SD no one knows it, no one explores it. Someday i will have to drive through it and stop and visit with my roots (pronounced in the southern indiana way: ruts).

3. A saddish feeling. I can not put my finger on it.
4. Dreams about grocery shopping.

5. There is beer in my fridge. If you come over, you can have one and we can have a grill out (that's what they call BBQs here in Indiana).

6. The end.

Destination: Reality TV

A. returned from school/work hungry. Television was on--a show about supermodeling, becoming one, a supermodel. It reminded A. of Zoolander, the seriousness with which they took ridiculousness--posing sexily with dead fish, with a glass bowl of butterflies on their heads, etc--but she found herself enthralled by the rhythm, the mindlessness, and let herself go. It was Marathon. A. seems to believe in finishing things. Someone finally won. Confetti. Hugs. Money. Promises. Tears. Disappoint. A lot of strange pictures.

A. packed up her things and went to her room, where she could not sleep for having felt she wasted hours of her life. She talked on the phone--this helped, learning about friends, praying for friends, brought her back from (sur)Reality TV to the world she lived in. She read over and edited some poetry. This also helped.

A. went to sleep. Awoke. Still feeling the hours of wasted life settling around her bones, thought about her garden. Maybe there in the mud, she will find herself again. A. went to sacredspace.ie where she was reminded that the two greatest commandments were to love God with all your heart, and your neighbor as yourself. A. wonders if the wasted life in Reality TV feels so terrible, because in watching TV there is no God but the people who vote contestants off the show, and there is no neighbor, because friends and family must speak louder than the TV to be heard. She apologizes to her God. She wants to apologize to her neighbors, but doesn't quite know how to word it. A. apologizes to herself, saying, let's get a ticket away from Reality TV and let's never go back.