HAWKING WARES

Despite that I'm blessed with the use of my arms and legs, and Stephen Hawking is not, he, nonetheless, is blessed with a bazillion active brain cells, which gracefully he shares with us.

However, had Dr Hawking spent much time in Bangkok before he wrote The Big Bang Theory, I feel convinced its title would've been The Big Bangkok Theory, as the senses thrown at one every moment of the day are like unexpected planets: sight, sound, scent, sight, taste - and all at once and all from a myriad of sources.

Today began with a Sunday morning peace - a crisp, blue, peace - and is ending in a calm, moonlit peace... cool., by the woods. In between all that, here's what happened:
1. I read a few morning papers, drank some coffee, smoked a few cigarettes.
2. I snuck out for a morning drive to see a house I thought might be a good buy - it is, there are contracts on it already. While there, I saw a friend, Bill, who lives near the house. We wandered around the yard together for a minute, catching up, talking about maple trees, neighbors, dogs, and stone foundations. The house is built of hand-made brick.
3. I re-arrived at the starting place of my day, began to get excited about the Titans game, sold my tickets because there's just too much to do right now, then I convinced my girlfriend Chandelle to come see the house I'd gone to see.
4. She likes it too, even though we think it's sold.
5 I watched the game. Vince is amazing.
6. I communicated with a teenager later, unrelated to everything else here I've mentioned; communicating with a teenager is always a risk.
7. I got a call from someone who wants to see my house, always fun, and a risk. They're coming over tomorrow.
8. So I bought some flowers.
9. My house is nice, even without flowers.
10. The Titans are cool, now...
11. It's getting cold outside, so I'm going in.
12, 13, 14: I hope they like my house (I do); I will sleep well tonight; I hope the teenager's doing well, because I love her.

Starbucks Demo Update

Starbucks Demographic Profile Update:



LOCATION: DEMOGRAPHIC DESCRIPTION

21st Avenue: age 18-24, slouched, a few tats, some books on the floor, lots of dark hair

West End (drive thru): SUVs, mostly white ones, all in the way

West End (near Borders): young professionals, coupla Vandy faculty members, some color, and trotting medical units in heels

Green Hills Mall: teenagers w/ cells texting w/ zero - I mean zero - attention spans; Mall employees on a break; about it...

Green Hills (original one): semi-chaotic-upscale-cluster-f___; high school girls in expensive cars; salesmen in Dockers selling stuff too early in the morning; Jack White; some political folks

The Bellemeade: Land Rovers, blonde hair, women who apparently are fasting (mostly they have blonde hair, too), hip baristas, and fresh college grads who need jobs

Bellevue: guys with graying crew-cuts who (may) need a life; some women who are almost good looking; sales units; a coupla wanna-be carpool soccer moms unknowingly at wrong Starbucks; some Christians

Highway 100 - a few deer-in-headlights neighbors who still can't believe there's a Starbucks here; a coupla young dudes in black who are thrilled no one else knows there's a Starbucks here; and, for now, me...

LIKE... APPLE PIE?

As I write the TV's on in the background. There are people on there talking about the President of the USA - about whether or not he was born in the United States. I figure this is due to his being of African descent, as well as of American descent. My bet is it's the African part that bothers the folks who think - want to think - he's not "American."

I wonder if we know what "American" is? Is it the Spanish? After all, in grade school they told us they "discovered America." Or is the Norse, who, later, the teachers confessed, may have come here before the Spanish. Or is the English, who settled the colonies with more gusto than most, took "us" over, ran things, then got shot at a bunch and backed down?

Or is America (which is a couple of continents, actually, not this country) really the natives who were here "first?" You know, those people who already lived here when "we" got "discovered?" They got dubbed "Indians" because somebody who landed here from Europe was confused about their appearance, like... confused with folks from India.

Now lots of folks call them Native Americans because they don't know what else to call them, or what's left of them. The federal government later - much later - apologized to what's left of them after we cleaned them out of their homes and land, a few hundred years back. And then the federal government "let them" build casinos, as if that's a favor, a good thing.

Of course, I digress.

So what is "American?" What does that word mean?

If you read the U.S. Constitution, then look around a little bit, like, at the grocery or maybe someplace not where you live, but at least down the street or in another state or something, you'll see "American" is a bunch of skin colors, a bunch of religious beliefs and, ironically, many with no religious beliefs. You'll see a bunch of sizes - more large ones than anywhere else in the world. You'll hear virtually anything said or read anything written because we're guaranteed those rights.

And you'll see and hear people who still believe "white people" own the place, preferably white "Christians," even though the original Americans were neither "white" or "Christian."

What's so funny and sick is these white people claim ownership of a land they, too, immigrated to. They weren't "first."

I think it's some descendants of these folk who think the president must not be American.

I wonder why, if people are so concerned with patriotism and authenticity in general, and Barack Obama's, specifically, they didn't dispute George W. Bush's credentials: his parents immigrated to Texas from Connecticut. "W" didn't join the Army and instead ran to Alabama. And he went to Yale, right?

And whatabout John McCain? He actually was born out of the country: Panama, on a military base. Some dispute that's "America" as described in the constitution, at least regarding the requirements to be president, which are few - but clear. Imagine if Barack Obama really was born in Panama?

Meanwhile these white people who don't believe the president is American can't "prove it" so they concocted a birth certificate from Kenya wrongly dated and with "Republic of Kenya" at the top of it, when, in 1961, Kenya wasn't a republic, not yet...

But we were. And are. Thank goodness...

I think I digressed again. Not sure. Regardless: guess what? Tuesday August 4 is President Barack H. Obama's birthday. He's 48. I think that's cool. And you know what else? I think he's as American as apple pie or sushi, you pick. And you know what else? I think he really was born in Hawaii, like his real birth certificate says. And you know what else? If he wasn't, I don't care, because I'm really glad he's president.

"Oh"

My friend and I left last Saturday, July 4, for western NY state and then to Canada, just barely. We flew into Buffalo, rented a car, and drove southwest along Lake Erie to a small community of homes dating from the mid 19th century.

We stayed there a few days, hung out, walked, visited the locals, and left. We stayed in a 150 year-old hotel with teeny rooms and few baths (We had one of them.)

There were signs that said: "No smoking. No incense. No candles." We like incense, yet deferred to the management. After all, the place was rickety. Old. A bit off-level, at a slight slant.

After a few days, we drove north to "the falls," i.e., Niagara Falls. Yes, we did. Oh... did we ever. Up that way, people say, "oh" a LOT. They say it like this: "Oh!" Yet they leave the sound wandering for a bit, like this: "Ohh!" Yet they don't say it with suddenness, as if surprised. It rolls out: "Ohh."

And they say, "holy moly." And, if surprised, mildly, they might say, "Oh no." Imagine the movie, "Fargo." The "o's" are very, very well enunciated, and long. Try this: "Oh my!"

Neither of us expected to be wowed much, except for the falls, and they are pretty dam wow. They're tall, 172 feet, and mighty. Walking up next to the top, where they spill over the edge, the energy's palpable. I had to lean back for a minute, then lean back in, just to feel familiar enough with the sound and sight of its fury, its rush, its might.

They are wet, too, as you might imagine. The spray shoots over a hundred feet above the top of the falls, and its mist is everywhere.

The only problem, as usual, is... there are so many people. They're from everywhere, no part of the world dominated. Gawky northern Europeans. Curious Asians. Seemingly preoccupied middle-Easterns, who came in large groups with kids. The Europeans seemed the most confused, turning around a lot, it seemed like, and asking the most questions.

We were the only southerners, I think. Pretty sure.

ACTING AS IF (as if...)

Okay so I'm sitting back on the porch beneath a Carolina blue sky - except I'm in Tennessee - and listening to a woodpecker furiously going at a Hickory tree. That's hard wood, fella, and that woodpecker will be at this a long, long time if he/she really wants to make an impression.

Beside me is a cup of coffee, a bottle of water, the cigarettes I quit smoking, and my cell phone. Nearby are tomato plants, a basil plant, and several feet away? My trusty dog, Barry. Just inside is a quiet house, waiting for the arrival of well over a dozen grrrrrls from the "Act Like A GRRRL" theater-camp, who will roost here this afternoon with movies, popcorn?, some billiards, and mucho satisfaction after last night's standing-ovation opening night of their performance, "Act Like A GRRRRRL."

The show was amazing. Girls and young ladies from age 12 to 18 presented their talent, their energy, and their soul before an audience of friends, peers, parents, artists, and the curious. All of the material is original: they wrote it, sang it, read it, spoke it, danced it. There were tears and there was laughter and many, many rounds of applause. To see and feel the energy of this troupe - who only had four weeks to create this masterpiece - was to have a brief, personal invitation into the feminine mystique; except this show? These grrrrls? They let us in the mystique so that it was mysterious no more. What a nice thing to do for us: people at large, being let in. Not often does this happen, be it male or female.

Can you a see a troupe of boys/men bonding in four weeks, writing new music and poetry and verse, and then performing it, vulnerable, for all of us to see and hear?

WAIT... Maybe we can... My friend Andrew and my friend Ross? We're thinking: why not "Act Like A Boy?" Not "Act Like A Man." We got told that, too, for years, only to miss the kid stuff, as in, being one. Now, decades later, we want to. Be one. We're seriously considering it.

Only, it dawns on me, if Vali Forrister, founder of Act Like A GRRRRRL, will allow it - there are copyrights and such - then maybe we can do this. Except this leads to another question: will we, as men/boys, have to ask Vali, a grrrrrl/woman, permission?

Interesting...

I HAVE A FRIEND                                                                                 

I have a friend who reminds me of my own thoughts, usually days or weeks after I've expressed them. She reminds me because, a. I didn't follow up, or b. She wonders what happened to them, or saw them finished, or something, and comments.

This is good.

My friend has her own thoughts too, and often expresses them. I'm grateful for this because, a. They are things I had not thought of, and are fresh and are usually good to hear, and/or b. They're simply great ideas that might be worth following up, acting on, or, perhaps, subtle suggestions to you-know-who...

Why do I write this? Because, while I often write while sitting on my back porch, NOW I'm writing while sitting on a nice, comfortable piece of outdoor furniture while sitting on my back porch - with more to come. There are dark wood rocking chairs and a love-seat-outdoor-thing, all with deep, pale green cushions. They are way-comfortable, and now I find myself out here all the damn time.

My friend reminded me some time ago I wanted these things. I had not acted on it. Usually stuff takes acting upon, I got reminded...

However, I wonder if my friend knew what might happen: that instead of hiking a couple miles this morning, like I told myself I'd do - I am still here, sitting, on my dark wood and light green sofa-thing...

Or... I wonder if, when I receive the new piece of furniture for the other balcony (my neato house came with two balconies, included), which will be a sort-of-chaise-yet-day-bed-yet-outdoor-kinda-thing-you-can-sit-read-lay-sleep-on, I will ever leave the other balcony, even for the one I'm sitting on now?

I ordered the new furniture for the neato-other-balcony just today, which is sorta why I write... yet I seriously digress.

Or do I?

Sometimes I make suggestions my friend likes, such as the U.S.-Canadian border (that's enough info there), or grilled shrimp on a Saturday night.

OR, sometimes neither one of us think of one single thing, even if we mean to, and end up staring at the sky, or feeling the heat of a hot, humid day, like yesterday, and do absolutely nothing, not even think of something "on an accident."

Other times we think of or do really dumb things that are hilarious and we laugh like little squirts who haven't a worry in the world, like this: one day my friend started winking at me, as if she were doing some kinda Sarah Palin routine, until I started winking back.

There was never an explanation for this, no need. Too funny.

Then sometimes one of us - usually we take turns, thank goodness - stresses over not-a-damn-thing, like, as in: nada - and maybe semi-flip-out until we catch ourselves or one catches the other, which, at times, the other doesn't like but GETS sooner or later, and once again it's all good.

And last but certainly not least sometimes one of us can stress over something worthy of stress, yet the other reminds the other it'll pass, which it ALWAYS does, and the stress becomes less stressful until - poof! - it's gone.

Just like that.

Poof!

When this happens there's a pretty good chance one of us says this: "huh..."

PRESENT

Presently I'm sitting on my back porch, my dog Barry nearby. He's playing with an empty water bottle which, to him, seems alive. I sometimes feel envious of the simplicity of a dog's life, despite their total dependence on us. Other than that, life always appears to be "now" to a dog; whereas to me - us? - staying in the present takes concentration, effort, prayer - something. It ain't natural, and oh do I wish it was.

I sit on the porch with my coffee and my dog and look directly into the trees of the forest that rests right here in front of me, literally steps from my back door. On some days the forest comforts me, like a big, godly blanket of living green, nature mothering me and anyone else who wants.

And other days the forest seems huge and ominous and creepy and encroaching, as if I'm trespassing with my little man-made house and coffee and occasional cigarette. Times like this I am small, too small, and feel threatened by an enveloping mass of living organism here long, long before me.

Today I'm simply aware of it all - neither here nor there, not in it or of it, just beside it.

Barry gets up now, and almost leaps to the edge because he hears something I don't. A rustling in the green, a scent of a deer. Something.

Now a train barrels by, a half-mile across a ridge yet here enough to hear loud and clear, its muscle propelling it forward on rails big enough to hold one-hundred tractor trucks. The engineer blasts the whistle that's got to send closer neighbors into their ceilings, no matter how used to it they are.

I'm maybe just now getting used to living, I don't know. Always, almost always... being here, on this earth, seems alien to me, as if there's somewhere else I've been or am going and know it so well it's in my bone marrow, yet where it is, or when it was, or what will be, I do not know.

LETTERMAN

I'm not old enough to remember Sen. Joseph McCarthy's blacklisting of Hollywood "communists" and the fear instilled in them and others of the time. I am present, now, though, for the spectacle sent forth by angry and lost "conservatives" like Sarah Palin and Rush Limbaugh and the crazy state senator from Tennessee, Diane Black of Gallatin.

The current insane reaction from these and other unthinking, hate-filled losers happens in nanoseconds, causing me to wonder what it'd been like had McCarthy been digital: imagine crazy Joe McCarthy on Twitter or facebook, his toxic sweat coming through the electronic waves into your living room. Jesus.

I watched Letterman last night and true to his genius, he followed up Monday night's "official" apology (for really nothing) to Sarah Palin's family with last night's offering of an apology to anyone, anywhere who may be offended by his humor. He even told the audience they could pick their apology up at the door as they left.

In his own way he diluted Monday night's Palinotomy to nothing but a handout to a needy reactionary, like baby food to a screaming infant. It was as if he said, "Here... now take your little apology and go home, please."

But no, that's not enough for those sickos. This morning in the news I see crazy people out there mocking Letterman, calling his young son, who Letterman so obviously loves, a "bastard child," and more. These are the same folks who are "God fearing Americans," Christians and patriots. These are the folks who have seizures if we limit the amount of ammo they can carry into public places, yet want to limit our free speech and right to make personal choices about religion or even our own bodies.

I understand differences, especially in opinion. That's what makes life interesting and livable. I do not understand intolerance, though, especially in the extreme to which an opposing point of view need not apply. Where in the right-wing's beloved constitution does it say this? Where did Jefferson and the like suggest we build a country of religious bigots and gun-toting crazies who enforce their rights and assassinate - both literally and figurately - those who happen to differ with them?

And as far as Jesus is concerned, well, frankly? I'm no Biblical scholar. I got raised by one, though - no piece of cake - and, even then, I've heard nothing about Jesus being intolerant. Nada. Negative. Nothing. If anything, the dude loved you, me, Palin, Franken, Limbaugh, Dr. Tilly, King and even Ray. That would be what I think Christianity is/was meant to be. Like the constitution, the "word" intends to breathe hope and tolerance and freedom.

However, those nuts out there are anything but fresh air - they are dangerous and dark and mean. And worse, they are more scared than ever. The state senator from Tennessee? Her "aide" sent out an email with a "group" photograph of all U.S. presidents to date, and instead of his picture she substituted a racist cartoon for President Barack H. Obama. This came from one of the flag-waving, Christian patriots.

So I ask: when someone like George W. Bush is president and he's criticized by (lots and lots of) those who disagree with him, why is that unpatriotic, and overt hate toward our current president is okay?

The irony is that both acts are okay because we have free speech - even though the unchecked hate on the racist email raises cause for questions and consequences for a variety of reasons (government employee, elected official's office, possible hate-crime inducing, etc etc). I simply would like - yet, like waiting for a 2nd grader to understand accountability, don't expect - an acknowledgement from the crazies that the very constitution they use to beat others over the head with enables them to do so. The very same protections they enjoy make free speech possible for both points of view (hence "free"); that if it were written that only one point of view's allowed they might just get ruled out.

Jesus.

Or should I say, "Jefferson."

THE SHORE

A poem

My breath rides like a feather on a wave.
It tickles me.

Something rolls beneath my ribs:
if still, I hear the shore inside me.

I see mist rise from the water,
like foam with nowhere to go.

I smell life spill into the sand like clean dirt from a garden:
now wet, and crumbly, and loose.

The water rises and cools my feet,
then warms my heart.

Like a feather on a wave, 

it comforts me.

KINDA DUMB

What's up with bugs flying into bright lights? Think about it: you turn on the porch light in what was a perfectly dark space, and here come the little flying bugs. Some are actually large flying bugs.

Well, honestly? They don't come right away. They wait for the light bulb to get hot - even more stupid of them. Once the bulb is hot, the bugs - and notice it doesn't matter whether the bug is a teeny gnat-like thing, or a large B-52 skeeter - fly directly at, if not into, the light bulb. In some cases, it kills them instantly. In others, they have to keep hitting the light bulb, like... to the point of bouncing against it, until they get it right, which, of course, means adios.

Jesus. Could you imagine doing that?

I never did well in science class, so I don't remember if we covered the subject of bugs hitting light bulbs at night, so forgive me. If we covered it, did anyone in class ask why just at night? I mean, during the day, at least, one might presume the light bulb isn't hot. But no. It's always at night.

Last night on my back porch, late, I turned on the big macho car-headlight-thing facing the woods, just for a minute, and "whoooooosh..." here come a bunch of different kinds of flying bugs, as if they were all out there waiting in the dark, whispering, "when's he gonna turn on the big car-headlight-thing so we can fly headfirst into it?"

Do you think they know that if they do, then tomorrow there's no more light-bulb-kamakaze-missions? (is that how you spell kamakaze? apparently it's how I do.)

Maybe they think a light bulb is the sun, kinda dumb, but a hunch. Even then, as much as we like the sun, would you fly right into it? Face first? And, assuming you got away with this once, or even twice, would you keep doing it over and over, bouncing off of it until your long, skinny legs kinda bend at 45 degrees and your little mesh-like bug wing gets all crumply?

Then go do it all over again? Whatsupwithdoinghtat?

To makes matters worse, when dog Barry's on the back porch at night, he jumps at the larger flying bugs as they approach the light over the back porch door, and he tries to catch them in his mouth. Even this doesn't deter the bug. Could you imagine wanting to fly into a large, blinding, burning hot object, while a large carnivorous animal tries to eat you?

The light bulb's oblivious. The dog's having a blast. The bug? Not smart. Not fun, even.  Meanwhile, doggie's in 7th heaven wondering why he got so lucky as to have: a. a new game that came seemingly out of nowhere; b. something to do - anything; and c. another odd, unknown thing to eat, then figure out later if it's worth it. (The other day Barry threw up two rocks each more than an inch deep, and what looked like a tiny rug sample. Not good, yet still above the food chain from the kamakaze bug.)

Maybe the light-bulb-flying-into-thing's in a bug's DNA, keeping their masses in check. Us? We don't do that. We human beings do some seriously stupid shit, for sure, but going cheek-to-cheek with a hot floodlight isn't one of them, and for that I'm grateful...

CAMPING IN THE RAIN

There is some great literature I read with irregular regularity. A snippet from it goes like this, and I paraphrase: "We loved but a few, tolerated the many, and basically couldn't stand the rest." The goal, of course, is to grow the "few" to "the many," so that we are persons of love and tolerance. That does simplify life, and indeed make it more fun. It also lessens the load, as intolerance and dislike causes much stress.

That being said, and, to wit, being mildly relevant, here's where "the few" come in, just for today: There are three women in this world who are very special to me. One is a friend, two are daughters. Of the three, two were off in the wilderness yesterday, separate wildernesses, with their peeps, their grrrrrls, their art, their music, their stuff. Me? Doing my thing, happy with some art and words at home and about.

The special women are camping, in their separate wildernesses. Both know how to camp, far better than me. No big deal.

It's summer, there are storms, still no big deal.

It's late, I've had my ice cream, and my dog Barry and I rest quietly in front of Jon Stewart then Letterman. The TV starts to beep. Actually, it kinda honked that obnoxious local TV station honk when you know something's awry, or at least the station wants your attention (like...).

So they succeed, they have my attention: there's a tornado watch in a few counties, an actual warning in one. My county isn't among them. And you guessed already whose are...

My friend's camping with over a dozen others, many of whom she shares some responsibility for, and they have a tornado watch and my hunch is there's no radio, etc., nor do they scare easily. The cell phones are probably not an active part of this camping adventure. So they are rightfully, and the-right-kind-of-righteously, in their own spirit world (that's my hunch), blissfully unplugged from urban life's daily chaos.

On the other hand, my daughter's camping with over 100,000 others, none of whom she has responsibility over, and they, I feel sure, have every communication device known to man and alien. My daughter doesn't scare easily either.

In days, months, years past, storms got me a little excited. I love them, actually, yet I also took the local TV station honks way seriously. I would watch and watch and wonder (hope?) one would hit near enough for drama - yet not so close as to be of any real inconvenience or harm. I would warn people, secretly happy about it.

I'm better now. I'm not the neighborhood weatherman anymore. I needn't let you know what you probably already know, and might not care about anyway. I mean, basically, who gives a shit? It's almost fun, a storm, and you've got a TV, right?

However, they're camping (I say to myself). So, I figure, a text. I send: "you have a tornado watch til midnight," to one, and "big storm coming," to the other, expecting zero back. The same literature that sorta said the stuff about "the few, the many" also says things like, "make the right effort and let go of the results."

Last night I found out, again, how true good literature, and spirituality, and peace, is, when I listen: These women I love? I love them because they are who they are, not who I think they should be. Their individual spirit and energy makes them special. If that's what makes them so appealing and fun to be around, why tamper with it? Why even want to change it? (Can't anyway.) Each of them is their own woman, lady, grrrrrrrrrrl: a worldly adult with great spirit and poise; a brand new "adult" with a great sense of wonder; and a not-yet-adult with integrity and swagger. They are beautiful, and different, each and all three.

And yes, the storms came. And no, I didn't lose sleep. And yes they got along just fine in their separate worlds of trees and hills and campsites and woods and cottages and sound stages and mud and lightning and shelter and not. And no the world doesn't need another weatherman. And yes, life is good, here on the balcony, in the morning, at my place, by the woods, with my dog. I'm not in the rain, or the mud, or a big crowd, or on the side of a hill. They are - and loving it, and I love that they love what they do.

We are each our own, thank you god and energy and light. And clouds pass, skies open, sun shines, tents get wet, dogs growl at thunder, rain comes - and it goes. And me? You? Us? We can go about our day any way we choose, regardless...

Now is this great... or what?

THIS IS NOT ACTING, RIGHT?

Presently I'm sitting outside, on a small balcony off my bedroom, facing the forest. There's just me. My dog, Barry, has the other balcony, the bigger one, to himself. He has water, food, a treat, and the breeze. I have the breeze, too, and my laptop. Both of us are barefoot. He finds the wood floor of the balcony comfortable enough to lie down; I don't, so I'm leaned back in a chair, with my feet up. The chair is nice, has a long, red cushion - but the cushion's off right now because it got wet from this morning's big rain.

Since this morning the sky's pretended to bring a few more big clouds but that's all it's done is pretend, as of yet.

I spent a lot of my life pretending. Once you get used to it, stopping is difficult; when you've done it so long you don't even know you do it. Now I know I do it - or did it - because my feelings are back. If somebody pretends, and they're in touch enough, they'll feel it. I don't like the feeling that appears when my body senses my mind pretending. Lately I've given, or tried to give, my body power over my mind, instead of the other way around.

I grew up thinking "smart" is better than anything else. I grew up thinking, is what. Not feeling. Feeling was bad where I grew up because if any of us felt it'd always be bad, so we pretended we were all good all the time, which we weren't, of course - and all of this required very much thinking.

So the brain won for years! Not now. It ain't easy, mind you, and it IS doable: letting the body win. Like exercise, though, this takes getting used to, no matter good it feels. Funny how we resist change, even for the good.

So these days I try to keep it simple, and just be me - one me. You'd think this would come easily. Not necessarily. Old habits die hard. One way I'm flexing my "not thinking" muscles is by taking an acting class.

Yes.

I always heard acting keeps one out of their head, so I signed up on a whim (and a challenge). Well, there's news: not only does acting keep me out of head (or, tries...), acting keeps me in my body. In the now. In the present. Listening. Observing. Add all of this together and the sum = not thinking.

Who would've thought?

The acting class, led by Vali Forrester, founder of Actors Bridge, is of the Meisner technique. I will not pretend to know much about this or any other technique because I don't. However, the little I get, so far, says Meisner wants us so completely in the moment that reaching for some past experience for the sake of theatrical emotion is absolutely forbidden. Makes sense.

Here's why: if we do, or did, then we are a. thinking, and b. not in the moment. We'd be in some other moment, which takes us away. Do you have any idea how difficult this is for a guy who's lived in his head most all of his life?

And hey: I don't even want to be an actor. In fact, I want to quit being one so badly I'm taking acting so I can learn how to stop; to simply be me.

Howaboutthat?

THE LIGHT AND THE DARK IN DC

This happened yesterday:

A trusted, long-time museum employee, a security guard, noticed an elderly man approaching the museum's front steps. The employee smiled and held open the door so the man could enter unencumbered, without any trouble. The museum guard didn't know he was opening the door for an 88 year-old white supremacist with a long record, criminal and otherwise, of racist and anti-semitic acts. The employee, 39 and well-liked, also could not see the firearm hidden beneath the old man's jacket. All the employee saw was a human being who, at an advanced age, could use a hand.

The old man, however, could not see a helpful museum employee with a smile on his face. Instead, all he saw was a man whose skin looked different. Darker. Not as pink or chalky as his own.

The museum was The Holocaust Museum in Washington DC, on the National Mall, just steps from the White House and Capitol. The museum's one of our most popular; it realistically and movingly displays the horrors from one of mankind's ugliest times.

The guard assumed the best in this man, and treated him with respect, like he did most folks. The old man could see only color, and hate; and the hate wasn't even in the guard who smiled and helped him.

But it didn't matter...

Upon being greeted and allowed in, the old man raised the hidden firearm, right there, and shot the guard almost point blank. Another guard, some distance away, immediately reacted and shot the racist. Both men fell. Both men were brought to the same ER. The guard died hours later. As I write the hateful, old man still lives.

And if - or when - he, too, dies, he will not take this brand of hate with him, unfortunately. It will wander, darkly, among us, still. There's only one possible way to explain a sickness like racism: fear. Fear of anything different. And we know the more afraid of something one becomes, the more ominous that something appears. This is so shameful. And so able to be healed. And it starts here. With me. With you. It starts with being interested and curious about what we don't know, instead of being smug and insular about what we do.

I remember thinking I knew everything (still can feel like that, on a low day). What's so funny about that is that if it were true there would be no reason to go on, to do anything, to try anything, to read, watch, listen, feel, because there would be nothing left I didn't already know. How miserable an existence that would be.

Newness keeps me alive, brings me energy. Without new then everything's old. This would not be good, not even for a minute. No matter how comfortable, presumably, the "familiar" is, the last thing I want is a life filled with the familiar. To live is to learn. To learn is to experience something new. And new experiences give me a reason to be.

Racism provides no reason to be. Celebrating one another's differences does. I like celebrating. I like different. I like being. 

Dude... going on 12 hours cig-free. 12 hours.