for it is important that awake people be awake

A Ritual To Read To Each Other
By, William Stafford

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider--
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

a crisp peace

On the eve of the inauguration of Barack Obama, the ghost-like presence of my need to write lingered in my space. For three days I partied until 4:00 am; there was a Bush effigy, visiting with Ohio 2004 folks, early morning meals and a large concert on the mall. DC had briefly morphed from a culture of professionals tackling structural unpleasantries to well, just a big party. But on Martin Luther King Day, the eve of the inauguration, in the air circulated quietness. An absence of anxiety. A blatant peace. It seemed as if the laborious commitments that led this movement to this moment had gone on Sabbath. It was lovely.

"beyond danger, is opportunity"

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new years day

While reading a book about the Historical Jesus and the Cult of Mary, something quietly appeared to me, something that I had never realized or probed before. According to Luke chapter 2, each man owed Augustus taxes and in response, Joseph fled and left Nazareth for Bethlehem. My defiant grandfather apparently didn’t pay taxes for years. When he died, my father received a bill from the IRS, (gulp). In a day and age where a woman making $60,000 a year is taxed at 25% by a country selling arms to Israel and invading sovereign nations, Joseph’s plan sounds good to me! Where shall we go? Bethlehem? Port-au-Prince? Philly? Shall we take the Acela train there? Anyway, when I die, I certainly hope someone will read the barbarically highlighted portions of my books for it will remain as only one of my two legacies.

While reading this marvelous account of the myth of Mary, I listened to Nina Simone in the background as she sang about the tragedy of love, and the devastation and responsibility of being born black. On Saturday, the Obamas move into the Hay-Adams (on my street!) for two weeks proceeding the inauguration. The beautiful Hay-Adams (where I have had tea in the parlor and drinks on the roof). Who would’ve thought the off-spring of willing and also forced African diaspora could reside at the Hay-Adams, the Blair House, or even, the White House.

My blog was originally intended to be a place to tell some of my “crazy stories” that my friends insist I write a book of (ehhmmm, Jeremy). The blog, however, has morphed, unfortunately and most recently, into a true blog: an online journal. The tragic sensibilities of my Irish heritage and the story of the year have taken this blog hostage, but in 2009, I am determined to reverting it into a place for social commentary and the sharing of old stories.