Miriam Makeba and Paul Simon and Grace Land

Yes I know it is one word but I like two.


Yesterday I woke up singing Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes and today I heard myself humming African Skies and I was introduced to this album in 4th grade and I think it will never leave my heart thankgod.
This is the story of how we begin to remember...

Words Beneath the Words

When I was in college our basketball team played in the NCAA tournament and made it to the Elite Eight. 
Then they lost, and I felt so sad and heartbroken and disappointed and I wandered down the street of off-campus housing.
There were lots of other sad and heartbroken and disappointed students too.
They were so heartbroken they threw couches off of the second and third story balconies of their rented homes.
They were so sad they jumped on top of cars parked in the street.
They were so sad they threw wooden furniture into a massive pile and started a fire.
They were so sad when the firetrucks and police cars came.  So sad that they climbed on top of the firetrucks.  Heartbroken at the sheer injustice of a team losing.  It was our team.  It was anguish.


I was shaken out of my sadness watching the crazy happen that night.
I was like: I am sad, and now I am confused.  Why is there a couch sailing through the air? 
Why are 14 young men jumping on the roof of a parked car?
That bonfire is extremely big and does not seem to be contained.  Why is this? 
What does this have to do with basketball?


No one called us thugs. 

There is no justification for rioting, looting and the destruction of property. But the way in which many Americans talk about what's happening....seems to suggest that sports is a valid reason to riot and destroy property, while anger about systemic injustice, economic oppression and the institutional devaluation of an entire race are not.

            ----from photos of white people rioting 

fat buttery words

In 1934, this was written by a copywriter who hoped to become a screenwriter.  It can be found, among many other splendid letters, in Letters of Note.
The compilation is fantastic.
The website is here.

Dear Sir:

I like words. I like fat buttery words, such as ooze, turpitude, glutinous, toady. I like solemn, angular, creaky words, such as straitlaced, cantankerous, pecunious, valedictory. I like spurious, black-is-white words, such as mortician, liquidate, tonsorial, demi-monde. I like suave "V" words, such as Svengali, svelte, bravura, verve. I like crunchy, brittle, crackly words, such as splinter, grapple, jostle, crusty. I like sullen, crabbed, scowling words, such as skulk, glower, scabby, churl. I like Oh-Heavens, my-gracious, land's-sake words, such as tricksy, tucker, genteel, horrid. I like elegant, flowery words, such as estivate, peregrinate, elysium, halcyon. I like wormy, squirmy, mealy words, such as crawl, blubber, squeal, drip. I like sniggly, chuckling words, such as cowlick, gurgle, bubble and burp.

I like the word screenwriter better than copywriter, so I decided to quit my job in a New York advertising agency and try my luck in Hollywood, but before taking the plunge I went to Europe for a year of study, contemplation and horsing around.

I have just returned and I still like words.

May I have a few with you?

Robert Pirosh
385 Madison Avenue
Room 610
New York
Eldorado 5-6024 

 

Words as a Weapon, Language as a Tool

"Having been exposed to theater in my post-military life, I know what a powerful tool for self-expression it can be.  In my platoon, I often saw how violence came from those who couldn’t express themselves and regretted that the people I served with weren’t made aware that language can be as valuable a tool as the rifle on their shoulder."


--Adam Driver, founder of Arts in the Armed Forces

Use it

For years I have loved this labyrinth.  It is in the backyard of someone's house, and I found it listed under Public Labyriths.  The idea that someone built this in their backyard, and also said, "Come by any time and walk this spiral," well, it is one more thing to love about the world.


I have walked it in the blazing heat, in the snow, when the path can't even be seen.  I have walked it when it is dark and night has fallen.  I have taken my daughter, and she has skipped around it like hopscotch while I adjusted my idea of walking it with her.  I have gone with my spouse when he was my spouse.  But mostly I have walked it alone, and many times, arrived at the center of it to find that I am never alone.


Once I brought a problem there and the first step I took upon the path of tiny stones, an immediate answer reverberated from within.  It was not an answer I wanted, so I wrestled it down, drowned it out by re-phrasing my question, and again, the answer that I did not want came back.  Again, I tried to speak over it, rewording the problem, stating it more clearly, and again, the answer that I did not want came bounding back.  It was the most patient answer and it struck terror into me.  It began with You already know.  And I said back I don't know I don't know I don't know.


That was long ago and the terror is gone and I am familiar, moreso at least, with that patient answer that rises from within, and also, with all the ways I try to wrestle it down when I am not ready for that answer, when I think it means harm, instead of seeing that it simply means change, no matter what, change is happening. 


Today I went to my labyrinth.  It was warm and the sky was cloudless and I was driving by the house and pulled over.  I parked my car and walked down the familiar drive and for the first time, the people who lived there were there.  They were in their backyard, in two chairs, each reading a book.  A big dog bounded up to me, a red ball in her mouth. 


It felt invasive, walking into someone's private enjoyment of a cloudless blue sky day.
But the woman smiled and I asked, "Do you mind if I walk your labyrinth?"


And she answered, "Of course.  It's kind of mess.  But use it as metaphor."


She called the dog to her, and I went to the labyrinth and it was kind of a mess.  There were clumps of decayed leaves.  Sprouts of fresh green weeds.  Branches that blocked the path.  One chunk of ice remained.  A crocus, near the side, was trying to bloom.  Several large rocks were out of place.


I used it as metaphor.  Those leaves had been there all winter, under the snow.  They were thawing enough now to become part of the earth.  I walked slowly.  I didn't wrestle anything that came up.  I took note of all the things present on the path.  I felt so glad to see it again, after guessing my steps on snowy days, making the walk from memory while the guiding rocks remained buried beneath white.   


There is a straight path out of this particular labyrinth.  But today I walked back the way I came.  My feet moved quickly, retracing the old steps but with a new bit of information, something I'd learned in a quick moment standing at the center.  More change was coming but I did not have fear.  I didn't have to say I don't know I don't know.  I could say, Okay.  And step along the tiny stones, the decayed leaves, the broken branches, the many pebbles.  Any path can be navigated with a bit of knowledge and a slip of insight.  Walking this path in the winter I had learned: sometimes you make up the path as you go, guess the steps because that's all you can do.  With snow melted, a messy path was no longer concealed and I was overjoyed at the opportunity to walk something with obstacles, something I could see.  Sometimes you bound forward, and other times, you stop every two feet, pause, look around, and take another guess step.  Spring is for vision, for seeing the bend in the road, knowing there may be a fallen branch, but feet are nimble and answers are there at every turn.   

Conversations

"If you are not afraid to look back, nothing you are facing can frighten you."


---James Baldwin

Morsels of Lumber, Mountains of Faith

It's the best time of year for one of my favorite David Sedaris essays.


Happy Easter!