A Zombie Johnnie Cochran (a Talking with Bob interlude)

I was hanging out with my friend Bob; Bob was, unsurprisingly, grumbling as he read the newspaper.

At one point Bob sighed heavily. “O.J. Simpson is back in the news again,” he said testily, “why can’t that guy go away and leave us alone?”

“O.J. just needs some crack legal help,” I said. “He needs to hook up with Johnnie Cochran again…that’ll do the trick.”

Bob sighed again, more heavily than before. “Michael, you do know that Johnnie Cochran is dead, don’t you?”

I took no umbrage because I knew that on some level Bob thought I was an idiot and we’d long ago made our peace with that. “Yes, Bob, I know that. But I was thinking that O.J. should go find himself a good voodoo woman and have Johnnie brought back for one more hurrah!”

“So you’re saying that Simpson should get a zombie Johnnie Cochran to come back from the dead to defend him?”

“Exactly!” I replied excitedly. “That would be so cool!”

Bob rolled his eyes and went back to the paper. “I don’t know what the problem is with people in so-called “professional” sports. You got that idiot baseball player who hurt his own stupid self because he let somebody get him riled up beyond control. You got that bicycle guy who lost his title because of ‘performance enhancing’ drugs. And don’t get me started on…Michael…Vick…” Bob’s words trailed off as he looked over and saw me staring off with goofy grin on my face. “And you’re not listening to me at all, are you?”

I shook off the reverie. I knew that the truth wasn’t the answer Bob wanted to hear but I decided to go with it anyway. “Um, no I’m not. Sorry, Bob.”

Bob cocked an eyebrow. “You’re still thinking about a zombie Johnnie Cochran, aren’t you?”

I smiled, almost laughed, and nodded. “Yes! I’m mean, come on, you have to admit that it would be something cool to see!” Can’t you just see zombie Johnnie Cochran in court, skin rotting away under a sharp $3,000 suit?” I shifted into a spooky voice. “If it rains you must feed me more brains...”

I thought I saw Bob stifle a smile. “You need help, Michael,” he said as soberly as he could. “Besides zombies don’t talk that fast.”

“Zombie Johnnie Cochran would be as glib as ever,” I opined confidently. “…until the jury delivers, I needs me more livers…”

“Stop it,” Bob protested, though I could tell he was desperately trying not to laugh.

“…when the feasting starts, I’ll have three human hearts…”

“I’m not listening to you anymore…”

We Are

We are laughing…in the boisterous way that children do…sharing secret comedy…in the earnest way that best friends do…and it is a good moment. And then the moment passes and we go on with our carefree day bolstered by healing mirth and undying kinship.

We are crying…in the way that only true loss can bring on…separated by our shared but unshared grief…and then we closed our eyes to hide our naked tears and held on to each other for a brief eternity…and it is a real moment. And then the moment passes and we comfort each other in self-conscious, self-healing, cathartic and empathic silence.

We are singing…in the unabashed way that only lovers totally comfortable with each other could dare do with each other…making a cheesy love song ours in a way that would linger with us long after our paths had diverged…and it is an amazing moment. And then the moment passes but the smiles and the ardor linger and keep us and our hopeful hearts warm.

We are dancing…soft and languid, passionate and almost ruthless…dancing the carnal dance in the humid sanctuary of our lovers’ bed…we are dancing to a soft symphony of whispered endearments and sweetly profane declarations and reaching for the bright light crescendo as one…and it is a magical moment. And then the moment passes but the tender laughter, shared while catching our breath and setting off sparks on each other’s satiated bodies with the most fleeting of touches, fills the darkness and bonded us as our senses reach for the calm.

We are laughing…we are crying…we are singing…we are dancing…we are sharing the universe and letting the universe share with us…we are dreaming and waking, shouting and whispering, loving and hating…we are accepting and denying, reaching out and holding back, discovering and losing…we are flying and we are falling.

We are being.

We are.

Blogs of Note: Worldman

The world of blogs is, of course, expansive and fairly all-encompassing. There are blogs for just about any interest and we all have our reasons for preferring the ones that we do. My personal favorite blogs tend to be those that are written by inquisitive, open-hearted people who share themselves and their view of the world (both personal and at large) in engaging ways. It is, therefore, not at all a surprise that one of my favorite blogs to visit and savor is Peter Voegtli’s charming, witty, and thought-provoking Worldman.

Worldman is never anything less than a delight to read and Peter is a wonderful blog host who makes sure that everyone who visits his site feels welcome and totally engaged. Another plus from my point of view is that music informs and permeates the entries which adds to the experience of the blog (especially considering that he has wonderful taste in music :-)

I am an unabashed fan of Worldman and I heartily recommend you visit…chances are you’ll become a fan, too (tell Peter that Michael sent you :-)

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FYI: This is, according to Blogger's count, the 400th Bread and Roses post. Yay! :-)

Babies

I’ve been thinking about babies lately. I’m not sure why. I’ve been blessed to play a part (hopefully a positive part) in the lives of a good number of amazing children in my time…stepchildren, foster children, cousins, nephews, nieces, offspring of friends, friends of the other children in my life…and babies have always seemed to like and feel safe with me.

But circumstances never came together in a way that allowed me to co-create a biological child. In our increasingly crowded world, maybe that’s not a bad thing….but sometimes, just sometimes, there is a void that tugs (however foolishly) at my heart.

When I was a teenager I had already decided on names for my first two children…it was a silly thing but it was a gentle madness and I just went with it…but, of course, life happens the way it’s going to without regard for any plans we make for it (the boy’s name ended up being used by my father and his third wife for their son…the girl’s name came to be associated with a friend I would meet in my twenties.)

And I understand and accept that. And I’ve got no complaints about the love and kinship that has filled my cynically optimistic life with bountiful gifts of love, light, and laughter…but sometimes, just sometimes, I still find myself wondering “what if?”

Sometimes I think about tiny hands grasping my fingers or touching my face…I think about small, wondrous heartbeats and warm breath of sleeping children playing like the sweetest, softest songs imaginable against my chest or on my shoulder…and I still find myself wondering…

Sometimes, just sometimes, I find myself thinking about babies…thinking about a child I’ve co-created blooming strong and sure in a nurturing womb, a child coming into the world and into arms that would always be welcoming and protective, a child growing strong and sure under watchful (but hopefully not overprotective) eyes and never-ending love, support, encouragement, and acceptance.

Sometimes…even at my “advanced age”…I think about babies. It’s a silly thing but it’s a gentle madness so I just go with it until it passes.

Share Hugs

There is something sublime and amazing about hugs. Maybe it's because they can be shared in so many emotionally intimate and emotionally satisfying ways.

Hugs are democratic expressions of love, friendship, concern, fidelity, celebration, sadness, empathy, passion, grace, understanding...they get through the barriers we erect around ourselves (if only for a few connecting moments) and bring joy and empathy and delight in ways that words often fail to.

So share hugs whenever you can...share them with your parents and your siblings and your cousins...with your children and your grandchildren...with people who who make you smile and with people who need to know that they're not alone. Share them with people you love and with people who've done you wrong but want to atone. Share them with people you know who are blue and with people you've done wrong and you need to atone.

Share hugs with your lovers and with people you want to be your lovers (even if you know they never will be.) Share them with your significant others (even and especially when you start to take your lover for them for granted.)

Share hugs for selfless reasons (most of us need hugs from time to time) and for selfish reasons (most of want to be hugged sometimes even if we pretend that we don't)

Yeah, it's a ditzy, flower power idea but so what? In our sometimes gray and cynical world, maybe we need a little flower power in our lives every once in a while...

So share hugs...they're good for you...they're good me...they're good for everybody.

Namaste, y'all.

Lover and Friend

Darlin’, in the end, I've got you
as lover and friend
Funny how it goes
We'd be the last to know
We were made for each other
And from friends we became lovers
Keep on being my friend
Our love will never end...

The music is so distant...sweet Minnie's voice caressing the lyrics from very far away. The woman in his arms stirs and he softly strokes her sleeping head; she shifts lazily pressing closer to him. He luxuriates in the intoxicating nearness of her...plush and warm and, even through his slightly inebriated haze, so very arousing...against his chest, his thighs; from somewhere far away, the music...the late, great Minnie Riperton in her prime...echoes soothingly and he just stares up just...feeling.

The music ends and he just lies there silently. He looks down at the woman sleeping against him feeling...love, anxiety, lust, confusion...just feeling.

Her face brings a wandering: smiles shared softly in the night; laughter, feigned and not, shared, like conspiratorial children and lovers, generously in the daytime. Dreams revealed…coy lies told…innuendo playfully exchanged…passion freely indulged. She has always been quite a woman, but...

"Jimmy?" a voice calling.

"Jimmy?" her voice calling.

"Jimmy, are you all right?"

"...uh...yeah, Kathy, I’m good...are you okay?"

There is a soft, pregnant silence. They will make love now...or they will go for coffee. She groans in boozy discomfort and sits up.

They will go for coffee.

She turns to him, her eyes bleary; her smile lustful and apologetic at once. "Damn, what time is it?"

He doesn't speak.

"Jimmy...?"

Other hangovers and other women's voices play back as he watches her rise and make her way gingerly to the bathroom. She is Mary who never had hangovers...and Maggie who did and loved to wallow in them.

She is Connie lying deathly still and emitting a constant, rumbling snore against his neck as she slept off the previous night's revelry.

She is, quite suddenly and quite delightfully, herself, arms thrown across his shoulders, kissing him.

"Wake up, big guy," she says with a strangely provocative yawn, "it's time to go to bed." No coffee after all.

He smiles impishly. "Isn't that a bit at cross purposes...?"

"Not necessarily," she smiles back, poking him gently in the stomach. She jumps up and makes her way to the bedroom door singing, "...darlin’, in the end, I’ve got you as lover and friend..."

He smiles humidly, that's not Minnie but it sure sounds fine; he chuckles affectionately and lifts himself slowly up and, unsteadily, he follows in her wake humming,"...darlin’, in the end…"

- for J & K -

“Lover and Friend”
words and music by
Riperton, Rudolph, St. Lewis, and Dozier

Remember

Remember? Yes of course I remember. I remember where I was. I can’t imagine that I will ever forget.

I was in Virginia and I had overslept because I had slight head cold. The first tower had already been hit by the time I finally got out of bed. My head was stuffy and my night had been restless and it didn’t make any sense.

I sat in front of the TV in my pajamas…my granddaughter, all of 8 months old, sleeping on my shoulder…and watched as the other plane hit…as the first tower fell…as the second tower fell…as the world came to a dead stop in a horrible symphony of blood and tears and death, of destruction and terror and awful amazement and stubborn defiance. I sat in front of the TV and wondered when I was going to wake up from the surreal nightmare I seemed to be having.

The world didn’t stop spinning…though at times it seemed like should have…and time kept moving forward…though seemingly not at as a rapid and regular a pace as it should have been flowing. We held our collective breath and tried to make sense of our collective fear and grief and rage and confusion…and the world kept spinning.

Six year later, I still remember…we still remember…we are not allowed to forget…we are, for the most part, not willing to forget. The memories of the fallen…on that day and on the bloodied streets and battlefields that followed that day…defy us to even try to forget.

The world keeps spinning…the blood keeps flowing…and I remember…yesterday, today, and tomorrow, I remember…

Dream

(His point of view...)

He was a man who walked through life with a song in his heart…it was the only way that made sense to him, the world could be a disheartening place sometimes that was true but that was no reason to let that change the way he felt inside. Like all men, he had his melancholies and his blues…sometimes he looked back and realized that the life he was living was not quite the one he imagined when he was 17… in the full hubris of youth…and he had laid out a roadmap for the rest of his time on Earth. But he didn’t dwell on that too much…his life was what it was and when he looked back on the path that he had taken it all made perfect sense.

He wasn’t much for dancing or singing out loud…if he was self-conscious about anything, it was his two left feet and his inability to sing on key…but he kept that song in the forefront of his heart just the same.

He knew that he had more than a lot of other guys and he was grateful for that. He was…in the way that men sometimes embraced…content. He had a job that challenged him and kept him from getting bored when it took up 40-48 hours of his weeks. He loved…and got to celebrate with passion…football and baseball and comic books and classic rock & roll. He loved that his circle of friends was small but fiercely loyal and supportive.

And most of all…most of all…he loved her.

He loved the way her eyes twinkled when she laughed…or when she held her baby niece…or when she looked up at him and told him that she loved him. He was a strong man and yet he was moved sweetly that such a tiny woman could make his heart sing with just a smile…or a touch…of just by walking into the room.

He loved the way she snuggled next to his chest and put her arms around his brutish neck when he impulsive swept her up and kissed her just because. He loved the way she sang idly and danced naturally as he went about her workaday life. He loved the way she patiently indulged his love of football and comic books and classic rock & roll.

He loved the way she effortlessly gave as good as she got…with carefree, laughing, thrilling, greedy and generous abandon…when they made love. He’d foolishly thought that she would not be up to the task of accommodating him given the difference in their sizes but she quickly disabused him of that silly notion by proving as ardent and fearless a lover as he could possibly imagine.

He loved so much about her…he hoped to never lose the amazement over the fact that such a wondrous woman could love someone as unabashedly ordinary as him.

He loved the way they talked…about anything and nothing at all…in the darkness before sleep took them to the dreaming realms. And he loved to watch…in the cool of the night and in the golden moonlight…as she slipped off to sleep. He loved to hold her to his chest and watch as she let herself slip off into deep sleep…he loved to watch her face turn so peaceful that it was sweetly, unimaginably wounding…he loved, almost more than anything in the world, to watch her dream.

(Her point of view: Breathe)

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My other corners of the interweb:
Pop Culture: Neverending Rainbow
Eclectic Sites and Images of Interest: StumbleUpon
Comic Books: Suspending Disbelief

Breathe

(Her point of view...)

She was an early riser and sometimes…just sometimes…she would wake while the morning was still dark and still…she would wake while the nighttime stars had yet to give way to the dawning sun…and she would listen to him breathe.

She would wake with her head nestled against his chest…sturdy and broad, rough-hewn and hirsute and always so very warm and welcoming; with his arm curved… gently and protectively and chivalrously… around her; with those soft sighs and whispers, so random and so endearing, that occasionally crossed over from his dreaming world into the safe haven of their bed punctuating the darkness and making her smile. She would wake and just listen and remember, even on those rare days when they had been at odds over something silly, all of the reasons why she loved him.

She loved the way his eyes crinkled up when he laughed…and she loved the way touchdowns and comic books and Jimi Hendrix solos still brought him so much child-like joy. She loved the way his hands, so large and seemingly ungainly, always touched her with courtly and sweetly wounding tenderness.

She loved the way he knew when she needed him to listen and when she needed him to make her laugh; she loved the way that she knew when he needed a shoulder to lean and when he needed to be teased out of his shadows and back into the sunshine.

She loved the way he would sometimes literally sweep her off her feet and into his arms and kiss her…ever so passionately…for no reason other than he felt the urge to. She loved the way she sometimes caught him looking at her…as if she were the most precious thing in all of God’s creation and he was blessed to have her in his life.

And she loved the way their bodies flowed together…with rhythmic grace and un-abandoned ardor in natural turn… when they were making love; the way their carnal symphony…sweet asides and bawdy, humid endearments, tender, whispered encouragements and growled, exuberant lovers’ exclamations…filled their bed…their home…their universe…with music that was theirs and theirs alone.

And on those days that she woke before he did…before the sun did…she loved to listen. She loved to listen to the sighs and whispers…to the steady, soothing beat of his mighty heart beating in his mighty chest…she loved to listen to him breathe.

(His point of view: Dream)

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My other corners of the interweb:
Pop Culture: Neverending Rainbow
Eclectic Sites and Images of Interest: StumbleUpon
Comic Books: Suspending Disbelief

Blogs of Note: Michele

Blogs of Note was at one time a reoccurring feature of Bread and Roses; it spotlighted interesting sites that I had encountered during my excursions through the blog-o-sphere. As time and circumstance shrank my time to surf as much as I would have liked the feature fell by the wayside. But now I have been inspired to resurrect Blogs of Note by the site being spotlighted today.

You can find no more engaging a site than Michele Agnew’s delightful eponymous blog. She is a warm and welcoming hostess who encourages her readers to become part of an ever-burgeoning and interactive community through clever posts that ask thought-provoking questions, make pithy observations, and encourage dialogue and discovery by sending them out to visit each other’s blogs. It’s a lovely site well worth a visit…though I warn you if you visit once you will be visiting often (when you visit, tell her Michael sent you…it’s a Michele thing that you’ll understand when you get there :-)

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Some of the Blogs of Note that were spotlighted in the past have stopped being published or updated for one reason or another but most of them are still going strong and are still highly recommended (as are all of the sites on the blogroll on the left.) I happily direct your attention to:

A Gag Reflex (our very first Blog of Note. Most of the original posts have been removed because, happily, Cori Crooks' harrowing, beautifully-written memoir is going to be published next year but attention must still be paid. The original Blogs of Note post about this site is here.)

Dog Eat Doug (a delightful comic strip by the talented Brian Anderson...now being featured in newspapers around the country...that presents the sweetly humorous adventures of a puppy and a baby...the original B of N post is here.)

The Donegal Express (a thoughtful, well-written, and challenging site which features politics...but not exclusively. Original B of N post is here.)

My Neighbours are Hoors (a wonderfully charming blog featuring the wry and witty observations of a woman whose downstairs neighbors are "ladies of negotiable affection". The original B of N post is here.)

PSotD: Political Site of the Day (a great, incisively written site that, despite its title, is not exclusively political. Original B of N post is here.)

So What Can I Do? (Karima Neal's engaging positive action advocacy site. Original B of N post here.)

Waking Ambrose (the ever-erudite Doug Pascover's witty updating of Ambrose Bierce's classic Devil's Dictionary is always entertaining, thought-provoking, and undeniably clever. Original B of N post is here.)

6 or 7 (a Talking with Bob interlude)

My friend Bob sighed. Bob always sighed whenever he read the newspaper so I didn’t bother to pay much attention to it. “Man, I wish some of these guys would get out of the Presidential race, there’s almost too many of them to keep track of.”

I shrugged. “C’mon, Bob,” I said, “what’s the big deal? There’s only like 6 or 7 of them, right? What’s so hard?”

Bob put his paper and turned to face. The incredulous look on his face let me know that I had just said something stupid that he was going to need to correct. “6 or 7?”

I shrugged again. “Yeah,” I insisted, “there ain’t that many of them. The Democrats have Bill Clinton’s wife, that black dude, and the guy with the hair and the teeth. The Republicans have Mayor Rudi, that cranky old guy, the Mormon fella, and, sooner or later, my pal Fred.” I paused and looked at Bob. “Seems easy enough to me, Bob.”

“Michael,” Bob as patiently as he could, “those aren’t the only candidates. Haven’t you seen all the other people onstage during the debates?”

I frowned. “Well I don’t really listen to the debates that closely but from what I can tell those other folks never get to say much. I thought they were just there to make the stage look fuller. Are you sure they’re real candidates?”

Bob started to say something but, for once, he seemed to not have a comeback. “Well,” he said finally, “given the way the media treats them, you sort of a have a point. It’s a moronic point…but not completely incorrect.”

I felt quite pleased with myself. “Well, odds were that I would get something right sooner or later, Bob.”

Bob sighed again…that one was for me but I didn’t mind….and went back to reading the paper while I stared out the window idly humming the theme from Law and Order.

Moondance

It had been a blind date…a date that both of them had to be cajoled to go through with…and it was, when all was said and done, magical.

They had smiled tentatively when they first met…sizing each other up in the warm light of a quiet Mexican café…and then they had started to talk.

And their talk became like jazz…sweet and soulful and soaring, blending together and slipping apart and blending together into something new and enticing.

And their smiles became like dawn’s light…bright and open, welcoming and hopeful with just a wee bit of wistful, time-worn wariness.

And the world fell away and the time crept along and flew by…bending and singing like magic…like jazz…like sweet dawn’s light.

And in the night they walked…talking about everything and talking about nothing at…walked until they were at the beach…windswept and set quietly aglow by the golden light of the bright full moon. And, with out needing to say a word to each other, they flowed together and danced…the wind and the surf played heavenly music and they danced in the salty air and on the cool blanket of sand.

And it was like magic.

And it was like jazz.

And it was like dawn’s light in the golden light of a bright lover’s moon.

They both started humming the song that came into their hearts at the exact same moment and they stopped and laughed. And then they shared what they hoped...in both their hearts of heart...would be the first of a million kisses.

And then they started to dance again.

It was a marvelous night…for possible new love…for magic…for jazz…and dawn’s light and moonlight.

It was a marvelous night for a moondance.

- thanks and apologies to VM -

I Still Believe

Despite the fact that our world sometimes seems bent upon being as violent and venal…as foreboding and faithless…as cold and cruel as it possibly can be, I still believe. The lessons I learned from my mother and her mighty heart inform my worldview now as always and thus, a certain affinity for cynicism notwithstanding, I still believe.

I still believe in magic…the everyday magic that shines in the songs and the shy giggles of schoolchildren and from the souls of people who smile and laugh with knowing, sparkling light in their eyes and warm, welcoming joy in their hearts; the everyday magic of babies gurgling happily in your protective arms; the everyday magic of knowing that, even in your darkest hours, that there are people who love you fiercely and eternally.

I still believe that people are, any and all evidence to the contrary, are more naturally drawn to be subjects of the better angels of their natures even though they sometimes allow their baser impulses to run unchecked. I still believe in always trying to do the right thing not because someone is watching…or because of some dire consequence for not doing so…but because it is the right thing.

I still believe that Dr. King was right and that the content of my character is infinitely more important than the color of my skin. I still believe that our differences are few and negligible and that our similarities are myriad and undeniable.

I still believe that there is a power binding us all one to each other and each to everybody and everything in the Universe as we know and understand it. I believe that whatever name we give this power it makes us an indelible part of the boundless many even as we are each a unique one. It makes us strong even when we feel weak. It makes us all connected to…and responsible for…everyone else. I believe that faith should be a guide and not a crutch….that compassion should flow freely…and empathy should be the default position whenever we’re interacting with anybody else.

I still believe in music…in the power of music to caress the soul and to shout out to eternity. I believe that there’s nothing sweeter than children guilelessly singing sweet and simple songs as they discover wonders of the world that we’ve long since taken for granted. I believe that dancing is the inalienable right of every man, woman, and child regardless of their ability to find and keep the beat. And I believe that voices of angels have to sound like Louis Armstrong, Emmylou Harris, and Aretha Franklin.

I believe there’s unquenchable wonder in being young and there’s gentle glory in growing gracefully and proudly old. I believe in love…chaste and carnal…and expressing that love to best of our abilities each and every chance we get.

I still believe that hugs and kisses and tender touches, like smiles and laughter and beautiful songs, were meant to be shared often and abundantly. I still believe that it’s okay to cry when you need to and that being sad is a good thing as long as you wallow in it overmuch. I still believe in kind words and reflexive reaching out and having strong shoulders for others to lean on. I still believe in teddy bears and sentimental greeting cards and little gifts given “just because”.

I still believe in the power of words and the joys of daydreaming and in indulging fanciful imagines whenever and wherever possible. I still believe in Superman and Captain America, in truth and justice and what should always be the American way. And I still believe that there is indeed nothing funny about peace, love, and understanding.

I still believe that our journey through life should be informed by a never-ending thirst to learn and understand everything we possibly can or otherwise we’re just wasting the precious gift of awareness.

I still believe that everybody should walk in the sunshine as often as they can. I still believe that everybody should dance in rain showers as often as they can as well. I still believe that clouds paint soft tapestries for anybody and everybody who takes the time to really see them and that breezes like to play mischievous games with anybody and everybody who takes the time to play along. I believe in stopping to smell the roses and in waltzing in vibrant fields of wildflowers and in playing tag with carefree waves on cool and windswept shores.

I believe that our dogs love us (no matter who we are) and that our cats do too even though they would never admit it.

I still believe in the true meaning of Christmas and what should be the true meaning of Valentine’s Day and in giving thanks for the wonders of life, liberty, and love each and every day. I believe that the universe will offer up wonders beyond our imaginations to our children’s children and to their children.

And I still believe that Pluto is a full-fledged planet no matter what anybody says.

In our bittersweet, but still utterly amazing, world…a world that sometimes seems filled with too much tragedy and tumult and not nearly enough faith, hope, or charity, I still believe. My hardworking mother taught me that, though I think she might deny it, and thus I know it’s absolutely the right thing to do.

Brother-Man and Sister-Woman: A Fable

Sister-Woman liked the view from behind her barricades and so she stayed there as much as she could. It was easier than the alternative. She stayed behind her barricades looking out at the world through a haze of wariness and cigarette smoke and waiting for something she couldn’t quite put on finger on.

Brother-Man thought of himself as hero and he carried himself thusly. It was a gentler madness and his compatriots let him embrace it without trying to draw him back to the norms of the crowd. He went through life looking for wrongs to right and damsels to save and feeling quite pleased with himself for his righteousness.

Sister-Woman wasn’t sure what to make of Brother-Man when he approached her barricades looking for a way to break them down and “free” her. She watched…with equal measures of fear, fascination, and foreboding…as he, smiling and seemingly sure, carefully examined her barricades looking for a place where they might give.

Brother-Man wasn’t sure what to make of Sister-Woman when he approached her forbidding barricades but he decided that she was woman in need of rescue and that, of course, was his destined role and so he set about the task. He wondered what she was thinking as she watched him…smoking and looking at him with seemingly dispassionate curiosity…but that didn’t deter him from trying.

Sister-Woman found herself strangely moved by Brother-Man’s valiant attempts to break down her barricades. She put out her cigarette and reached out and pushed. A small space in her barricades gave way and Sister-Woman looked into Brother-Man’s eyes and almost, but not quite, smiled.

Brother-Man held his hand out looking to free her from what he saw as her prison…it’s what heroes were supposed to do.

Sister-Woman held out her hand looking to see if life outside her barricades was something that she really wanted to go back to.

Brother-Man and Sister-Woman joined hands through the space and held on for a small eternity. And then, tentatively, each of them took a step forward.

It was a start.

Hope

Hope is always singing…always dancing…always laughing and smiling…it’s just the way hope is. Hope is my hero and I want to be more like her…always singing…always dancing…always laughing and smiling…but too often I am not. I am sometimes more comfortable in my dour shadows than I am in the bright sunshine but that’s okay…Hope loves me just the same.

Hope likes to whisper in my ear and tell me that everything is going to be okay. I always try to believe her but sometimes the darker angels of my human nature hold sway and I find that I cannot. Thankfully, Hope is patient and she always waits for me to come around and she always welcomes me with open arms and soothing touches.

Hope always leads me forward...she has the power and persistence to push past my fears and foibles and show me the way to the paths where love, light, and laughter hold court. Hope…always singing…always dancing…always laughing and smiling…swears that she will always love me…swears that she will always be there when I need her. Even in my darkest, saddest moments that assurance makes the path from here towards the light that much easier to continue down.

A Woman and a Man

She is a pretty woman…a woman with one of those faces that radiates youth and grace and serenity and one of those faces where you can already see the gentle contours of the lovely middle aged woman and the cute old lady that she is going to be in decades to come. She speaks softly and smiles shyly and she lets her fierce intelligence shine without having to make a lot of noise about it.

He is a boyish man…a man who lights up every room he was in and who holds fast to his inner child while embracing the responsibilities and hard-won wisdoms of adulthood with equal diligence. He is smart and funny and he has a way of putting everyone in his company at ease.

They flow together naturally…their differences binding them together as sweetly and as wonderfully as their similarities do…their life energies, complimentary and contradictory, combining to make a gentle kind of everyday magic.

They flow together gently, naturally, wondrously…the lovely wise woman and the handsome boyish man…their paths in life having wound together to create something new…and magical…and lasting as they continue on along the winding path that leads on to the golden horizons.

It is a very good thing.

- for J & J -

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

July

Peter was born on a sultry day in July. His mother, who had been told to expect a great deal of agony during the course of delivering her first child, was pleased when Peter made the transition from the comfortable shadows of her womb to the bittersweet light of the world outside with remarkable speed and ease. Peter remained the apple of his mother’s eye for all of the rest of her days.

Peter ran for the first time on a cloudy day in July. He had been walking for months but that was the first time that he the opportunity to really see what his chubby little legs could really do. Peter ran into his verdant backyard and kept running and laughing while his mother smiled and his father, the most impressive man Peter would ever know, looked up from his newspaper and his cigar and nodded appreciatively.

Peter had his first kiss on a sweetly magical night in July. He had pursued Rachel shyly for weeks never imagining that she knew he was even alive. Peter had always thought of Rachel as an angel incarnate and he hadn’t imagine that she would say yes when he finally screwed up the courage to ask her out to movies. But, much to his amazement and delight, say yes she did. When Rachel held hands with him as they walked home from the neighborhood theater Peter couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful…at least until they kissed, ever so shyly, with no witnesses save for the lazy golden moon in the sky and Rachel’s pesky little sister peeking through the curtains of her second story bedroom.

Peter got married on bright and breezy day in July. He and Sara had wanted to be married on their favorite cliff overlooking the bountiful Pacific and that is indeed where their friends and families gathered to witness their union. Sara was a vision in flowing white with a tiara of tiny flowers in her long black hair and Peter thought that there couldn’t be a luckier, happier man than him anywhere in the sweet blue world. Peter’s mother, smiled beatifically as the apple of her eye took a bride; Peter’s father, no less impressive for the years he had accumulated, nodded approvingly.

Peter’s daughter Kimberly Michelle was born on a rainy day in July. Kimberly Michelle had her mother’s eyes and his mother’s smile and, like he had done, she made her debut in the world with very little fuss. Kimberly Michelle staked out a large part of Peter’s heart from the instant that she placed in his arms and he couldn’t imagine helping to create anything more wondrous ever again. Kimberly Michelle would remain the apple of his eye for all the rest of his days.

Peter looked up at the golden moon for the last time on a soft but unremarkable night in July. His years had been long, his world had always been more happy than not, and he was not afraid of what was to come after. Sara was still the light of his life. Kimberly Michelle and her brother Christopher Jacob and their children still brought him boundless joy. Peter knew that he would be remembered when he was gone and that was good enough for him.

Peter died on a still morning in July. Sara found him in his favorite chair, his newspaper fallen to the floor, his cigar still burning in the ashtray on the end table. He had slipped from life with remarkable speed and grace, his mighty heart having beat its last while he was thinking about Sara. Peter was buried on a crystal clear day in July…his friends and families gathered together crying and laughing and hugging each other…and remembering. Peter was remembered and that was enough for everybody who loved him.

Friday the 13th (Waiting)

Friday the 13^th. Were I a superstitious person I would be worried. But I’m not. I have two black cats and my birthday falls on the 13^th day of March so I’m certainly not sweating things like superstition (knock and wood :-)

It’s summertime in America and the sea breezes are coming off the Pacific are trying to soothe my soul and I’m waiting. I am surrounded and kept safe in warm, golden circles of love and friendship and kinship with the universe but I’m still waiting.

It’s a time of reckoning in the world at large and I’m waiting. All about our bright blue globe, people are living, people are dying, people are being born into a world that shifts and roils and morphs…for the better and for the worse…with every passing instant and I’m still waiting.

Voices are being raised in song, blood is being spilled on the sands and on the streets of far too many nations, dreams are being given wing, and hope is thriving where it should have no foothold…and I’m waiting.

Friday the 13^th…just another day in tapestry of never-ending time…and I have no time for superstition. Because I’m waiting…I’m hoping and praying and swearing, working and dreaming and fighting…and waiting. I’m waiting on the world to change.

- thanks and apologies to JM -

Angels and Electricity

The club was packed and the electricity was palpable through the humid air. People were chattering amiably all around me but I paid it not the slightest bit of attention. I wasn’t there for them. I told myself that I wasn’t really sure why I was there at all but I knew before the thought was finished that that was a lie. I was there for her.

She and I had talked about “forever” like it was something that could really happen. And, for a brief season anyway, we lived that way too…two fools passionately in love and not giving a moment’s consideration to tomorrow.

“Forever” wasn’t quite as long as we supposed it was going to be. She left…or I left…or we left…I really can’t remember anymore.

And now I was here…the better angels of my nature compelling me against the nagging doubts of my more rational self…waiting with the amiably chattering crowd.

And then the lights went down and the crowd started buzzing excitedly and then she was there…in the spotlight, in the center of my known universe…guitar in hand and beatific smile on her breathtaking face. She started to play…that song she wrote for us one rainy Sunday afternoon as we lay in bed letting the day slide lazily by…and I felt like my heart was going to bust wide open right there and then.

I shrank into the shadows presuming that she would never see but it seemed like her gaze was fixed on my location in dark as she sang that song…the song she wrote for us back in the time before forever ended…and I sang along and all of the buzzing crowd faded from my perception one by one until there was just her and just me.

And when she was done, she put down her guitar and held out her hand in my direction. The crowd reappeared and then parted like graceful waves as I felt myself moving forward. I looked up at her and she floated down into my arms. We kissed…the way we used to kiss when forever was a real thing between us…and brushed tears from each other’s eyes. The crowd sighed and then cheered. I lifted her back up to the stage and she played and sang while I watched proudly, wistfully, hopefully.

Afterwards…with angels on our shoulders and electricity in our beings…we kissed and laughed, cried and apologized…we talked about “forever” like it was something that could really happen…two fools falling in love again and not giving a moment’s consideration to tomorrow.

- special thanks to Eddi -

Live Earth

F.Y.I.: I've written a piece on the Live Earth concerts over on my pop culture blog, Neverending Rainbow. If interested, please see here.

Happy Anniversary!

July 5, 2004: This blog debuts with absolutely no fanfare at all.

July 5, 2007: 380 posts later, this blog is still droning on.

Okay so maybe it’s not really all that interesting when all is said and done but let’s all give a jaunty “thumbs up” to the 3^rd anniversary of the blog version of Bread and Roses anyway (Yay!)

Thanks to all of those who have read B&R over the years…and special thanks to everyone who’ve taken the time to comment.

In the future we only promise more random acts of creative stuff and optimistically cynical nonsense and whatever else the heck happens here (it’s a mystery even to us sometimes…we just go with the flow and hope that it makes some kind of sense…)

Onward…

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MKW's Pop Culture Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

America

(This was, in the spirit of full disclosure, the Independence Day post I wrote last year...it said everything the best way I could think of so it makes its second annual appearance here.)

America doesn’t always live up to its promise. But its promise is still something worth striving for…worth dreaming of…worth fighting and dying for if need be. I am a cynical patriot but I am indeed a patriot and no one can gainsay that fact.

Blind, unthinking loyalty to anything or anyone is a fool’s path; knee-jerk disavowal of everything this country thinks it is...everything this country wants to be…is also a fool’s path. As with most things in this world, the truth lies somewhere in between strident, inflexible extremes…this is certainly true here in America…our generous, arrogant, naïve, myopic, our hard-hearted and inflexible, open-minded and open-hearted America… our complex , often marvelously and infuriatingly so, America.

Here in the 21^st Century, America is looking for its way…we’re fighting wars on distant soils and building walls on our borders…we’re reeling still from the knowledge that our shores are not immune from terror and chaos and sudden brutal deaths by the score; we are a nation united by history, hubris, and hope…we are a nation fractured along ever-fluid lines of politics, race, religion, pride, and culture.

We are America…for better and for worse…in times of peace and in times of war…in times of joy and pride and in times of sorrow and shame…in times when the rest of the world (rightly or wrongly) celebrates us and in times when the rest of the world (rightly or wrongly) reviles us.

We are America…the sons and daughters of many distant lands…the sons and daughters of adventurers and outcasts…the sons and daughters of slaves and freedmen…the sons and daughters of visionaries and madmen, of pirates and craftsmen, of warriors and peacemakers, of saints and scoundrels, of builders and destroyers, of emancipators and bigots, of heroes and villains…the sons and daughters of uncommon wizards and countless everyday folk…

We are America…we don’t always live up to our promise…maybe we never will completely…but it’s our birthday and attention must be paid just the same.

In the cool, soothing twilight,
In the soft, warm glow of the dawning sun,
America sings…
We sing of joy and hope, of pain and forgiveness,
We sing of sins gone but never forgotten,
Of sins to come, ready to be weathered and overcome.

We sing of bright souls lost and redemption found,
We sing of blood spilled and new life a-borning,
Of life renewing, ripe and fertile and eager to soar.

In the bittersweet shadow of our history,
In the burnished glow of complex days to come,
America sings…
We sing of our days of glory, our dreams of tomorrows,
We sing of peace from war, liberty from chaos,
Of passion never-ending, God’s grace blessing us all.

In the cool, soothing twilight…
In the shadow of our history… America sings:

“…God shine His grace on thee…”

Happy Birthday, y’all.

Namaste.

Our Long National Nightmare (a Talking with Bob interlude)

I was checking my e-mail and happily making plans for the millions of dollars that was coming my way from all of the sweepstakes that I had won without remembering when I had actually entered them and from all of the inheritances I apparently had coming from people I didn’t know all over the world. Images of my new luxurious life were dancing in my fevered head as each wonderful e-mail scrolled across the screen.

My friend Bob was on the other side of the room grumbling and cursing as he perused the day’s newspaper. Bob had a fluorescent marker at the ready as he carefully searched for factual, spelling, and grammatical errors. “Aha!” he exclaimed every time he found such an error, gleefully highlighting each one with a ragged yellow circle. Bob said “aha!” a lot every time he read the paper.

When he was done Bob, the undisputed master of the scathing letter to the editor, would turn his outrage and disgust into missives of poetic invective and withering, carefully-crafted vitriol and send them sailing into the ether and on to the screens of the poor interns tasked with sorting through such communications. Bob was something of a legend among said interns.

A breaking news alert caught my eye and I scanned it; the news sent waves of relief coursing through my very being. “At last,” I said aloud, “our long national nightmare is over!”

Bob’s eyebrow shot up and he looked over expectantly. “What? What is it? Is the war over?”

“War? No, Bob, not the war,” I replied as patiently as I could (Bob had strange priorities sometimes.) “The unjust incarceration of our queen is over, man. Paris is free!”

Bob’s eyes grew shaded. “Paris Hilton? You think our national nightmare was Paris Hilton being in jail?”

Ignoring the skepticism in Bob’s voice, I nodded. “Well yeah…it had to be hell for that sweet girl. No makeup, no cell phones, no photo ops…I hope she’s not permanently scarred because we need her so much.” I paused and sighed heavily. “C'mon, dude, even you have to admit that it’s been so very hard on all of us.”

My friend Bob glared at me silently for a long moment and then he shook his head. “You say these things just to hurt me, don’t you?”

“I too am America, Bob,” I said with an impish grin.

“Yes,” Bob agreed glumly, “unfortunately you are.”

“Hey,” I said reading from the news, “Barbara Walters said that Paris has found Jesus…or Buddha…or something…she’s a new, enlightened Paris following in the footsteps of Jesus, Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, Oliver North, and, I'm sure, Scooter Libby and turning her oppression into something that will enlighten us all!”

Bob rolled his eyes in righteous disgust and turned back to the paper. “I’m not listening to you anymore, Michael.”

“Ooo, she's going to tell all to our pal Larry King! This is gonna be so hot!” I gushed as Bob resumed his hunt for errors to bring to the attention of the newspaper’s interns.

I Remember Summer

I remember summer. I remember when summer really meant something to me…school was out (finally!) and the skies were bright and crystal blue and a whole world of amazing adventure beckoned with all of the time in the world to indulge it.

The kids in the neighborhood…my brother, my cousins, the kids from down the street, and the kids from around the corner…gathered (usually in our front yard) and we were off…raising heck (we were too well-behaved…and too wary of our parents…to raise hell), running and laughing and jumping and swimming and biking and dancing with all of our seemingly boundless youthful energy.

We would entertain ourselves while only stepping foot inside long enough to wolf down lunch and grab some new item with which casual childhood magic could be woven once taken out into the sunshine.

I remember summer. Saturday mornings were reserved for cartoons, Sunday mornings were reserved (by our mothers) for Sunday School, and most of the other daylight hours were ours to do with as we would. And, in those gentler times, we did everything we could imagine totally safe and secure in the streets and alleyways and front yards of our remarkably verdant Los Angeles neighborhood.

Yeah, summer…I remember when summer really meant something to me…

Afterwards...

Deliriously spent, they reluctantly slid away from each other. Lying side by side…just barely not touching…in the steamy, musky air of the moonlit bedroom, they closed their eyes and waited for their breathing to return to something more akin to normal and for their humid bodies to cool and stop tingling so intensely.

“Damn,” Nathan said after a short eternity.

“Yeah,” Della said knowing exactly what he was he was feeling because she was feeling it too. The man had a number of annoying traits, she thought, but Jesus did he know how to rock her world.

Nathan turned on his side his eyes lighting on the voluptuous curves of her breasts glistening with sweat in the golden moonlight languidly dancing in through the window. “Are you okay?” he asked solicitously. He always asked her the same question every time they made love.

Della smiled patiently. The earnestness of his question…the same question he asked every time they had sex…was both enormously endearing and utterly ludicrous to her. She nodded. “I’m fine, baby,” she said in a creamy purr. “I’m better than fine.”

Nathan allowed himself a moment of pride and relief and then he rested back on his pillow. Nathan was a thick bear-like young man whose powerful frame masked his fleeting but undeniable waves of insecurity and his sometimes aching need to please. He had never known a woman like Della and he couldn’t imagine that he ever would know her like again.

Della turned and snuggled into Nathan the way she loved to do. She was a woman of independent spirit but sometimes…just sometimes…she loved to cuddle into the warm comfort of Nathan’s encompassing embrace. Della was a woman of full, feminine curves…rounded breasts and rounded hips…but she felt delicate and safe in Nathan’s arms and sometimes…just sometimes…she really wanted and needed to feel delicate and safe.

Nathan stroked Della’s soft raven tresses and held her tenderly. He knew that he was more emotionally invested in her than he should have been…Della had asked him not to go there…but he didn’t care. He could hear her breathing slowing as she willingly surrendered to sleep. “I love you,” he whispered though he knew that she did not want to hear that.

Della, transitioning swiftly from the waking world to the dreaming world, smiled…patiently and ruefully at once…and snuggled against Nathan’s broad chest. “I know you do, baby,” she said without acrimony. “I know you do.”

Nathan felt her slip into sleep and, holding her securely, he closed his eyes and followed her into the realm of dreams.

My Father's Song

My father’s song…a symphony of so many things said and unsaid…waxes and wanes in my heart and in my memory as the winds of forgiveness shift and the vagaries of love and honor and regret and disappointment take their turns coming to the fore.

My father’s song…sweet soul music in better moments…was distant and all but inaudible in so many cool hours of my youth…so far away as to not be a viable comfort in the wee hours of quiet, lonely nights…but there, however faintly, just the same.

My father’s song…a plaintive blues in waltz time…was ever a promise that ever lingered just outside the realms of my everyday world and my dreamtime fancies.

My father’s song…a bittersweet rhapsody…called to my mother’s mighty heart, to my brother’s fragile soul, to my own wistful imagination but never completely filled our beings as we would have sometimes liked.

My father’s song…a tender ballad of days forever gone and days yet to come…waxes and wanes…shines and darkens…lingers and dances away…forever in my mother’s knowing eyes…forever in my brother’s eternal memory…forever in my own cynical heart and in my ever hopeful soul.

- for Bud -