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| Ballad of the Plain Jane |
| 06.28.04 (9:28 am) [edit] |
Carolyn was not considered a raving beauty by anyone. She was shoved in the “plain” slot by her mother at an early age. She always made sure Carolyn was dressed neat and orderly but never primed for compliments. As she harshly brushed her daughter’s thick., coarse hair she’d say “You have such a beautiful mind and great personality, baby that will get you a lot further than your looks ever would.” Carolyn was enrolled in piano lessons, dance classes and given all the art supplies her mother could afford. “Be smart, be strong” was her mother’s mantra as her body began taking shape.
During the awkward navigation of her teenage path she stood in front of the mirror thinking, “Is plain ugly or beautiful.” Her friends appeared to date with ease while she was considered “one of the guys.” In public she played her role with relish but in private Saturday nights spent with her mother and videos were sheer torture. Her mother would brush her hair and say, “Don’t worry baby. There will be men who appreciate smart, strong women.” The death of her father when she was two eliminated a second opinion. Her dating experience began with boys who told her she was beautiful long enough to convince her to spread her thighs. By the time she closed them, both the boys and their compliments were gone. She thought the compromise was worth the attention. This thinking lasted way beyond her awkward stage and stalked her into womanhood. Lovers got a good laugh, engaging conversation, self-portrait, and an orgasm for the payment of insincere flattery. Carolyn married a handsome man under that pretense. The handsome man gave her a new last name and a wedding band. Unfortunately, that’s all he had to offer. Carolyn’s reflection now cast a plain, smart, woman whose strength could no longer bear the weight of her unhappiness. “Why are so unhappy, baby?” her mother asked when she confided in her. “He a good man and you should know husbands don’t grow on trees.” She could have hit her mother between the eyes with the truth but that’s the beauty of being smart. Whether she liked it or not, her mother did love her the best she knew how. Telling her how wrong she was would make her aware but it wouldn’t change her thinking. It was in that moment she realized her true beauty was in her possession and always was. Using the smarts and strength endowed by her mother she walked away from he “handsome” husband. The few months were spent dining on tears and self-pity. Between tears thoughts of healing began taking root .in her mind. Moments of stillness and clarity followed and then it happened. She woke up one day forgiving her and all things that keep her from seeing what was always visible. She was smart, strong, and always beautiful.
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| In Search of Intelligent Life- HEHE! |
| 06.27.04 (7:49 am) [edit] |
I was contemplating the lead story morning last September on CBS Sunday Morning. With the space probe Galileo being vaporized in Jupiter’s atmosphere after eight years on September 21st. the segment was called “Searching for Intelligent Life in the Universe.” Ooh yeah, I smelled a lead story in the making. “Astro” experts pontificated about the forms of life if any that may exist. The phrase “intelligent life” was peppered throughout the report and both the experts and commentators referred to us as the purveyors of this intelligence. I giggled. Let’s be real, shall we? There’s intelligent life in the universe but it ain’t US! Trailer park sightings and Roswell rumors aside, there’s a good reason intergalactic visitors remain illusive. Despite our achievements as a human race, we have yet to reconcile our primal needs. Imagine being from elsewhere and having the capacity to observe us from a distance. Creatures that crawled out of the primordial ooze, evolved into humans capable of wondrous achievements yet can kill one another for the most trivial matter. Better yet, create “weapons of mass destruction” and use them as bargaining tools for peace. Wage war on each other in the name of God in order to justify their hatred. These same curios humans set up socioeconomic systems where a small percentage live lavishly while a larger majority make up the permanent underclass. You see a planet with majestic vistas, breath-taking landscapes interlaced with enough man made toxins guaranteed to poison the ecosphere for generations to come. If none of this conveniences a carbon based life being to keep it on the “down low” all they have to do is peruse a hundred years of filmmaking. In the innumerable horror films, next to the black guy, and the blonde nubile starlet, the extra terrestrial is guaranteed to get the raw end of the deal. Is there intelligent life in the universe? . . . Hell yeah! They’re smart enough not to screw around with us!
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| Flying Blind . . .Thoughts of an ART PYMP! |
| 06.26.04 (7:44 am) [edit] |
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[b]It's a quiet Saturday morning and I'm beginning the day in a peaceful manner. It’s been one year & 1/2 since leaving the nine to five world. I’m living the life of an artist in fact my new job description is "ART PYMP". I'm making a living as a copywriter, playwright, stage director, graphics designer performing arts educator, visual artist and most recently television program development. Freelancing hones your skills to a sharp razor. I've succeeded because of strong business acumen. I research market trends on popular consumerism, network in places where my demographic congregates, have brochures and striking business card for each skill set. I've become highly aggressive and make it point to make every client feel like they’re special. The trick is following through. I work long hours but I meet deadlines. Flying solo makes me feel so good about everything in my life. My inner circle has grown stronger with their love and support. They're the best chaise lounge a weary artist can rest on. My walk with the Creator changed too. God is my agent. When I decided to let go of fear and follow my heart, the gigs, the money has flowed like water. I feel rewarded. The greatest of all the changes is my lack of fear. Just before I left the job, I faced a life threatening illness that brought everything into perspective. I survived and decided to celebrate by shedding fear. I feel like a five year old on sugar. "I can do, yes I can!" is the battle cry and when needed NO holds its rightful place in my lexicon. I don't know where I'm going, how I'll get there as long as I keep FAITH in my backpack :wink: [/b]
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| Uncle SHAM |
| 06.25.04 (8:50 pm) [edit] |
What a concept....
A bunch of old guys
Behind closed doors
Egos and neck veins flexed
Argue over land, money, and power
With the latest, technology,
top advisors and no common
sense
They can't resolve their differences
After heated moments, hours, days,
weeks, years of heated debate
So the end results of all that
sweat and bad breath is a fight
Not the angry old men taking to
the back alley with victory to
the one left standing
They declare war
That's when their top advisors
take over
Spin doctoring, homogenizing,
and justifying the need
for countries to sacrifice their
Children's lives because
a bunch of bad breathed angry
old men can't reach an agreement
behind closed doors
Off they go, the proud, the many
sacrificial lambs weighted down
with sophisticated armor
Paid for with tax dollars
that would serve better use
in feeding, housing, and clothing
their countrymen
Off they go from military bases,
prisons, street corners and parade
routes
Waving goodbye to weeping loved ones
Everyone involved believing or
deluding themselves
With the notion that this
battle unlike the previous is
just
Right up until
The neatly folded flags
and shiny medals are handed
to them
Off they go to places they never
dreamed about, doing things
so ghastly and horrible to one
another no survivor returns
home unscathed
Former selves left on the fields of
battle along with blood, bullets and the stench
of how cruel we truly can be when given
the opportunity
To add insult to injury
Veterans return home
to birth generations with unheard of
malformities and disease
Because someone failed to tell them
they were soldiers and lab rats
When survivors of war ask
the angry old men what happened
They are sent to VA hospitals
to die slow deaths from
red tape strangulation
The lucky ones only suffer from
nightmares or kneel before
monuments with the name of
long gone friends you left much
to soon
Where they cry, and whisper silent
prayers for peace
But the angry old men don't hear their
cries because they're
behind close doors trying to remember
what made they angry in the first place
Mel Taylor copyright 1991
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| Blah, Blah, Blah |
| 06.25.04 (8:00 pm) [edit] |
BLAH, BLAH, BLAH
I love words, I really do
I find them to be the most pliable tools of the trade
Twist and manipulate them to form opinions, mold minds
shape ideas
Regard them as weapons spouting rhetoric
Etch vengeance with poison pen
Phonetic homicide--destroys a soul, break a heart
Semantic seduction
Wrapping tongues in warm wet compliments
Hot sticky entrendres simmered in soft sweet surrender
My pen cums on the paper leaving a trail of onomatopoeia
Work it words
Dance, leap, anger, love, provoke
Write a revolution
Tell a tale of hope
Use words to your advantage before they’re used to take advantage
Of you
Mel Taylor Copyright 1992
[LINE]
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| Off we go . . . |
| 06.25.04 (6:47 pm) [edit] |
[b]This is where I unleash the "beast" on to the information highway-Uncensored, unabashed, unapologetic ideas. You gotta love the blog being either a soap box or ledge (depending on your perspective. I'm not going to try and figure out why I fell compelled to do this-It's the journey stupid! Please remember if you decide to react to anything I post, we're strangers . . . your can only affect me as much as I chose. With he ground rules set, I'm diving in![/b] [LINE]
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