tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57624156089723140782024-02-20T20:31:53.668-05:00Magnolia RamblingSometimes funny, sometimes frank. But always more than you asked for...Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-14168773919255370572023-01-16T17:32:00.001-05:002023-01-16T17:32:48.069-05:00All Gas & No Brakes!<p> Y'all....</p><p>That's the way I typically start out a Facebook post or anything where I want to make sure everybody knows what I just discovered. LOL! I think it cracks me up more than anybody else, but I'll keep using it until otherwise notified. :-)</p><p>I found a blog that I'd started a couple of years ago that I've done absolutely NOTHING with! It's called 'Say What?!' and was evidently going to be used to dole out witty repartee and other information on the subject of commercial copywriting - my other gig separate from the bank where I work. I'd completely forgotten about it until today when I was rummaging through some stuff online - that I can't remember - when I stumbled across it. Lord. I think I start too many things with the intention of adding them into my routine - like working on my core - and it never goes anywhere. </p><p>I think I might be borderline OCD, I swear. </p><p>Started looking up something on Norton because I wanted to see if there was an alternative to the antivirus I'm using and found myself down a rabbit hole that had zero to do with malware, finally landing on a website where I ordered a piece I need to add the ride on/ride off center stand to my motorcycle. I went back and updated the Norton information (added another year to my subscription) and then I remembered I was hungry so I ordered Panera. I had a fraternity meeting at 3:30 today, so before I got on that call, I looked at more ish on the Internet (updated my expiration dates on a couple of debit cards, got some clean up done on my Twitter and LinkedIN profiles, changed some stuff on my password database, added myself to the fraternity Internet page, and a couple more things). Got off the call and moved right into texting an old friend to see how his back surgery recovery was going, and then decided to look into this mystery blog I've let languish. THAT made me think about turning the Magnolia Rambling blogs into a Tik Tok post. And THAT made me Google 'teleprompter app for iPhone'. Brought me back to Blogger when I decided to put this together, and now I am thinking about how I can record content on my Tik Tok channel under a different name. Jesus. This brain is absolutely all gas & no brakes.</p><p>I have a million things I need to be doing, and writing this isn't one of them. Finishing the return of my Christmas decorations to their rightful resting place, however, IS one of them. It's January 15th, I know. Don't judge me.</p><p>It's the start of the New Year, and I'm jazzed about all the stuff I'm telling myself I want to focus on this year. I'm going to remain committed to not writing any of them down because I have zero intention of being called on the carpet for not completing them. But who cares? They're just for me. I don't do resolutions. I mean I do, but I don't call them that so I can be aloof and pretentious and so I can avoid failure. :-) 2023 is the year of self care for me, and I'm going to take it to heart. Gotta find a therapist. Gotta get a pedi quarterly (I'm too cheap to do it more often). Gotta think about considering to attempt to write another book. [Probably a good subject to discuss with my to-be-found therapist: getting back to writing for me and not for an audience...it's harder than you might think after three books - subtle flex.]</p><p>If it happens, it happens. I've got more to do than I will accomplish, but I figure that's better than not having any goals at all, right? I don't know. SMH. I could be full of shit or just lazy. </p><p>Right now, though, the only thing on my mind is popping open a beer. So I'm gonna go do that. Fingers crossed I drink the entire bottle before something else grabs my attention.</p>Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-56184585935700929002022-09-01T14:00:00.002-04:002022-09-01T15:14:13.096-04:00Systemicism<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes I know where I want to start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And sometimes I just don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I know exactly what I want to say
to you all – or no one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
again…sometimes I just don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess
that’s the beauty and the beast when it comes to blogging.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever comes to mind is what I can put
down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can read it or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can like it or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can agree with it or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s subjective to a high degree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I don’t know if I’ll post the link to this entry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s funny when you think about all of the
shit you see and read on Facebook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
not the smartest person in the world, but I pay attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t have any illusion that what I
say/write will sway someone’s ideological positioning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People are so amazingly and deeply entrenched
in their own worlds and points of view that seldom, if ever, are you going to
pull somebody over the fence by giving them facts or real-world experiences
illustrating your position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re
going to believe what they want, they’ll understand the world around them in
the manner they’ve been exposed to it, and they’re going to keep it moving.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was thinking about just that when I came up with ‘systemicism’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not even a real word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know because I Googled it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>LOL!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
had posted something super snarky in response to all of the posting
about the student debt loan forgiveness not being fair – or the equivalent of
that asinine position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were many
comments about the program that ran counter to what a lot of them cling to with
respect to their Christian faith – the spirit of helping others doesn’t seem to
be Christ-like enough for them to capitulate and recognize when someone needs a
hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What would Jesus Do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>#Laughable<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We’ve got so many ‘isms’ these days that another one added
to the fire won’t matter. You’ve all seen a word cloud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know those images of words which represent
most-used words, with the winner being printed in the largest font size and
probably either bolded or in another color to show how far and away it
wins?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To me, that’s a tie with racism
and whataboutism neck and neck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Racism
fucking sucks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And whataboutism is just
as bad, in its own way, and it’s the worst comeback anybody can have when they’re
trying to win an argument.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like
answering a question with a question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And then there’s systemicism.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Let me explain.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">From the comments on my post about the student loan debt
forgiveness situation, I was unsurprisingly reading a lot of bootstrap
comments, and ‘that’s not the way I was raised’ and ‘why do my taxes have to
pay for someone else’s laziness’ and ‘the system is screwed up and benefits
people who don’t want to work’, ‘what about how I paid my own loan’, ‘what
about how I saved and so-and-so is getting free money’, on and on, ad nauseum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s gross, really, to hear these
comments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many Americans think with
their full chest that this is the greatest country in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Periodt, as Madea would say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
it isn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Are there a lot of things about America that ARE the greatest in the
world?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Absolutely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Try writing this blog in China.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or Hungary – the new darling of CPAC and the
GOP.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or pick a fucking country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good luck not getting tossed in prison while
you await trial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nope, freedom of speech
is fantastic, and I relish its protection every time I sit down to opine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if you stop and seriously examine the way
Americans treat other Americans, let alone immigrants, you should find yourself
nauseated and ashamed.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">No one, no population, no subset of a population, a populace,
a citizenry…whatever…is going to treat all participants equally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should level set that right there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There will always be a caste or hierarchy
that separates and segregates people, whether it’s socially, economically, or
the combination of the two (or more).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
if the first rule of Fight Club is that you don’t talk about fight club, the
first rule of systemicism is that don’t talk about systemicism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those ideologies which underpin the systemic
segregation, disenfranchisement, genocide, and oppression of ethnic and
economic minorities are glaringly evident – if you open your eyes – but they’re
never talked about in ‘polite society’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
historical record is chock full of examples where the haves have shit on the
have nots for various purposes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they’ve
done so with legal and socially-acceptable morality defenses at their
back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You cannot maintain dominance over
others by using piety and equivalence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
need only look at the way America committed spirited and long-lasting genocide
on the Indigenous people of this continent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There is always a heavy hand in the manipulation of those perceived to
be underneath the powerful, both proverbial and situationally, and it manifests in different ways all over the board. South Africa, I'm looking at you.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><u>But you have to be willing to see it</u>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">America has a huge problem with racism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s systemic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>America has a huge problem with financial
inequality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s systemic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>America has a huge problem with the treatment
of women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s systemic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>America has a huge problem with the LGBTQ
community.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s systemic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>America has a huge problem with gun violence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s systemic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>America has a huge problem with the approach
to social entitlement programs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s
systemic.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But you won’t recognize that reason in any of the responses
from people who are arguing their side of a cause.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For example, I love it when people twist themselves
into knots trying to explain why they don’t want CRT taught to their first-grade
child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just hearing that, you should automatically
realize this person is uninformed and they’re getting their talking points from
an unreliable source.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What they’re trying
to say is they don’t want their children learning about the horrific treatment
of BIPOC over the centuries at the hands of white people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A system of inequality and oppression was set in
motion hundreds of years ago, which no one alive today is responsible for
kick-starting; it was and remains unflinchingly egregious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> However, </span>it’s one which white people perpetuate and from which they are benefitting today, while BIPOC continue to be negatively impacted. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">No one wants to speak to the systemic racism which has contributed
to the wealth gap, the education gap, the employment gap, the mental health gap,
etc., which has brought us to where we are today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Black people didn’t have the same rights per
the founders of this country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After
fighting for those rights, black people were continually harassed, harangued,
tortured, and mistreated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The system of
that treatment was used to indoctrinate children at a very young age, perpetuated
throughout their lifetimes, and celebrated in certain communities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for anyone saying, I wasn’t raised like
that, what you have, in fact, received is the benefit of that systemic oppression
of blacks because of the opportunities your families had access to where black
families did not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>White families weren’t
redlined and declined the ability to begin building generational wealth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>White families weren’t yoked to low-paying
jobs which inhibited the ability for their kids to get college educations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>White families weren’t subjected to domestic terrorism
which inhibited – or eliminated – any interest in voting to improve their lot,
or even running for office to represent their communities without fear of
reprisal or violence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The benefits derived
from the system meant to hold black people down come in many forms – from life,
itself, to a more prosperous and wealthy existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it is systemic in that the treatment and
disadvantage continues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that’s never
acknowledged in debate or Facebook responses or comments.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">White people are not bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Trust me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hear me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Believe me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m not saying they are, and never ever would I cast a shadow or make a blanket
statement that insane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are plenty
of BIPOC who vote against their own interests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or even worse, they’re single-issue voters hell bent on protecting their
wallets and bank accounts and position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Read a book titled, "Our Kind of People," by Lawrence Otis Graham for more information. Or you can read my novel, "Chief of Staff" for similar insight into the insular world of the small but affluent class of blacks in America. </span>If
you still don’t believe me, look at this abjection of a senate candidate, Hershel
Walker. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He panders to voters who wouldn’t
have him over for dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is being
used by a voting block who needs his body in the senate chamber to cast votes
he will not understand at a cost to BIPOC he cannot fathomably calculate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have said it before that neither black
people or white people exist as a monolith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the same breath, rich people are not bad, either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never understand when people get on their
left-leaning high horse and proudly exclaim that billionaires shouldn’t
exist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you out of your goddam mind?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the innovation for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the creating jobs for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s powering a global economy for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s looking at all of their fancy, shiny,
expensive, out of reach stuff for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
I could be a billionaire tomorrow, I’d do it in a heartbeat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kuh-Ching!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But what’s gutting to me about billionaires – at least in America –
is that the system that allowed them to get so damn rich comes at the expense
of the lower and middle class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’m actually
talking about everything from capitalism, itself, to wages and work-life
balance to the holy grail of everyone’s pocket, taxes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Billionaires don’t pay enough taxes juxtaposed
against their income/wealth, and that burden falls to everyone underneath
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s systemic because of the
hierarchy previously established which does absolutely everything it can to protect
that class (the super- and ultra-wealthy) because they have the power and position
to do so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t the common man, the
blue-collar worker, the manual laborer, the kindergarten teacher, or the freshly
minted naturalized citizen banging for the Supreme Court to side with Citizens
United.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Corporate America, led by rich
white people and profited from by rich white people clamored for that ruling because they
wanted a financial voice in American politics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And that additional voice, beyond their own, is used to contribute ungodly amounts of money – in the
form of free speech, most ironically – to political candidates who push the
causes that that money funds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Federalist
Society, your table is ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
access writes the laws, confirms federal judges and ‘right’-sizes the SCOTUS,
it lobbies the senators and congressmen/women, and impacts your daily lives on
a local, state, and federal level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
systemic.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Look back at the document comments of America's founders with
respect to religion in America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ZERO
percent of them say or imply or suggest or hint that this is a
Christian nation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In any way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet today we’re run by group of individuals
who amount to a theocracy based on THEIR RELIGION alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They set policy, influence laws, dictate
morality-based intent, etc., in direct violation of not only what the founders
intended, or the concept of separation of church and state, but what they wrote
in that Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or
prohibiting the free exercise thereof.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hindu?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jewish?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Buddhist?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Atheist?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everybody can fuck off
unless you’re some form of Christian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t
believe me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Christianity is on our
money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s in your bedroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's in your schools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s lording (pun intended) over women’s reproductive
rights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s even allowing someone to
say whether or not they’re going to bake a goddam cake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is systemic.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Systemicism is permanently entangled in our society, and it’ll never go away, it won't be voted out, and it can't be shouted down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just like racism, you have to come to grips
with that fact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There will always,
always, always be people who hate me simply because I’m black, or think I’m
less than because I’m black.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those are
the same people whom I cruise past on a jaunty spring motorcycle ride and wonder
how they can have a Trump flag on their shitty little trailer homes and laude his every move,
to include not returning Top Secret documents which could put American and
allied spies, alike, in mortal danger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He doesn’t give a damn about any of those people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All he wants, and has gotten plenty of, is their sucker money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Lyndon Johnson said, "If you can convince the lowest white man he's better than the best colored man, he won't notice you're picking his pocket. Hell, give him somebody to look down on, and he'll empty his pockets for you." It's </span>the systemicism that links them to Trump (and his ilk) in
their minds that is enough to continue to embrace a disgraceful opinion and view on BIPOC, and
continue the miseducation of their children (which leads to banning of books, harshing
the mellow of the LGBTQ community, supporting candidates who seek to whitewash
American history or make it harder to fucking vote, or give the ability of a
state legislature to decide an election, and contributes to the deepening divide
between races).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you see where I’m
going?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So somebody is getting relief from their student loan debt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Big whoop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That doesn’t impact you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It isn’t
being unfair to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(How about paying
taxes in the 60s for city and community amenities you couldn't rightfully enjoy, like parks
and pools and water fountains?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And your
life isn’t going to change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of bitching
and moaning about having 'paid their fair share' while somebody sits on their
ass, why aren’t those people pissed that Trump’s tax plan is raising their
taxes by removing a host of deductions for the middle class and repealing
things like the alternative minimum tax for wealthy individuals or eliminating
the estate tax?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why aren’t they complaining
about the inequity in education in urban and rural communities?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Why bemoan the infrastructure repair and increasing access to affordable healthcare and housing? </span>Surely leveling up in those areas would make
for a more competitive and productive workforce, contribute to catching up on
the salary and wealth gap, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How
about recognizing the politically-expedient dominance of any certain religion
and its stranglehold over whether a pregnant teenager carries an unwanted child
to term?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bet they’d be screaming their
heads off if Muslims crafted laws that prohibited their free exercise of bodily
autonomy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Want to prevent second graders
from being shot in the face at school?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or is the greater concern the ability for some nut job to exercise his
2A rights to buy an assault rifle?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ten
grand to a teacher buried under student loans while going into her own pocket
to provide school supplies for kids in a low-income neighborhood school sickens
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But you’ll gladly scream Let’s Go
Brandon and display FJB on your car and clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you’ll listen to a pastor or a boss or
your neighbor talk about how they’d like to get back to when America was great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the while <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>you don’t understand how the world is moving
on without you toward inclusion and diversity of all kinds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you fight and claw and scream and complain
to support the divisiveness in a country where you continue to benefit from whatever form and function of the
pervasive systemicism that checks your personal boxes.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">But $10,000.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because
it doesn’t seem fair.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mm’kay.<o:p></o:p></p>Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-41153031557445225952022-05-31T16:12:00.002-04:002022-05-31T16:12:48.738-04:00Hands up!I don't get it. I'm pretty sure I'm depressed in some form or fashion, and it's all because of the world I live in. Most days, people fucking suck. They do. Why are we so evil to one another? Why can't we just leave everybody else the fuck alone? I hate bigots and racists and homophobes and the exclusionary and evangelical dicks and misogynists and anybody else who feels the need to propel their needs and interests and morality and superiority above anyone else. I just want to throw my goddam hands up and quit! <div><br /></div><div>I stopped writing this blog a while ago. And I don't know today that I'm going to pick back up where I left off. Ironically, or not, that was the exact subject matter of my last entry: write or stop. I clearly haven't answered that question. But I have decided one thing: you're going to have to find this blog if you want to read it. No longer am I going to post entries on social media. Makes me mad on another level when I put something out there that nobody comments on or pays attention to. I have to laugh at that. So completely narcissistic. Ha! Like I said before, if you don't love what you write, and have that expectation of others, what's the point? This isn't journalism. It is digital ranting, yelling into a cyberspace-shaped megaphone, the yeeting of your most introspective thoughts into a chasm of deep space dark matter. It is pointless other than to give me an outlet for my rage and hopefully medication enough to move through to the next day. <div><br /></div><div>NOTE: Don't take the above as some kind of fucked up secret way to say that writing keeps me from killing myself. Holy shit, no. Nobody is worth me killing myself. Nobody. Besides, have you ever SEEN a Ferrari? Or touched a lion? Or had a dog? Or loved someone? Or ridden a motorcycle? Or felt the sea roll up your foot while you stand on the beach? I don't get suicide. But that's another blog, completely. I hate that some people are pushed that direction, and I have some strong feelings about suicide that don't matter to anyone who's been through it. I'm just saying I'll never do that to myself. I'm just moody. :-) </div><div><br /></div><div>I forgot where I was going before that suicide rant. Lovely. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh yeah: (most) people suck. </div><div><br /></div><div>I cannot tell you how much joy I've squeezed from Tik Tok in the last couple of years. It is a magnificent escape from the rigors of life and dealing with people you'd like to see disappear. So many funny people, so many great singers, so many people with crazy talent that never would have been exposed were it not for something as horrific as the pandemic, pushing everyone to the app for some respite and joy in a shitty day. I shudder to think where I'd be mentally without those 1- and 3-minute videos. </div><div><br /></div><div>There was a school shooting in Texas not too long ago, and I got so fed up with the absolute bullshit of thoughts & prayers that I stopped watching the coverage for days. I'm still not fully back on board, and that's fine by me. Politicians coveting their NRA funds or the votes of dicks with 2A tattooed on their foreheads make me sick. I wish they would just say they're in it for the money and the notoriety. They're certainly not genuine on any level. That goes for the GOP and the Democrats, but the greasy GOP assholes are just more blatant with their greed and refusal to help their constituents in the face of corporations floating their endless campaigns and glad-handing. I stopped watching the coverage because everyone is lying WHILE THEY'RE AVOIDING THE QUESTIONS people need to have answered. If everyone responded to a question in their every day lives with some kind of nonsense 'spin', we'd never get anywhere. People used to be more honest. At the very least, maybe the rest of us were more terrible at figuring out we were being lied to. One way or another, a lot of us are fucked, and it's only going to get worse. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nobody is able to tell a grieving parent that their OTHER kids aren't in danger of getting shot up at school because nobody is willing to do anything substantial about guns in this country. Nobody is able to tell their daughter that she doesn't have to carry a rape baby to term if Uncle Dirtbag gets handsy and takes her to bed. Nobody is able to tell their mother or sister or aunt or cousin that she has the right to make her own decisions about her body because the autonomy we should mandate for her isn't represented in the Constitution. Give me a fucking break. And as privacy rights get chucked...just wait...there goes the right for a man to marry another man, or a Chinese woman to marry a white guy, or adopt a baby of your choosing. It's not a leap to go from knocking down Roe to eliminating Loving and erasing Obergefell. </div><div><br /></div><div>One of my fraternity brothers (from whom I'm actively distancing myself), told me I should calm down. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but I was more polite about it. He's been a dick to me on Facebook a couple of times, and I've always come back and told him he was a shit for saying what he said. I'm not fucking with him anymore because I have insight into his real demeanor and outlook. I don't have time for that. And I won't calm down on this issue or others. We're standing at the edge of a precipice in so many ways. And so many people aren't paying attention. Or worse, they're complicit in the various ways society is being destroyed; hey, democracy, the call is coming from inside the house. I have lifelong friends who will vote for Trump if he runs again. After EVERYTHING FUCKING THING we know about him and what he's done to the country, he'll still get their vote. They'll never tell me that to my face, but I know it to be true. And that's sad. And, quite frankly, it's gross and irresponsible. But they're never going to change, and I'm not going to waste my breath or time engaging in conversation to try and sway them. I used to spit into the wind until I realized it wasn't worth it with some people. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, I'll keep my hands up. I'll continue to be irritated by the outside world and its refusal to do what's right. At the same time, I have to do what I can to get out of this depression, to stimulate my brain, to lessen the hatred I have for asshole members of our society. I don't know. Maybe I'll keep writing. I've got this blog and at least two novels I could work on. We'll see. If it happens, it happens. And unless there is some setting I'm not aware of which automatically notifies my 7 followers (haha, I'm number 8), nobody will know, anyway. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ramble On...</div></div>Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-72802045763635617002022-05-31T13:39:00.001-04:002022-05-31T13:39:08.061-04:00TestI've been curious of late to understand how my seven followers know that I have posted something new. As such, this is a test of whatever notification sustem there might be. Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-51241775646798438372019-12-10T20:11:00.002-05:002019-12-10T20:11:59.493-05:00Nobody CaresHey, y'all. I'm back. Yes, it's been a very long time. And I'm sorry. Not sorry. Well, I'm mostly sorry. Not for those people who don't read this blog, but for the dwindling number of those who do. God bless you for having nothing better to do than read my sanctimonious drivel. It isn't all drivel, but enough of it probably counts as such that I am being nicer to myself than needed. <br />
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I was going through my Gmail today, deleting old shit, wondering how I get off of certain auto emails (hello, Pinterest and Facebook...stop emailing me with every single notification. Damn. I get it.) I saw an email about this domain being renewed and told myself I was wasting money. I should either write or shut this down.<br />
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But two sides of my brain started battling before I could make an informed decision. I don't even know how much this damn thing costs me each year. I'll assume it isn't much. You might know I'm not one to waste money on something other than my motorcycle.<br />
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Anyway. Keep it or shut it down.<br />
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Nobody cares what happens to this blog if I'm being honest. I don't make money from it. I don't use it as a platform to do anything other than tell you what I think and hope you find what I say important enough to read to the end or refrain from rolling your eyes. LOL. Jesus, I'm self-absorbed. But that is the way I'd think ANY writer would or should be when it comes to their own creations, no matter the genre or if they're being paid to espouse them. I used to get irritated when people read my writing and dared to give me critiques or 'helpful suggestions'. Pretty sure I was an asshole about it. What the hell do you know what I was thinking when I created this masterpiece? Uh, well, it's shit. Hahaha. I was such a dick then. I'm still a dick, but at least I come at critique from a different, more adult, angle these days. Hell, I have five pre-readers of my novels whom I ask to pointedly give me what they like and don't like about the book. It makes me a better writer is what I tell myself. Hopefully, I'm not doing it for nothing - maybe their advice and critique and suggestion help make my books easier for other people to read and enjoy, as well.<br />
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But nobody cares what I write.<br />
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Or so I thought. The blog is a different animal. It's nichey and small and something you have to seek out. I don't think I get much word of mouth advertising. And that's fine. This platform, if you go all the way back to the original Magnolia Rambling posts are all about what I wanted to write as it hit my brain. That still happens. And it's still good. But just as I moved on from judging readers and reviewers, I seem to have shifted a little bit from the original intent; I'm not focused on not being focused. It started to feel as though if I WASN'T pontificating, it wasn't worth putting down for you to read. That's a lot to deal with. I stopped writing for a while on this because it became something of a chore. Hell, that's why I haven't written a novel in four years. Writing has turned, or had turned, or is turning into a chore. And that's no fun. I want it to be fun. It might not always be funny, but at least writing should be fun. Fuck if you agree with me or if you don't think I'm crazy. On some level, I'm super crazy. And I love it. Will you ever know the real me? Probably not. That's a little too dangerous still. Society isn't ready. But because nobody reads this blog I could admit to being a 2 on the Kinsey scale, or a serial killer, or addicted to painkillers (pour one out for Prince), or anything. It's whatevs.<br />
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I've written three novels, and the other day I was tagged in a Facebook post by an old friend of mine from high school. He was hoisting a copy of my latest, 'The Rest Is Still Unwritten' and said he was excited to read it and that he would give a full report. Before I knew it, people in his network (some shared with me, some complete strangers) were saying they wanted to read it, too. I am always humbled when someone spends their hard-earned money on a gamble - I am always nervous they'll hate I've created. But several of our shared friends co-signed and said that he would love it just as much as they did. Wow. Heart full. I hope that sentiment is contagious and he really does love it.<br />
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So nobody cares until you find out they do. That's probably how I'll approach this blog in its next and maybe last phase. Just write what I want (hello, intent) and fuck anybody who doesn't like it. Or read it. Until they do. And hope like hell they love what I've put in front of them. <br />
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I might need to see a mental health professional. Chris Stapleton is in my ear scream-singing his Traveler record. Very appropriate.Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-37670820784151205142019-03-21T22:27:00.000-04:002019-03-21T22:27:59.970-04:00Something Borrowed, Something BlueHi. That just seemed like the right way to begin this. It's been a very long time. I mean a very, very long time since I've written anything for this blog. At times I can say I don't know why I haven't written anything. And at other times it is my blatant desire to do just about anything other than write which has kept me away. I discovered YouTube videos and my world changed forever - I still can't decide if it is for the better or for the worse. Maybe I don't care.<br />
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I was sitting here at my desk researching a topic for a blog post that I'm writing for a client. I have my classical piano playing in the background, and I was somewhere else. I was reading, but I wasn't invested. Ingroups and Outgroups in marketing rarely suck audiences in, let alone keep them reading for the purposes of entertainment. There are so many thoughts going through my head right now, and reading about a topic I'm not super enthused about - and trying to find a way to make it sexy enough to compose 500-700 words for my client's readers to absorb was beginning to fade in its importance.<br />
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That's when I thought about my poor, abandoned, neglected Magnolia Rambling. I thought about how much I missed sitting down and writing whatever I want; nobody reads this, and I'm not going to advertise my posts. So unless there is some eagle-eyed follower out there, or if somebody was unfortunate enough to not edit my name or my blog from their Google Alerts, Magnolia Rambling is going to revert to what I'd considered in the first place, but never went through with it due to my outsized ego: a place where I can emote, bullshit, lie, praise, joke, and otherwise word vomit to my heart's content. It feels like I'm back to the freedom that I found when I picked up writing in the first place. I'm not worried about my critics or fans or grammar (lie) or anything else which can be used to measure the success or failure of the words I pour out. It reminds me of when I wrote Five Minutes in my Psyche - that's probably the title, but I'm not sure. <br />
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Here's a funny - I looked up and realized I'd been writing under the wrong blog. #FirstWorldProblems<br />
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I fixed that. I'm in the right place now.<br />
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It might have been subconscious of me to title this, 'Something Borrowed, Something Blue'. That's kind of the beauty about the way my brain works. As I looked back at the title, and realized this was in some way tilted toward starting over, or starting anew, I saw what I did. When I write, often the title comes to me first. It always has. I can't explain it, and I've never really considered fighting it. It works for me. So, it's whatever.<br />
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So many people don't start over. They don't take fresh looks at something, no matter what it might be, and they languish in something that can make them unhappy and miserable and sick. And for what? I wasn't writing because I was being lazy. I wasn't writing because I didn't know what people wanted to hear from me, to read from me. I was thinking more about my audience - how ridiculously grandiose is that? My 'audience'? Wow. It was cool in the beginning when I was writing stuff because it hit me, or because I wanted to see what I could do. But then it got to a point, probably after my third novel, when I got scared. People were asking me for sequels to things I'd written. I'd become invested in my characters, but not in creating. I started to think about storylines and potential plots and alienated the reason I loved to write in the first place - the creativity of it all is what makes me come back, to try and reinvent myself. I started writing for my audience and not for me. And that sucked. And because of that, I didn't write anything creative. I HAVEN'T written anything creative since 'The Rest Is Still Unwritten'. And that doesn't make me feel good. Because it doesn't feel good. It sucks. Because I'm a very fucking good writer. I'm not apologizing for that. If you don't believe in yourself, you should immediately stop what you think is your passion and go do something else. <br />
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I am fucking awesome. And I love writing. And that's part of the reason why I didn't want to force myself to write for my audience. I've reached a point where I don't care what they think. Jesus, there are so many people in my own family who haven't read what I write. That pisses me off, but it's not worth debating. They will or they won't. And I've stopped asking. It'll be interesting to see if I even tell anybody about the next novel I publish. <br />
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Months ago, I told a friend of mine I went to school with that we'd form a writing group. He's super talented, and I loved reading this piece he sent me. He has stories to tell. And he needs to get them out on paper or the computer or whatever medium works best for him. We called ourselves the Jedi Council. Pretty fantastic name. It's time I actually do what I said I would and write. But not for an audience. Not for my family or my supposed fans or for 5-star reviews on Amazon. Not even to please the Jedi Council. I need to write because I'm awesome, because I love it, and because by not writing - by languishing and soaking up the lazy - I'm doing a disservice to myself. No, thank you.<br />
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Time to pull on that wedding dress (as it were), stand up at the altar of awesomeness, grip my something borrowed and something blue, and knock my own socks off. <br />
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Fuck yes.Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-4373472086203197752017-07-26T20:56:00.002-04:002017-07-26T20:56:39.580-04:00The Inequities of EqualityHow fantastic it would be were this blog post to find its way into the hands of President Trump. It is a message he needs to absorb. And Now. Written originally for Charlatan Magazine, I am posting it here for your enjoyment and contemplation. Are you the bullied? Or the bully?<br />
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Imagine for a moment that you lived somewhere else. Not in a different house or town, but somewhere other than the United States of America. Choose somewhere you aren’t free to make your own choices in life. North Korea springs to mind.<br />
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Bullying is age-old, it is everywhere, and is present in many forms. It is an epidemic, and it’s also one of the latest buzz words on Capitol Hill. They have even created a website dedicated to the education and eradication of bullying. www.stopbullying.gov. So very apropos. <br />
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Bullying is personified by the big kid pushing around those devoid of self-confidence, kicking sand in your face, grabbing lunch money and pushing you into mud puddles. You’ve seen it in movies and on TV, read about it in countless books and magazine articles, and more than likely experienced it first-hand at some point in real life. You may have been that kid trying to escape a monster in your middle school who tortured you for fun. Or maybe you’re the college student who, instead of enjoying the newfound freedom and reveling in new experiences, is hiding your Middle Eastern customs and heritage for fear of blind retribution. Or are you living in fear that the next time your spouse beats the hell out of you, it will be your last day on Earth? <br />
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Maybe you’re still the victim. Maybe you’re still the bully.<br />
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Perhaps you find it as comical as do I when bombastic celebrities have threatened to acquire a new address when their politician of choice (typically the President) doesn’t win election. All of them are still here, and more than likely will very much always claim to be permanent residents of this country. Their man didn’t win, and just as instantly as it began, their bellowing has subsided. Deft social media campaigns and shiny fundraisers and well-placed television appearances didn’t sway enough of the population into voting for their man. So they slink back behind their cameras, and in between screenplay lines, waiting for their turn again to sprout suddenly – and unapologetically – onto TV and into print in order to exert an unduly and unqualified influence on your opinion once more. Celebrity endorsement of politicians hasn’t exactly been a resounding success – especially if you have a mind of your own and are capable of deciding for yourself that which you find important and necessary. Innocent and harmless as it may appear, that is just one kind of bullying present in our culture. <br />
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Those are the kinds of things that were swirling around in my mind as I prepared to write my column. In the middle of the process, I was diverted to Washington, DC to serve as chaperone for my son’s 7th grade class trip. We made the rounds of all the usual monuments to leaders past, paid tribute to our fallen soldiers and watched the Changing of the Guard at Arlington National Cemetery. As we toured the grounds of the Capitol, I was more concerned with wrangling my subset of 12 year olds, than I was at being awestruck by the physically imposing omnipresence of the building, itself. Days later, as I recovered mentally and physically, I looked back on the group of us, children and chaperones together, sitting in the gallery of the House of Representatives. We were taking a brief respite from the endless walking. It is now, in hindsight, that I am able to make an ironic connection. There I sat, stage left, in front of the biggest bully pulpit in the nation. <br />
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For millennia, men have dictated to other men everything that encompasses life as we know it. Cavemen, then and now, rely on a strict behavioral code that has dominated concepts as simple as where you’ll live, what you’ll eat, and the people with whom you’re allowed to socialize. The definition of Social Stratification, as provided by sociologyguide.com tells us that, “Stratification is a hierarchy of positions with regard to economic production which influences the social rewards to those in the positions.” That is clearly evident when you consider the widening gap between the haves and the have-nots. <br />
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But what isn’t always clearly evident is the extent to which we live, every day, at the mercy of what others intend for us. We wander each day into and out of a space between compliance and fear, the far side of that spectrum is where you’ll find bullying and worse. No matter your gender or your age or your perceived social position, it is within you to put others in a position where they have no choice but to comply with your wishes. The American Psychological Association says that, “Bullying is a form of aggressive behavior in which someone intentionally and repeatedly causes another person injury or discomfort. The bullied individual typically has trouble defending him[self] or herself and does nothing to ‘cause’ the bullying.” That definition notwithstanding, I challenge you to answer this question: Can not the definition of a bully be extended beyond the context of the individual?<br />
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Seated in the gallery, the sense of history was enormous. The mind of a 7th grader is possibly too innocent to fully appreciate that there was a time when a black classmate wouldn’t have been allowed in the building unless they were working. They wouldn’t comprehend it was from that very bully pulpit that free men governing other free men decided I should have the right to vote. From that bully pulpit, the Women’s Suffrage movement strode confidently into history and where still today, women continue to fight to have their demands for equality heard over the baritone din of XY chromosomes. With each passing day, more and more senators and congress people are sweeping their voting history and fire-brand rhetoric under the rug and coming out in support for same-sex marriage (no doubt themselves having been bullied into that position by their constituency and the fear of losing their next re-election campaign). And all but one of those children will never know that my grandfather, Joseph Vernon Sears, fought Santa Fe Railway (645 F. 2d 1365 – Sears v. L Bennett) from 1966 until 1981 because they refused him the basic civil rights afforded to him and every other person under the symbolic drapery of the Stars and Stripes slightly more than a year after the second Civil Rights Act was passed.<br />
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We teach our children to keep their hands to themselves, and to treat friends and strangers the way they, themselves, would want to be treated. We rarely teach them how to move within that space between compliance and fear – and when we do, it’s often too late. <br />
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With DC’s bully pulpit in my rear view mirror, and the aggression of North Korea looming in the distance, I understand fully that bullying may never go away. Whether we continue to close our eyes and wish we were somewhere else, or stand up to fight for ourselves and others, the way in which we choose to deal with bullying is what will change our lives.<br />
Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-12174412045283983242017-01-17T19:03:00.000-05:002017-01-17T19:03:25.805-05:00Hold, pleaseI found this today. I wrote it years ago. It'll go up on my website (www.markvertreese.com) later, but this just hit me in the mouth. And I wanted to make sure I shared it. Now.<br />
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"Hold Please"<br />
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Khalindra Burton stared at herself in the mirror. Forty-two days ago, she didn’t recognize herself. The counselor told her she should be proud of herself; that so many people who come through the doors of a rehab clinic either leave because they can’t handle the pain of detox, or get kicked out for using. But she was different. She had made it through twenty-eight days of hell. She was clean and sober. And she was a success story.<br />
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Khalindra was a far cry from her former self. Once a promising news anchor at a major station in Charlotte, she’d been introduced to drugs at a friend’s party. It was Ecstasy, and although she had reservations about trying it, the peer pressure and pure curiosity got the better of her. She told herself that the habit was harmless, that the E just put a little more pep in her step. What she didn’t know then was that her problems had only just begun. From the occasional Ecstasy tablet, she very rapidly progressed to crack cocaine and then to heroin – the one that completely destroyed her life.<br />
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If you paid close enough attention to her on screen, you could tell that something was off. Even though you couldn’t put your finger on it, you knew a monster was hiding deep within her. Once bright and vivacious, her demeanor was slightly altered. Not one to be tardy, Khalindra began missing her early morning call times and wasn’t fully prepared for her production meetings. Heavy makeup was used to disguise her sallowing skin and the wardrobe department was taking in her outfits more and more. She shot up between her toes because that was the easiest place to hide the needle marks. It hurt like hell, but the reward was worth it. The talk of the set, and even amongst some of her peers, it was becoming clear that this wasn’t the same person they used to know. Just four months after that first, fateful hit of Ecstasy, she’d lost her job and was trying desperately to hold on to what was left of her marriage.<br />
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Never, ever did she do drugs in front of her kids, she’d told the doctor during a grueling orientation meeting and her first one-on-one. Khalindra trembled as she rocked back and forth, pawing slowly at her skin to stop whatever it was she imagined was crawling on her. If she’d only had one more hit, she said to herself while at the same time promising the doctor that she wanted to be clean. Her husband had discovered her secret after finding a baggie of something off-white and a needle she’d stashed amongst the seldom-used stuffed animals in her oldest girl’s room. They were fighting more and more about why she lost her job and how she was taking care of the kids and the house. He knew there was something she wasn’t telling him – and that it was destroying them. But drugs? And hidden in the playthings of his child? Hell no. Crumpled onto the floor and crying through her tears, she promised that she’d stop, that she would never do drugs again. He picked his wife up off the ground and dragged her around their room, forcing her to pack her own bags. He put her in the car and drove directly to a rehab. Get clean or we’re finished was the last thing he said to her. Not I love you. Not even good-bye.<br />
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Fourteen days clean, Khalindra stood in the mirror of her bedroom and silently battled the monster. It was 2 a.m. and her husband and children were fast asleep. They couldn’t hear the screams in her head and couldn’t feel the cold, drenching sweat that woke her up from a dead sleep. Before she knew it, she’d found herself sneaking out of the house, driving to the wrong part of town, and walking to the corner, waiting for someone she recognized. In a moment of clear thought, she turned around and walked back toward her car and pulled out her cell phone. She tightly gripped the card of the rehab clinic – the one she’d been given and told to call if she ever found herself wanting to use again. Khalindra saw her usual dealer walking toward her and she dialed quickly. The young woman who answered the night watch crisis line hadn’t heard the terrified begging in Khalindra’s voice. She hadn’t heard the words I think I’m in trouble and I need help. She hadn’t listened to a woman in crisis, sobbing from fear and pleading for someone to rescue her. Trying not to laugh into the phone at a joke she’d read online right before she picked up the line, she blurted out, “Hold, please,” and forever erased the hope of a young wife and mother and addict when a man half her age tenderly and knowingly smiled as he curled the monster back into Khalindra’s open hand. <br />
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Standing in the kitchen of their home that bright and sunny morning after she’d snuck out, he slowly shook his head and wept as he let what the police officer just said to him sink in. How was he going to explain this to their daughters? They didn’t even know what the word overdose meant. Jesus, they were only five and nine years old. They knew mommie had a problem, but he’d told them two weeks ago when they picked her up from the special hospital that she was fixed. He told them that she was going to be their mommie forever. And now she was gone. Without saying I love you. Not even good-bye. <br />
Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-83015745494486149962017-01-13T22:16:00.001-05:002017-01-18T19:21:17.006-05:00Chapter 16I was thinking about the upcoming Inauguration, and the event surrounding president-elect Trump. I couldn't help but think about Paul Brown, his own Inaugural address, and the similarities between the two men and their unlikely rise to the top. If you haven't yet read 'The Brotherhood', let this serve as a most fitting introduction. If you've already met Paul Brown, I hope you enjoy the first and (quite probably) the only Inauguration speech I'm likely to ever write. ;-)<br />
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<i>Excerpted from</i>, 'The Brotherhood'<br />
by Mark Vertreese<br />
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Chapter Sixteen<br />
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PAUL Brown was sworn in as president on January 20th, a cold and rainy morning in Washington. It was without question the second most popular inauguration in history and a day that so many never thought they would see. More than a million people lined the Washington Mall between the Lincoln Memorial and the Capitol Building, crammed together huddled under blankets and ponchos and plastics sheets. People climbed trees and poles and watched through binoculars from their balconies. They braved the elements just so they could say they were there for the making of history. School children and the elderly, farmers and CEOs, housewives and middle managers, movie stars and the homeless all mingled together for what they hoped would be the most exciting day of their lives. The entire world would be witness to Paul Brown being sworn in as the president of the United States.<br />
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A host of senators and Congresspeople filled the specially-constructed stands outside the Capitol Building. They were sitting in their assigned seats, chatting about what was about to happen and trying their best to stay warm. Few could believe what was going on. They exchanged carefully concealed looks; none of them thought this day would actually come. A black man in the Oval Office? “Never,” they once mused. “Twice?” It had to be a fluke.<br />
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It seemed that throughout the campaign, Brown was at such an advantage right from the start that there was no way any of the other candidates could have touched him. Justin, in fact, had engineered the campaigning and the election to make it seem as though Brown was the only man, black or white, running for the job. Justin didn’t want Paul to win in a landslide. He just wanted the man put into office as smoothly and as carefully as possible.<br />
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The Brotherhood was as powerful as ever. This campaign was a return to the political prowess and subversive tactics they enjoyed in the early years. The Brotherhood was a mighty force to be reckoned with. Although the older, more discreet members were dying off, there was a new guard now and they were just as hell-bent on preserving their own places in history, invisible though they may have been. It seemed like nothing could stop them. They were as strong now as ever, and as always, when they wanted a man in the Oval Office, no chances were taken. Polls were fixed, contacts in the television and newspaper and magazine industries were ‘called upon’, news coverage and debates with the other candidates were subtly slanted in Paul’s favor. The Brotherhood had no problem dismantling the clear political advantage of Paul’s opponents. After a significant amount of bad press, the other candidates simply dropped from public favor, and ultimately, out of the race entirely. Governor Scott, in fact, had been quietly offered a ‘significant role in the future’ for his playing the bad guy opposite Paul Brown’s dashing, white-hatted hero figure.<br />
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Hard-line conservatives scoffed at the idea of Paul Brown as president. Liberals could hardly control their excitement. Most of them could care less about who the president was; even though the majority of them were under the thumb of the Brotherhood, they still thought that they controlled the country. The president’s only roles were to balance the budget, sign legislation they ratified and smile for pictures with other heads of state. As far as they were concerned, he, like the Queen of England, was simply a figurehead.<br />
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President Sears and Vice President Martin were led through the dignitaries to their seats. Vice President-elect McCall and his wife appeared under the awning to mediocre applause. No one really knew anything about him. With the exception of George H.W. Bush, McCall was just as boring and behind-the-scenes as any other vice president who preceded him. They stood motionless for a moment at the top of the landing, long enough for the crowd to see them, and were led to their seats.<br />
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The air seemed to hold an electric charge, like lightning waiting to strike. The new president was ready. The crowd in the stands rose and people on the Mall snapped to attention, craning their necks and standing on shoulders for a better view.<br />
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Paul took a quick breath to settle himself as he looked down the corridor, outside to what lay before him. As was the conventional wisdom set forth for presidents before him, Julia was to walk down the steps first, Paul to follow by himself, an assertion of authority and poise not quickly lost on those who would bear witness.<br />
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Julia, both excited and extremely nervous, was at his side clutching his hand. Paul took time to look at the crowd and then at Julia. She was radiant, even in this dismal weather. He hoped he was doing the right thing. If he wasn’t, time had certainly run out, and there was no turning back. He leaned over and said, “Remember that whatever happens, I love you as much now, if not more, than I ever have.” She smiled and said she felt the same. With that, she kissed him on the cheek and said, “You’re going to make a great president.” The crowd erupted in delight as she walked down the steps to her seat.<br />
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“Now or never, sir,” admonished a smiling Secret Service agent, motioning Paul forward. Again, the crowd signaled their delight with an overwhelmingly passionate ovation. Paul stopped for a moment to waive and, through countless handshakes and smiles, finally made it down to his seat.<br />
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The crowd had never heard such an eloquent, passionate and symbolic inaugural speech. After all the singing groups and the poets laureate and the children’s choirs had performed, and the new vice-president and Paul were sworn in, he stood and walked to the podium. Paul Brown stared out into the crowd, sweeping left to right. He was amazed and deeply moved that so many people wanted to share this moment with him. He turned to look at his wife and their two children and smiled. Isabelle was sobbing uncontrollably. Against Justin’s fervent protests, Paul had not prepared a speech.<br />
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“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. It is cold and wet and nasty. Even so, I see nothing but sunshine on the horizon and I feel nothing but warmth in my heart. Thank you for your patience on this, the most incredible day I and my family have ever experienced. Will you please excuse me for a moment?” He turned to four men standing off to the side and waved them forward. They quickly disassembled the top of the bulletproof rain shelter and returned to their positions offstage. Julia nearly fainted. The guests on the platform looked around at each other in silent horror; they all knew he was crazy and their suspicions were now confirmed. The people on the Mall were watching huge monitors and as they slowly realized what he was doing, they burst into applause.<br />
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Paul cinched up his overcoat and returned to the newly exposed podium. “That’s much better. I figured since you all were enduring this nasty weather, I should bear some of the load myself.” The crowd screamed their approval. This was the real man, a real person they had voted for, not some shiny, slick politician. The invited guests in the stands groaned in disbelief.<br />
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For the next twenty minutes, Paul Brown held the masses in his hands, delivering a speech that no one would soon forget.<br />
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“Once again, let me say hello. My name is Paul Brown, and my new title is president of the United States!” He threw his arms in the air to the overjoyed applause and screams of the crowd. “Throughout my campaign you heard a lot about me. You know where I was born, you know the names of my wife and children, and you know what I used to do before I got this job. From this point on, as long as I am the president, you can ask me whatever you want. That doesn’t guarantee an answer, but feel free to ask just the same. If there’s something you don’t know but want to, call the White House or email me.” Justin smiled smugly at the suggestion that Joe Schmoe would call the White House, fully expecting to speak with Paul to ask him a stupid question about the environment or his health insurance company. He realized there was still a lot of work to be done with Paul.<br />
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“From here on out,” Paul continued, “I am about the business of rebuilding this country. I am about the business of bringing family back into the home and turning it from a dirty word into something that we can all cherish and respect. I am about the business of making the economic foundations of this country stronger than you or I or our ancestors ever dreamed. I am about the business of making the rest of the world sit up and take notice. They will know by the end of my term that no one is equal in scope, depth, form or function, as we will be in the United States of America. I am about the business of change and it starts today, right here, right now. Are you with me?”<br />
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The rousing voices from the crowd and even from some of the people on the stands were deafening. The cheers went on for what seemed like an eternity before Paul raised his hands to quiet them down.<br />
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“I am not a revolutionary man. But, this is a revolutionary presidency. Change is upon us, ladies and gentlemen. If you remember my campaign slogan, I want you to shout it out loud!”<br />
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The crowd yelled back to him saying, “Take It Back!”<br />
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“Absolutely. This is your country. Each and every one of you owns this land. When the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock they brought with them the spirit of forging toward the end of the tunnel, searching for promise and opportunity. If you live and breathe in this country, I’m telling you that you harbor the same dreams and the same aspirations.<br />
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“In the 1700s and 1800s, slave ship after slave ship landed on the East Coast of this country, ferrying Africans to the American South to be sold like animals. When those Africans, those people, those mothers and fathers, were forced into servitude to make their masters wealthy and this country prosper, I can bet you that not one of them had the vision or foresight to predict that I would be standing here this morning, this greatest of days the American people have seen. But, with each African mother, father and child that was committed into the system of slavery came a hope and a passion for self-improvement that, like the Pilgrims, lent an air of success and a hope for great things to come. What the Pilgrims sailed across the sea to discover, and what the slaves of Africa were forcibly indoctrinated into, was the essence of the American Dream: Freedom. The Pilgrims had it and the Africans, now and in the past, fought for it. I challenge all of you here this morning to keep fighting. Keep the dream of your ancestors alive, for freedom is our one common ground.<br />
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“You know,” Paul said casually, as though he was talking to his best friend, Henry. “At one time we held freedom firmly in our hands like a child. We fed it and cradled it and loved it like no other. It was something that we never took for granted. Over the years, and due to a great deal of government action and inactivity, regulation and deregulation, that child, those children, that freedom, has been slowly torn from our grasp and is dying before our very eyes. That dream of freedom and the search for opportunity has been dimmed and removed from your vision. Take it back!”<br />
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The crowd screamed their delight and their approval. The invited guests in the stands looked at each other uncomfortably. This was not what they had expected. For years, the people of the country had voiced their opinions about this and that. They were unhappy with the rate of taxation. They wanted better and more effective representation from their respective senators and Congresspeople. They wanted the opportunity to express themselves in whatever manner they saw fit. They were shut out of the loop of important issues that concerned them, entrusting their elected officials to do what was right in their best interest, to do what they had promised when they were elected.<br />
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For years the powerful politicians in Washington had heard the cries of the people, but had never attempted to truly fix their problems. Politics had turned into a business of self-gain. To be elected meant that you were setting yourself on the fast track to wealth and privilege. Scandal while in office was the grist mill that guaranteed the $8 million dollar advance you received for your mid-life memoirs. The spirit of democracy, taking the visions and voices of the people, and turning them into something useful and beneficial to the country was no longer in the hearts and minds of those who had been entrusted with the future of the country. Public service equaled profit.<br />
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“I am here for you. I work for you. I am the employee and you are the collective boss. Not only do I work for you, but each and every senator and Congressman and woman that represents you is under your control. Men and women from this country, our United States, have fought wars all over the world to afford you with the right to call up your elected official and tell him you’re unhappy. Men and women have fought wars here at home, as well, to give you the opportunity to tell those same elected officials that they aren’t living up to their end of the bargain.” Paul unhooked one of the microphones from the podium and walked down the stage steps to the railing of the Capitol Building. The Secret Service agents were nervous enough without the complete bulletproof shield protecting him, and their hearts raced as Paul Brown walked back and forth along the cement railing as he spoke to the crowd. Julia couldn’t watch and discreetly averted her attention, pretending to waive and smile at imaginary people.<br />
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Paul held up his hand and counted as he spoke. “Freedom of the press, the freedom of speech and the right to gather in peaceful protest and demonstration, the right to bear arms, the right of the individual to protect his home, the woman’s right to a safe abortion. All of these freedoms and more are being taken from you. What are you going to do about it?”<br />
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“Take it back,” the crowd screamed. “Take it back.” For whatever reason, Paul instantly thought about that jerk, Jackson Curruthers, his earliest and most ardent antagonist. He thought about how Jackson turned his own campaign slogan around, flippantly telling Paul that he should take it back. Look at me now, Paul thought, grinning from ear to ear, silently wishing Jackson Curruthers to hell. Over and over again, to the pumping of Paul Brown’s fist and to the dismay of many, the crowd chanted “Take it Back.”<br />
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“I’m no politician. You should all know that by now. I’m just a businessman from the great state of North Carolina. I am the son of a farmer and an educator. I am the beneficiary of the Civil Rights struggle, not only of the sixties and for blacks, but also for women and other minorities. Right now, as always, I am obligated to the history of this country. I now hold the ultimate responsibility for the well being and benefit of each and every person who sacrificed family and home and pride to make this land what it is today and what it can be tomorrow. I was elected on the strength of my convictions, the content of my character and my willingness to sacrifice whatever it takes to see that we, as a people and as a family and as a nation, succeed beyond our wildest dreams.”<br />
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Justin chuckled at that. Paul Brown was not elected by any stretch of the imagination. He did not earn the trust of the American people. He had not demonstrated any skill at all necessary for running the world’s most powerful nation. This was not a construction and real estate conglomerate. This was not some silly board game with plastic houses and purple money. This was serious business. Paul Brown stood before America and the world but for the grace of the Brotherhood. So soon the rope tightened, Justin thought. It would be a shame for his project, his toy, to hang himself so soon out of the gate.<br />
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Slowly pacing the railing, Paul stared out across the sea of people. He was in awe of the power at his fingertips. He held the attention of billions of people around the world. “I’m not partial to wheeling and dealing for what the American people want. I’m not part of the ‘I’ll do this for you if you do that for me’ crowd. I do not bargain. Tell me what you want and I’ll try my best to make it happen. Tell your senators and Congressmen and Congresswomen what you want and they will do the same. Get involved in local and state government. If you didn’t vote for anyone in this election, I’m not talking to you. No vote, no right to complain. You’re just here to see the show.<br />
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“But if you did vote, then I am most certainly talking to you. If you think you can make a difference, stick your neck out and go for it. That’s what I did. Take a chance and run for that city council position. Get on the school board. Form a grass roots organization to get your voices heard. Hell, run for president.” The crowd laughed out loud and Paul laughed right along with them. Impossible as it seemed to him, he was preaching the gospel. “This is your country, this is our country, and it’s the responsibility of each and every one of us to see that generations to come have it better than we do now. Ronald Reagan, in his presidential inauguration speech, said that ‘In this present crisis, government is not the solution to our problem; government is the problem.’ It’s your responsibility to turn your dreams, your American dreams, from just that into concrete reality.<br />
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“Take it upon yourselves to lead your family and your neighbor, your confidants and your enemies, alike. This is your country. This is your chance. This is your government. Take it back!” Paul pumped the microphone into the air to the cheers of his campaign anthem. The crowd screamed their delight and reservedly, the crowd on the stage stood and clapped. Paul Brown stood like a stone statue, hands raised defiantly in the air, staring out into the great sea of people. His breath was cold and the steam escaping from his mouth enveloped his face as it rose through the air.<br />
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Justin stood with the crowd during the everlasting ovation and stared at Paul, his hands raised in victory. This was going to be much more interesting than even he could have anticipated. Justin looked around at all the people chanting the phrase he found so ridiculous. They were captivated by this man’s words. Before Paul spoke, most of them could have cared less what he said. They really were just there to see the show. They had nothing to do with his election. They were merely pawns who thought they were performing their duties as Americans by voting. Those were the people who thought government had abandoned them. Those were the people who never thought a black man could be elected president – let alone twice - and have momentous influence over the American people.<br />
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Paul Brown had brought them all to their feet.<br />
Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-23039591649877443172016-01-27T12:00:00.000-05:002016-01-27T12:00:22.295-05:00Let Me Clear My ThroatLet me start, simply and pre-apologetically, by saying that friends should not let friends drink and blog. That is a certainty I believe will ring more than true should this post fall on deaf ears, or be delivered in a manner which is absolutely unbecoming of Magnolia Rambling. <br />
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Having started this blog as a stream-of-consciousness outlet, it doesn’t pay to argue with the fact that I can say whatever I want, no matter what shape I’m in, and if you choose to Ramble On until the end, that is a choice you’ve made – and one that I fully support.<br />
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Let’s see if five Stellas (slight exaggeration) and three shots of 1800 (NOT an exaggeration) will lend either credence or confusion to the next many paragraphs. <br />
It’s January 2016, and I sit in my hotel room of a lovely resort in Phoenix, AZ, at the end of a very fulfilling and personally-connected National Sales Conference. The company I work for is irrelevant, and unless you’re already privy to that information, it isn’t worth mentioning. Suffice it say, once a year I get to shake hands with people I’ve only emailed and with whom I’ve only spoken on the phone. We exchange pleasantries, we talk politely – and sometimes not so politely – about clients and the trials & tribulations that make our jobs a never-ending source of amusement, bewilderment, and success. Every year I see the same people, engage in the same handshakes, avoid the same people to whom I have no intention of speaking, and hug my friends and colleagues without whom I couldn’t imagine doing this day in and day out. But today was different.<br />
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And I think I know why.<br />
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Thanks to Facebook, the ubiquitous method four hundred and some-odd of my ‘friends’ use to keep in touch with one another - or at the very least either show off some part of their lives, or a platform they use to profess their political and moral views to an unsuspecting populace – somebody posted a video of Steve Harvey. He was speaking to the studio audience of his show, “Family Feud,” and giving them an inspirational talk about taking a chance on starting something new. He talked about jumping.<br />
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I wasn’t sure what he was getting at, so I sat patiently and waited for the big reveal. What the hell is he talking about? Why do I have to jump? And where the hell am I jumping?<br />
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Short of the long, Steve told the audience that nothing ever comes from sitting your ass on the sofa, watching life go by. To start a new business, to follow your dream, to take a path even less than well-traveled, in pursuit of your own happiness, requires you to make a leap of faith, to jump.<br />
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He started talking about some religious stuff, quoting this and that from the Bible, at which point I glazed over a little bit, but came back to the essence of what he wanted to impart. If you want to succeed at something which has the power and ability to bring you joy on a level as yet undiscovered, you must jump. It was a powerful message, but one which I decided to lock away in that place you only access when something triggers a memory or thought, and you remember, “Shit…that was on my mind [however long ago] and I’m just now remembering what I’d promised myself I would do.” It isn’t a place where you intentionally put things out of sight or mind, or a place where you purposefully let a dream or an ambition or goal atrophy; it’s just a place where thoughts go which may or may not be recovered in time – or at all – to satisfy whatever caused their origination in the first place. Jumping was in that space today and someone said something to me that I’ll not soon forget.<br />
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Now, let me preface this by saying it is highly unusual for one to attend a National Sales Conference and NOT have a beverage or two. It is also highly unusual for one to attend a National sales Conference and NOT take advantage of the stolen moments one has with a peer or co-worker to lament their current position and desires for what the future holds. It was at just this kind of tete-a-tete with someone whom I revere, and whose advice I count on for direction, when she told me this: “You’re in the meat of your 40’s. Why are you not doing what you love?”<br />
Oof. I just shook my head. <br />
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We carried on with the conversation, and she was seemingly oblivious to the fact that she’d just rocked me to the core. In one fell swoop, she had complimented me and driven me to a deeper introspection of myself than I thought possible after a single Amber Ale. And she was right. Hands down.<br />
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I tell you all the time, whenever I get the chance, that I was born to write. You all know that I’m not religious, so I don’t cater to having been blessed with this ability; divine intervention would be wasted on stringing multiple sentences together when it should be applied to making sure no one ever goes hungry again, or dies at the hands of an abusive spouse, or is forced to make a decision between caring for their children or their next fix. But I digress.<br />
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I have an innate ability to communicate with the written word. I know it. And I enjoy doing it. I am boastful and prideful and unabashedly unashamed to tell you that. I will make you cry. I will make you laugh. I hope to make you think. And I strive to lend whatever I can to the education of man and woman such that we learn that we are one people, loving one another no matter what, until we no longer walk this earth.<br />
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I am in the meat of my 40’s, and I am letting myself down. In the process, that means I’m also letting you down. Whether you Ramble On, whether you read my short stories, or whether you’ve read my novels, you have not gotten from me all that I can deliver, and certainly not all that you deserve.<br />
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I would hope that I am not alone, that I share a kinship with other writers and that we share a particular space and time in the universe wherein our thoughts are never settled, and the erratic creation of ideas are the constants our brains juggle every day. I’ve written previously about for whom writers write. When our pieces are adored and inspire the evolution of our next piece, we are more than happy to put fingers to keypad hoping to outdo what we’d just released to the world. But when our confidence is low, or we are distracted by those things which lend nothing to our craft and sap our enthusiasm for the creation of worlds or the dissemination of ideas or dreams, the writing is supplanted by ‘lazy’ and nothing is fit to touch the page. It is not writer’s block. We always have something to say, and if you don’t see it in print in one form or another, rest assured we’ve mentally tackled whatever has fired our synapses over and over and over again.<br />
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I am in the meat of my 40’s and I have so much to say, so much to communicate, so many more books to write. Lazy is not something I can afford.<br />
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I am a husband, and a father, and an employee, and a student (of life and of copywriting, my latest checkbox). I am also a writer. I live for my wife and my child – and the written word. I am an employee because I have to be. I am a student because I want to be.<br />
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I’ve told a co-worker, and probably the one person on the planet who loves my writing more than I do, that I’d commit to finishing ‘The Jewel Box’ by the end of June. She told me she’d check in with me in March. LOL!<br />
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Lazy wants me to put it off. Sit on the sofa. Chill.<br />
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Steve Harvey wants me to jump, to take that chance at accomplishing something transformative and genuinely fabulous for my soul.<br />
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I’m in the meat of my 40’s and I have so much more to say. <br />
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2016 is going to be a very busy year. And I’m ready for it. Let me clear my throat, crack my knuckles, and try to blow you away. <br />
Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-21767065728255527452015-10-04T23:56:00.000-04:002015-10-04T23:56:06.065-04:00Perspective : evitcepsrePYou know, a lot of times when I decide to sit down and tap out a blog post, I've thought about some aspect of it for a day or more. I think about the title, or the subject matter; I decide whom I think my audience might be and what they may or may not think about the topic or my approach. Sometimes I don't think of any of that, sometimes I don't give a crap what somebody is going to think because I'm just writing down my thoughts...a stream-of-conscious dump into my laptop. But I've always (99.99% of the time) had an idea in my head that I felt compelled to share with my 12 followers, and whomever else just happened upon my blog, either as a result of seeing it on Facebook, or maybe they misspelled the site they originally intended to visit. I don't know.<br />
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Today, tonight, I'm flying by the seat of my pants. The idea/topic came to me as a result of a conversation I had moments ago with my wife. And it spoke to me. That's kind of cheesy and lame, but it's true. My wife and I do not argue. We debate about stuff and we talk to each other when something we see or read or hear bothers us and we like to see how the other one feels. Not unsurprising, but my wife is usually the person to start the conversation. :-) She is very good at expressing out loud her emotions and what she's thinking, where I'm much better at conveying that on paper. I don't know if it's ying/yang, but it works for us. <br />
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I posted a video, or actually a piece of a video on Facebook today. It was by a fella named Tim Wise, and it was titled, "Tim Wise Schools Audience on White Privilege." I watched the whole thing and posted this comment as I shared it with my Facebook friends: "It's been a while since I've found myself speechless after a FB video. Tim says so much, and makes you think about so much. I was attracted to his cadence and impressed by the delivery and diversity of his audience, while being touched by his words and emotion. I'm going to have to watch this again, and search YouTube for more." Some of you may have seen that post and read that comment. I didn't get any comments on it so I'm not sure who watched it. Other than my wife. <br />
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With the explosion of the myriad ways we can communicate with one another all over and across the world, with the litany of arguments we can inspire, and the innumerable points and counter-points of opinion each person with access to a digital soapbox can conjure up, I was struck tonight by something I don't always consider before I hit that 'Post' or 'Tweet' or 'Share' button. It is with light speed that our ideas shoot out into cyberspace, waiting for a like or funny comment of approval, but we don't always think before we share what we think others should find insightful. And, listen, I'm not talking about cat videos or recipes for those nasty almond bourbon blondies your aunt can't stop raving about. More often than not when we post or tweet or share, we are digitally signing that statement and providing our approval of the concept or topic or argument. But what I wasn't taking into full consideration until my conversation with my wife was around: perspective.<br />
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My lovely is blonde and blue-eyed; I'm a black male. And I shared a video about white privilege.<br />
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Now, on its face, those three things can probably co-habitate without a problem. I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere. A white girl, a black guy, and a video about white privilege walk into a bar... Okay, maybe not. <br />
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Where I thought I was being educational in posting Tim's video, the perspective from my wife's point of view wasn't something I had taken into consideration.<br />
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The wonderful thing about our digital age is that we can say anything we want. The bad thing about our digital age is that we can say anything we want. Chris Rock can call white people 'Cr*****s' all day long and it's supposed to be taken in stride as part of his comedy and world view. But if my wife or George Bush or my neighbor objected to the video I posted in a way which was unflattering or even questioned why they were continued to be associated with oppression and racism in 2015, they would be labeled as racist and maybe even insensitive to the plight of blacks in this country. I surmise the reason I don't have any comments about the video is because people don't know what to say. And if they do know what to say, maybe they are more connected to the concept of perspective than I was earlier today - maybe they don't have any intention of walking into a trap which I unintentionally set. Or maybe they bypassed the post and the video altogether.<br />
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There's a double-standard in the United States where race is concerned. I know for a fact that my wife didn't own slaves. And neither did her grand-parents or great grand-parents. But there is an automation of association applied to white folks and their alleged general condemnation and mistreatment of blacks for socioeconomic and cultural gain. The same automation of association can be applied through the opposite lens when focused on black folks in this country. But where my posting Tim's video was, in my mind, thought-provoking and historical, the other side of that perspective was one of a blanketed application of a racism that is both untrue and unwarranted. How long will our generations have to apologize for something over which they had no control? How long will these automations of association continue to tint the conversations (both public and private) which damn the real progress we could be making toward healing rifts both real and imaginary, socioeconomic and political, local and nationwide?<br />
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Does it start with considering yours and the opposite perspective when posting or tweeting or sharing? Does it start with a conversation between a white wife and a black husband about how a video made her feel, and the ability of that husband to appreciate and learn from her point of view? Is it the responsibility of anyone putting their opinion on Facebook or Twitter or whatever to add a disclaimer? I'm shaking my head on that one because that's unrealistic. That wouldn't happen with someone hell bent on disseminating their opinion and only theirs. You can't expect there to be delivered any semblance of balance when the poster is filled with vitriol and an unwillingness to hear out or learn from the other party (and I'm talking about emotionally opining, not taking facts and evidence into consideration). I posted something earlier this week about Michael Vick and for about an hour (maybe more), I was engaged in a back and forth with those who supported him and those who vehemently opposed his actions and weren't blown away by the person he is today. I think we all had a very good, very honest, very open Facebook conversation, and I think that although everyone left the conversation with their opinions unaltered, at the very least we were all able to appreciate each other's perspective. I might be overstating that, but I'm hoping it's accurate.<br />
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Here, I am speaking specifically about racism, but you could easily replace it with any one of too many subjects from sexism to the fight for equal rights to the separation of church and state to the debate over national gun laws to the I believe this to the I believe that. Naturally, were racism an easy topic to bring up in mixed company, with easy resolutions to age-old theories and positions, we would have solved the equation by now. But in times when we still harbor whatever it is that we think makes us different, from wherever or whomever or whatever put it in our heads - and continues to endorse its proliferation, and the veritable kaleidoscope of experts and pundits and media outlets 'helping' us finalize our position, one favor you can do for yourself is to purposefully consider the other perspective. You will not always agree with the debaters or the haters, but the benefit of discourse is that even for only a brief moment you can put yourself in someone else's shoes and argue from their point of view, you'll have done more in that moment than those of us who'd sit on our positions come hell or high water. And it might keep you from finding yourself in a place you'd hadn't intended, right or wrong. Not all black people are slugs and not all white people are racists. And neither group should be so permanently and unapologetically tied to a past they cannot undo. <br />
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I learned something today. <br />
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I hope you did, too.<br />
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And the next time you're poised to post or tweet or share, maybe you'll think about me and my wife and George Bush and my neighbor.Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-31203443928869605952015-09-09T19:49:00.000-04:002015-09-09T19:49:04.210-04:00For Whom Do You Write?It is a simple question, really, but one with myriad answers - and perhaps even non-answers, alike. For whom do you write? Do you even know? Hell, do I?<br />
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When I sit down at my stone tablet and chisel, ready to compose something witty and hopefully life-altering for my audience, what actually leads me to what I want to say? For my blog, I'm able to do what I want, write what I want, and say the most off-the-wall nonsense that sneaks into my brain because that's exactly what the blog is for. Read at your own risk, right? I'm not writing for anyone but myself, and I might just be the only person who'll ever READ it!<br />
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Just kidding. I have twelve committed followers. I'm pretty sure they read this stuff, too. Although....<br />
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Okay, so what about when I write/wrote (?) for Charlatan Magazine? Ah....structured creativity, right? Meh, kinda. My editor would tell me what the topic was that he wanted me to write about - a little insight into the flavor of that month's issue - and he'd set me off on my own, ready and able to come up with the most electrifying and educational material the Internet gods were poised to offer up in support of whatever I THOUGHT best conveyed what I gleaned from our conversation. My column went by many names while I wrote for them, but they were opinion pieces at heart. I was tasked with making sure to ask sufficient questions so the reader could form their own opinions about the topic, possibly using what I supplied as the kindling for a dinner party conversation, a water cooler chat (not likely...who still has water coolers?), or maybe even try and impress that hot guy or girl with a couple of lines memorized from my column about why we form groups. I can't tell you how many people I'm responsible for hooking up. At water coolers. You get my point.<br />
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But, wait, I'm also a novelist. Wow, say that ten times fast, and it just sounds like you've said something quickly over and over again. Hm...<br />
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Anyway, I'm a novelist! That sentence works much better with an exclamation point. And it is with that exclamation point that I scream how freeing it is to create my very own worlds, to give breath to characters, and to brutally murder anyone who doesn't go along swimmingly with the plot twists I've created. I invent fantastic scenarios of deceit and intrigue; I weave prose through my novels and I perch main characters and fluffers, alike, on pedestals by allowing imaginative and manipulative and scary and profound words to slip past their tongues and into the hearts and minds of my readers. Say that ten times fast. (It's okay to laugh or roll your eyes at that.)<br />
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Do I create novels for an audience? Do I write my characters in such a way as to appease my readers or find myself listed in Good Reads or so I can get great reviews on Amazon? Nope. I just write.<br />
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The more deeply I found myself falling into the quicksand that is writing, pulled along by my absolute love of the written word, and my 100% egotistically insane ability to communicate to my fellow man, the more I found myself caught off guard by people asking me whom I think my audience is. That wasn't a question I had EVER EVER EVER asked myself when I first put chisel to stone and created my first short story. I had no intention of sharing what I'd written with anyone other than my mother, and maybe my sister. They were the only people for whom I wrote in the beginning and they were the only people I wanted to please when it came to writing. But I didn't write things I thought they wanted to hear/read. (NOTE: Funny story about my first attempt at a novel is coming a couple of paragraphs from now. Please read to the end.) I wrote what I thought I wanted to say, what I wanted to express, what I found interesting, whether they liked it or not. Naturally, being my mother and sister, they fawned over my musings with the appropriate amount of 'that's fabulous' and 'okay, I think I've read enough to make him feel good, even though the story was dreadful'. And I thank them for it. Not everything I wrote was good. Not everything I'm GOING to write will be good. But what they did for me in reading each and every piece of drivel I tapped out was give me the confidence to continue honing what I was good at. Nobody who loves you is ever going to tell you that what you wrote sucks. That's what teachers and literary agents and editors and pre-readers are for. <br />
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I love it when people ask me about my audience and I tell them I don't really have an audience. Maybe it's because I write so many varied things - from columns to my attempts at comedy to political fiction to general fiction (and now fictional autobiographies). Truth be told, I don't WANT to have an audience relying on me for the next 'Novel X'. Okay, stop. That wasn't a knock or a cheap shot at anyone. For all of my fellow writers who just guffawed at that statement, and may have been personally offended by something imaginary they read, it's okay. I'm with you. Shake your head and fists and tell me that I'm wrong. Because to you, I am. To you, you're making money (please, Lawd!) by writing a specific genre, or maybe by contributing to the growth of a specific genre. I have a friend from high school, Jeanette Battista (hey, girl!) who writes wonderful novels about fictional worlds - and she does so poetically and very well. That is her niche, and her audience adores her for it. And THAT is the beauty of writing. You have the ability each and every day to get up and write exactly what you want. For whom you want. Or no one at all.<br />
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Here's the story:<br />
When I was in high school, getting better and better at creative writing, I found a book in my sister's closet. It was (drum roll and angels singing)...."Hollywood Wives", by Jackie Collins. Holy HELL was that book dirty. And simply wonderful for the imagination of a high-school kid who thought he knew his way around a tablet and chisel. Well, I got to writing, using every bit of my brain power I could muster, trying to replicate the absolute filth I'd read in Ms. Jackie's own hand. I had about two chapters in the can. And then my mother found it. And that's when I heard my mother curse for the first time. And then she threatened me that if she ever read anything like that by me again, she would do something unspeakable to my physical person! (Okay, so I don't really remember WHAT she said, but she was devil-on-fire PISSED and I never forgot it.) And I've never written to an audience since that day. LOL<br />
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So back to what I was saying. <br />
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If you're lucky, you'll get to write for people who enjoy your product. For me, that is the ultimate goal: for people to simply enjoy what I'm putting in front of them. I do have one caveat, though, that I think probably requires some full disclosure here. I don't write for a particular audience, but I DO always write my main characters (and I'm talking about novels here) as minorities and women. You read all the time that actors and actresses of color don't get roles for one reason or another, maybe having to do with BEING a minority in the industry. I make it a POINT to write strong minority and women characters, but I don't write FOR minorities or women. Does that make sense? A great character is a great character no matter their ethnicity or color or sexual perversion...eh, proclivity, eh, persuasion, eh, preference...or whatever. Write well and the character will be fully adopted by your reader. I firmly believe that. Shonda could have made Olivia Pope anybody under the sun - she didn't HAVE to be a black girl...could have done the same job as a white girl...but the writing is what captures you, and it's what brings you back each week, and it's what makes us all want to be Gladiators. (Except for a little bit last season when I thought maybe old girl had fallen and hit her head - but she's back and the writing is stronger than ever.) Okay, I digressed a little there. I write to provide entertainment and enjoyment, with a side eye on helping minorities and women achieve their dreams in Hollywood. Everybody's got a dream. What's yo' dream? ('Pretty Woman' reference, you're welcome).<br />
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Listen, here's the thing I want you to take away from the rambling and whatever dangling participles you identified. If you're a writer or want to be a writer or think writers are cute and you're trying to hook up with one at the water cooler by slaying them with a witty reference from one of my columns, you're in luck. Or if you're a reader who absolutely gets down with authors and novelists and doesn't give a shit about water cooler chattery (trademark), instead you burn your eyeballs through a book a week, know that there aren't ANY limits to what you can write OR to what you can read. It might take years of broken stone tablets and mangled chisels, or maybe you think you've read every shitty author out there, salvation might just be right around the corner. Somebody out there is writing something for you. And, hopefully, like me, they're writing something for themselves. Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-16490739397598184482015-08-05T14:20:00.001-04:002015-08-05T14:20:16.153-04:00We The People(Originally published in 'Charlatan Magazine', 2013)<br />
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I believe Thomas Jefferson would be in hot demand these days on the lecture circuit. He would be the guest of honor at Sunday morning talk shows and political debates and college roundtables. His written prose and verbal stylings could quickly enumerate his points, confound his antagonists, and make more confident both his allies and general supporters. I imagine Mr. Jefferson reading from his letter to the Danbury Baptist Association in 1802, telling them that “religion is a matter which lies solely between man and his God…that the legitimate powers of government reach actions only, and not opinions.” <br />
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Are we to interpret that as meaning a true separation of church and state relies on the secular actions of government, while not being counseled by the opinions of the religion of the land? Or does it mean something else? And which is ultimately more important? Man or his God? I don’t know.<br />
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What I do know is that in 1947 the Institute for Sex Research was founded at Indiana University, no doubt a delicious piece of dinner party trivia one unleashes during a lull in the conversation. Headed by Alfred Kinsey, a pioneer in the field of true sexuality research, observation and education, the Institute allowed those in America who were willing to go against the crushing social pressures of the day, and uncloak the scandalous stigmas surrounding sex and sexuality to a point some found dangerous, sacrilegious, and morally contemptible – no matter what it was they were actually doing behind closed doors. <br />
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As part of his research, Kinsey developed the Heterosexual-Homosexual Rating Scale – oft plainly referred to as the Kinsey Scale. Along its axis, it is theorized that every man and woman on the planet falls between 0 and 6; 0 being exclusively heterosexual, and 6 being exclusively homosexual. Kinsey, himself, argued that with respect to males specifically, “the world is not divided into sheep and goats,” and that there are certain varying levels of attraction to the same sex, landing them somewhere between 1 and 5. Wikipedia tells us that there have been variations on a theme, and that some scales use a wider variance, sliding between 0 and 10. Were Kinsey alive today, would he also be so inclined to research, observe and educate on the sliding scale of religion and secularism, and their effect felt here and abroad? Would he also have developed such a scale for us to self-identify in terms of extreme piety and the belief in nothing? It certainly begs the question.<br />
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160 years before a sex researcher would subtly divide the human population on a scale with which few would publicly identify for fear of labeling themselves (or outing themselves) the Preamble of our Constitution was written, in part by Mr. Jefferson, et al, at the Constitutional Convention of 1787. It is, to this day, one of the most beautiful sentences to have been drafted. “We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence [sic], promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish the Constitution for the United States of America.” Wow. <br />
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If the Founding Fathers could have foreseen The Year of Our Lord, 2013, Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Paine, James Madison, and John Adams might have been tempted to ask for a rewrite. For surely they would be asking themselves what went so horribly wrong with their design? What happened to the union? Where did all of this hate come from? And why is everybody so angry with everybody who isn’t like them? Is this what they were attempting to install? Is anything different? Have we, in 226 years, not grown above division?<br />
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By the time James Madison got around to writing the Bill of Rights in 1791, significant arguments had been made for the establishment of a limited government; one in which the citizens governed each other. They had already made strides toward forming a more perfect union, a republic where the power is held by the people and their will is carried out by those they elect to office. Determined to be utterly free of religious persecution and willing to die for that freedom among so many others, the very first line in the very first amendment states unequivocally that, “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion.”<br />
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But if that’s true - if it’s really, really true - how have we found ourselves in this position today? <br />
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Where has the commonality of freedom gone? Why must one identify with the conservatism of the right and vilify those whose views are passionately secular? And why must those who aren’t washed in the blood of their creator take such offense to that which is believed to be sacred and holy and for the everlasting benefit of mankind? Battles rage across the country and across the planet, hinging often times not on economics or territorial disputes, but on the sliding scale of morality and religion that has divided us for centuries. How has the oil and water relationship between religion and the state become so diluted in America as to allow this unyielding evisceration, what some would deem spitting in the face of the First Amendment? To what lengths will the secular fight back, and against whom do they seek to prevail?<br />
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North Carolina, Alabama, and Texas, and myriad other states are contemplating legislation written by the far right and funded by conservative corporations with big pockets and giant donations. It is argued by their opponents that no good can come from restricting rights of the individual whether it is in terms of their ability to marry or to obtain an abortion. We are not seeing the legitimate powers of government reach actions only, and not opinions, as more and more often the ear of the public’s representative is held either by the religious right, or someone who takes great benefit (more often financially and less often spiritually) from their religious affiliations. If the secular world were the holder of the purse strings and exactor of more dubious pressures, would things be completely different? Would there exist the freedom for anyone to do absolutely whatever they wanted? Would laws be enacted that punish those who are true believers, those who act in defiance of a secular plan so as to lift up the name and voice of their God? Or can there be a true common ground on which we can all stand? Is that such a crazy idea?<br />
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Christian or Muslim, Jewish or Buddhist, atheist or agnostic, Republican, Democrat, or Independent, 0 to 6, 1 to 5, or somewhere in between, we all have a responsibility to the legacy of our Founding Fathers, and the adoption of a true republic. We must work hand in hand with our friends and enemies, alike, to fairly and passionately govern ourselves, and do our level best to ensure that the United States of America continues to be a more perfect union. So help me God. Or not.<br />
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Otherwise, what’s the point?<br />
Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-52993283935690410252014-11-10T23:22:00.000-05:002015-08-01T18:51:04.294-04:00Tyranny or Bust....I've been a little bored as of late. Nothing too serious, and certainly nothing which would offend the sensibilities. But nonetheless, I could use a pick me up. I was thinking the other day about which I'd rather be: a tyrant, a dictator, or just a plain old despot. Tyrant won out. <br />
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Imagine the sunny possibilities and you'll be as giddy inside as am I. <br />
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Listening to critics would be a concept of the past. In fact, I'd have the power to do so many despicable things to my foes at the slightest hint of back talk or constructive criticism. I will say what I want, when I want, to whom I want, and dare anyone to raise a single disgruntled syllable in defiance. (Hmmm...this could actually work.) <br />
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Rich beyond traditional measure, your money would suddenly - and until death do US part - become my money. A palace would be in order, don't you think? And a yacht. And a fleet of cars. And if history is any guide, I'll require a large and very gaudy military-inspired wardrobe in various tans and shades of green with dark sunglasses and epilates made from the tusks of adolescent elephants. I would need a trove of servants with a low threshold for pain and an insane need to please me in every way I could imagine. I wouldn't be that difficult to please, but just in case, they shouldn't be too attached to their limbs. Or their mothers. It's hard to find good help these days. Am I right, or am I right? <br />
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I'd certainly have to do something about the international community, though, as world leaders of democracies and those who ally with them tend to look down upon those of us who rule with a keen eye, and a wide albeit ferocious iron hand. I'll print my own money, plastering my face across our national currency, so the sanctions which will be inevitably dumped on me four or five or twenty years in (depending on what I can do for those world leaders of democracies and those who ally with them so they'll look the other way, or if I can get a printing press from the CIA, I'm just sayin')...either way, it won't matter much. I'll have an army and maybe a navy if I'm by the sea...oh how I love the sea...and I can use those forces to protect myself until an upstart makes a play for my power. But wait. As the leader of the military, several well-timed killings...er...'training opportunities' should be all that's required to keep my people in line and cherishing me until either they die of strikingly unnatural causes or until I no longer need them.<br />
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What I sat and wondered, though, was where my mentors in tyranny went wrong. Saloth Sar (aka Pol Pot) had a tiny addiction to killing people, murdering what is believed to be about 25 percent of the Cambodian population during his reign, using the brutal policies of the Khmer Rouge. He clearly needed a friend. Although the numbers of tortured and murdered were much lower - somewhere around half a million - the crazy but amazingly influential Idi Amin amassed a ginormous pile of both cash and never-ending titles (e.g., His Excellency President for Life, Field Marshall Alhaji Dr. Idi Amin Dada, VC, DSO, MC, and CBE). At some point, he was very politley asked to leave Uganda. I'll bet even he didn't know what DSO stood for. And that's the real shame here, isn't it? And who could forget about everyone's current favorite, Ivan the Terrible (1530-1584). Famous for his abolute fits of rage, and the whispered mental illness that probably contributed to Ivan's less than cordial disposition, he is credited with transforming Mother Russia, in part, into the countries of the former Soviet Union that we all so love today. Last on this list, but absolutely positively not last in our hearts, let's talk about that crazy kid from North Korea. Don't get me spun up about this guy. He's playing the game like a true champion, folks. He inherited a country from his dying father and dead grandfather (technically, in that order), he magically made a woman appear (not like Kelly what's her name from 'Weird Science') who may or may not have been married to someone else at the time of her discovery, he has routinely taught his underlings lessons in loyalty and marksmanship by murdering and exiling those who challenge him, or anybody caught watching South Korea's version of Univision - there's a joke in there. And let's not ignore the funny way he likes to test the world's mental and military resolve by gleefully launching rockets and playing hide-and-seek with a mysterious stash of enriched uranium. Genius, really. <br />
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Okay, I've got the trappings. I have the mentors (and I know what to do and what not to do...a nod to you, Messers Stalin and Hitler). I know how to thwart reproach from the international community and profit mightily from the labor and natural resources of the country which I will rule by murder and maim...shout out that dastardly desert Wiley Coyote, Saddam Hussein. But I don't know how to actually become a tyrant. I'm 42 and it's probably too late to instill a deep and biting hatred of my parents at this stage in my life. I don't have the intestinal fortitude to begin torturing animals or attempt to take someone's life for sport. I'm not really all that good at stealing things, and I'd probably look rather foolish attempting to take over a bank and claim everything within for myself, including the sub-prime mortgages and HR nightmares. I am not an insignificant military wannabe, and I don't plan to enlist what with my bum shoulder, intermittent tennis elbow, and my severe disdain for anything that requires rolling under barbed wire or eating ready-made dehydrated food out of a bag. I haven't quite developed a taste for blood, or the ability to influence others to do anything short of let me into traffic - even when I've decided to throw caution to the wind and use my blinker. And I can only assume that I wouldn't look good in epilates. Although I do rock burnt sienna and most oranges. My color wheel runneth over. <br />
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All is however not lost. Propped up by the current net neutrality John Oliver told me about, the amazing and ever-flowering Internet has come to my rescue disguised as Amazon.com. In its cavernous bosom I have found a book - an actual paper copy book - on how to be a successul tyrant (the only books I advertise for free are 'The Brotherhood' and 'Chief of Staff' by Mark Vertreese...go to Amazon.com if you want to see the dictator book for yourself). The shock and awe has yet to abate. As soon as I figure out how to skim somebody's credit card, or hook up with one of those crazy Russian gangs who ripped off Target or The Home Depot for one of the extra cards they have on file, I'm going grab that thing using somebody else's Amazon Prime because I have some reading to do. <br />
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Go ahead and start hiding your women and children and money. But not too well because I don't want this to resemble work. And like David Banner said (if you have to look that up, you are no longer my friend), you probably won't like me when I'm angry. Even though I look particularly good in green, as well. Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-9207086868850758302014-10-18T00:13:00.000-04:002014-10-18T10:29:46.399-04:00The Accident of BirthI don't know yet if this post is going to win me any friends, if it is going to alienate the ones that I have, or keep those who are brave enough to call me friend right where they belong - next to me and supporting me, even if/when they don't agree with everything I'm saying. That goes for family, too. I'm amazed often at how impactful words can be - and I'm in the business of words! I laugh when people say that a word is just a word, and it is only ascribed meaning when someone wants to make something out of nothing (e.g., backing up the use of retarded or cracker or the famed N-word). It is asinine to me that someone should very much deliberately and painfully dismiss the feelings of another person when they are saying to you that words used against them maliciously are hurtful; waiving off the interpretation as biased or colored by unfair historical significance, or just the willful 'Fuck You' that so many people use to respond these days when they're cornered and are unwilling to apologize for something so nonsensical.<br />
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I found myself thinking today as I scrolled through Facebook, landing on a post wherein it would be argued that Bill O'Reilly is out of touch with the reality swirling around him, the object of Jon Stewart's prejudicial and well-planned trapping of the uber conservative. Two little words fueled Stewart and befuddled O'Reilly: White Privilege.<br />
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The argument Stewart put forth, and the one which the FOX News golden boy tried to answer was this: White privilege not only exists, but it is the basis upon which the subjugation and continuous discrimination and oppression of blacks (and other minority groups) rests today. I thought I was going to witness the world's first self-decapitation, waiting with baited breath for Bill O'Reilly to say something completely stupid. I didn't have to wait long.<br />
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He claimed that with the non-existence of slavery and the dismantling of Jim Crow, the very fact that Stewart dared mention the concept, the misnomer, even, of white privilege was offensive to his core. He intimated that there is equal footing in this country, that the most powerful man in the world is black, and that the most powerful woman in the world is also black. <br />
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I had to chuckle at that one for a minute. Okay, so the most powerful man in the world, President Barack Obama, is black. Hmm...biracial, yes. The most powerful man in the world? Certainly not. The dilution of the Office of the President of the United States is another topic, completely.<br />
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Do you know whom Bill O'Reilly counts as the most powerful woman in the world? Oprah Winfrey. I know. I should have told you to sit down for that one.<br />
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Stewart and O'Reilly traded facts and pseudo-facts and tidbits about where O'Reilly grew up in the 50s and 60s (finally acquiescing to Stewart's point that blacks weren't even ALLOWED to live in the same area during the same period). Stewart argued that a history of oppression dealt to the black community, by the hand of the white majority, has created a systemic and defiled existence, particularly in the inner city, which has trapped and theoretically enslaved generation after generation of black Americans, relegating them to substandard existences with little to no hope of breaking the cycle that is all they've ever known.<br />
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Part of that makes complete and total sense to me. It is with rare exception (at least exception that is covered by the national news media) that individuals - let alone families - have been able to successfully navigate the pitfalls and stratospheric dangers of growing up in the hood or the ghetto or whatever you choose to call it, however it is most comfortably labeled. And then there's part of the O'Reilly argument to which I also subscribe, which I found to be embarrassingly true, and a response which I know won't win me any friends in my own community. Distilled to a fine point, O'Reilly said that everybody has the opportunity now to make something of their lives, to find what it is that makes them successful, work hard to follow that path before them, and escape whatever cycle in which they feel they are unjustly trapped.<br />
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Dammit, I thought to myself. That son of a bitch has a point. My very best friend in the world and his family survived a similar fate, and I'm thankful for it. And then I thought about the universe's most cruel and perverse action: the accident of birth.<br />
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As I sit and type this, I'm doing so at the granite bar in the kitchen of a home more expensive than that of either of my parents. I am 42, black, and I've never been part of anything other than the Middle Class. I am listening to Horowitz's crisp and emotional "Prelude for Piano No. 16 in G Major, Op. 32/5. My only child who wants for nothing sits upstairs on his i-Whatever, and my wife is tucked away in our master bedroom relaxing away her workday, preparing for a Saturday morning of distance running and camaraderie with her running buddies. I am quite sure that I exist somewhere as a statistic, but I'm not wholly sure on who's list, or why.<br />
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I have fraternity brothers and friends of both races who are millionaires, or whom will become millionaires thanks in part to family inheritances and trusts. I have friends of both races, both past and present, who lived in the worst parts of town, never imagining they could have what I have; their fight for survival may have included seeing their friends get killed, or watching helplessly as their families disintegrated under the stress of racial and/or economic bias, not to mention the stench and disharmony that drug abuse brought into their lives.<br />
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What if everyone was born into a condition completely alien to the world in which they now inhabit? I'm wondering what Bill O'Reilly's appreciation of the FOX News superstar's response to white privilege would have been had he watched the same footage buried deep somewhere in the hood, white or black. Would my own response have been different were I born into a family of millionaires, separated conveniently and quite dramatically, from those who were born into less? <br />
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I agree with Bill O'Reilly that there exists now an opportunity for anyone to achieve. I do not agree with Bill O'Reilly that it is as easy as he thinks it is to escape a horrid and self-abusive cycle from which there is often no reasonable unassisted escape. I agree with Bill O'Reilly in that hard work is the driver which seeks to separate men from their less-focused brethren. I do not agree with Bill O'Reilly when he says that it is only through hard work that he, and other successful white men of his age and whom believe the same political ideology, have prospered. <br />
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We can do as little about the accident of our birth, as we can about changing the sun into the moon. What we can control, or at the very least seek to improve upon, though, is this idea of the Human Condition. I shake my head when I read an article about President Obama, and the comments at the bottom descend quite predictably from the eloquence of the point argued in the article, to the imaginary fact that our president is a Muslim-loving foreigner who got elected under false pretense and is systematically ruining the nation, laying it bare for terrorists and similar jhading miscreants. Or when an article about overturning discriminatory same-sex marriage laws turns into a battle of Christians and 'the unwashed' as to the nature and meaning of what Jesus would do, or how Jesus hates gays, and that the 'Gay Agenda', along with the shined up, dressed up simian in the Oval Office, are the first steps to Revelation and the damning of the earth to hell, calling on Doomsday Preppers to stockpile arms and for bigots who protest outside the funerals of America's servicemen and women to scream bull-horned obscenities louder and louder.<br />
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Where in that is the Human Condition? Would your personal beliefs be what they are had not the accident of birth deposited you into a home in the Appalachians in the 50s as opposed to Myers Park or Beverly Hills in the 80s or Bedford-Stuyvesant in the 40s?<br />
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I agree with both Bill O'Reilly and Jon Stewart, separately, for different points they made. Stewart was dogged in his determination to force his television nemesis to agree, even if for only a moment, that white privilege is, in fact, still a 'thing'. Bill O'Reilly, hell bent on making it a socio-economic issue as opposed to a racial issue, insisted on getting his point across that nothing is out of reach, for any race, gender, or economically-challenged person given the right amount of courage and hard work to step outside the confines of what they believe to be their assigned position in the universe; their lot in life, if you will.<br />
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But what neither of them said - at least in the space of time Facebook allowed me into their worlds, and to dine on their argument - was that both the Human Condition and the accident of birth are at play here, fully conspiring to benefit or damn those of us walking across the planet either from immaculate conception or lack of contraceptives. It is the Human Condition which can negate the accident of birth, to help in small ways level the playing field - to give true and honest depth to O'Reilly's claim that barriers no longer exist and that absolutely anybody can achieve the level of success about which they dream. <br />
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I wonder if the most powerful man and the most powerful woman in the world would agree.Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-90526805415116119382014-10-15T12:24:00.000-04:002014-10-15T12:24:11.927-04:00Ramble On: Group Therapy #2Most of the time, I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm serious. I start out with the best of intentions, and then either my adult ADD catches up to me, or I get pen-shy (totally just made that up), and lose my focus for fear that what I"m going to write will suck. I wonder if that happens to other people. Not to be a shit, but I really hope it does.<br />
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I say I don't know what I'm doing, but I think that might be code for being lazy or unfocused. Both of those sound really bad, but it's true. Come to think of it, I'm not sure when I've really ever truly been focused on one thing for a long period of time. I love to write, but when the juices aren't flowing, you all get nothing. Jesus, look at this blog as an example. I was sitting here at my kitchen island going through material (some in my head, some on my computer) for my current project, <i>The Jewel Box.</i> It's the follow up to my second novel, <i>Chief of Staff</i>, and I think it's going to be a hit..if I can ever fucking get motivated to turn out some serious pages. <br />
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If I had to bet, I'd say that I'm scared of not writing something as great as <i>COS</i>. People absolutely LOVED that book, and although it made me feel great, it also scares the shit out of me. The damn thing is written in my head, and ready to be trans-whatevered to my computer, but something is holding me back. I shake my head, but I know what it is. Failure. It's something everybody goes through on one level or another, and it's something that everybody deals with - or maybe they don't and those are the people who end up shooting their co-workers and fellow students. Those are the crazy motherfuckers. And then there are the rest of us.<br />
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What do WE do when we have no idea what to do next, avoiding failure? And don't tell me that to just get back up on the horse. I'm laughing my ass on that one. Why? Because it's true. It's so true. Nope, I have no idea what I'm doing. None at all. I don't know what I'm going to focus on next. I don't even know how to make the decision. But what is gratifying to me, and hopefully other writers out there in the odd world we occupy, is this: who gives a shit? Write. Just write and see what happens. Not everybody is going to love what you do. Not everybody is going to praise you. Look at all of the people who THINK they can write, but haven't been able to get a book deal. Include me in those numbers. I think my new philosophy is going to be 'Keep Calm, Fuck It & Just Write'. God, that's awful - and long. LOL. Who cares?<br />
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It's daunting to release your literary babies out into the world. I'm sure I've written that on this blog in the past. It's daunting to be judged. But it's worse to keep everything you imagine in your brain and NOT release it to the public. Talk about insane! So, even though I have no idea what I'm going to do next, I pledge that it won't be empty space. I Will Never Write Beyond My Passion. Not sure why I got that fucking tattoo (and it's AWESOME by the way!) if I'm not going to write. If my wife reads this entry, I'm sure that will make her chuckle. :-)<br />
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Well, I've got a novel to get back to. And I've got a brain load of made up shit I need to get into my computer. What are you going to do today? Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-72221293569253136552014-07-15T20:10:00.000-04:002014-07-15T20:10:50.016-04:00A Brave New WorldSo I had this idea last night, that it's finally time to start novel number 3. I'd gone back and forth in my mind over what I should do. I could write the second part of The Brotherhood series, or I could write the next installment in the Eric Julian series (a la <i>Chief of Staff'</i>), or I could write something completely different altogether. I have three or four novels waiting to exit my fragile brain. Dilemma.<div>
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I was in the shower the other night - and why the hell ideas hit me in weird places like that, I'll never know - when it hit me. I've had more success with <i>Chief of Staff' </i>than with <i>The Brotherhood.</i> The books clubs I was lucky enough to attend showed me how damn passionate people can become over imaginary people, and their imaginary lives. I never knew that you could get sucked so headlong into someone else's world like that. Watching people argue with each other about what the characters in the books I'd invented, and listening to them giving drawn out explanations of their behaviors, and the hidden meanings behind them, was crazy. Sometimes I sat there and thought, "Damn, that's pretty good. I should have thought of that." Seriously. Whether or not they were hallucinating or really wanting to be part of the lives of the people I pulled out of my head, the end result was that I was flattered. I'd entertained them. I'd made them think about topics even I hadn't considered while I was writing. And they wanted more.</div>
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In all, I was the guest at three book clubs, each discussing <i>Chief of Staff</i>. That's 3 more than I was invited to for <i>The Brotherhood</i>. And part of me is actually glad about that. I wrote that first novel so long ago. I'm different now, but not by a lot. Even so, I believe that the experience of writing both novels, and the way I've accepted the fate of an author (and a self-published, self-marketed author at that), has changed me and I've grown, as well. </div>
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It probably isn't a good idea to speak for all writers, so I'll just give you my point of view. When I first started, I was convinced that I was going to be a millionaire all from the royalties from my books sold all over the globe, and the gross sales from the blockbuster movies featuring the line, '...from the novel by Mark Vertreese.' Then I realized how crazy difficult that was going to be. Grisham and Sparks and Connolly and blah blah blah, I'm not. What I am, though, is a guy with a passion for writing, a bit of a lazy streak which of late has won out over hitting the keyboard, and a life that seems to be going 100 mph at various times. I wrote <i>Chief of Staff</i> because the literary agent who liked <i>The Brotherhood</i> asked me if I had anything else to give her. I sent the finished product to her eight months later (it took me 3 years to write <i>The Brotherhood</i>), and never heard from her again. Compare that with the throngs of readers (yes, I said throngs, and you won't change my mind) who've not only read <i>Chief of Staff</i>, but have absolutely LOVED IT, I shake my head at that no-show literary agent, and the universe. And I understand that writing isn't about getting rich. I'll take the money in a hot second, but I don't create to get paid. And if you look at the odds, I probably never will. Part of me says that sucks. But the realistic part of me has come to terms with that. At 41, I'm grounded enough to know the difference...but I'm still a bit of a dreamer.</div>
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I went to lunch some weeks back with a guy whose opinion I trust a great deal. We'd actually gotten together for a work-related reason, but as he listened to me complain about my job and express my love for writing that I'd let languish for far too long, his advice was crisp and truthful. "You need to get out of your own way." Prophetic and biting and honest and just damn plain right. My talent is writing. I create to make people laugh and cry and think and feel. That's what I do well. And that's what I haven't done consistently for too long. That made me sad. I felt sad that I was denying the people who like what I write the opportunity to read the things that fall out of my head, pass through the laptop, and force them to contemplate life, and maybe crack a smile or try to stifle a gut laugh. And I was depriving myself of the joy I feel in providing that for them. Trust me, the absolute WORST feeling I ever have is the moment right after I've released a project to the public or to my editor at <i>Charlatan Magazine</i>. But I get a total thrill out of people letting me know my book or short story or article hit home for them, or that they tweeted it to a friend or shared it on Facebook. That's what I add to life on this Earth. As I drank in my friend's words, I felt that spark again. And I loved it.</div>
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I'm sitting in the office of my new house (moving here and not writing was part of the lazy side, the atrophying of my skill), I am listening to my wife guide our son in the steps required to make banana bread. I love banana bread and I can't wait to see how it comes out. For me, that's kind of like writing, but I don't have a recipe to follow. She's telling him what to add and how to mix it. I'll start with the title to a novel, maybe have the beginning and ending in my head, and I come up with the bits in between. And still, it's a mystery to me the whole way. Just like their banana bread, when I write, I can't wait to see how it comes out.</div>
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A long time has passed between finishing <i>Chief of Staff. </i>Short stories and articles aren't quite the same in scope and don't require nearly the concentration or imagination as are required to keep several plots and character development strong for 400 pages. I'm pretty damn good at making shit up, but I'm super nervous about how this next project is going to turn out. I got the idea from one of my book clubs - in Raleigh - and I'm anxious about putting thought to laptop. I'm not giving myself a deadline yet, but I'm committing to you...all 11 followers, and anybody on FB who hasn't gotten tired yet of reading this entry...that <i>The Jewel Box</i> is on its way. Life will be breathed into it just as life was breathed into me at that fateful lunch. Even though I've been in this position before, it's a brave new world in many respects. I hope you love it. Ah...smell that banana bread!</div>
Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-18099520805130598242014-06-16T19:52:00.002-04:002014-06-17T07:30:12.915-04:00Why Do I Put Myself Through This?So....I've decide to start this again. No, not blogging, which I have clearly neglected for a very long time. And shame on me for doing so. I love to write. I don't so much love to release what I've written to the masses, but that's part & parcel with writing; somebody's got to read it. If that weren't the case, all writers would probably end up alone in their New York City apartments dreaming about life beyond the gates. Haha. Whatever.<br />
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No, it isn't blogging that I'm talking about. I sat down at my computer desk, blew the dust off of my laptop, and started looking for a literary agent. Jesus Christ in a handbag, what am I doing? I got the wild, bright idea as I was driving home this afternoon. That's actually a lie. It just sounds better than, 'I've been thinking about doing this for about a year, but I've been too scared and lazy to do it.' Agreed? Agreed.<br />
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Writers are some of the most masochistic people on the planet. I love to write, but I don't want anybody to read it, but I want them to tell me how great I am, but I can't take rejection. Gosh, maybe we're more bi-polar than sadistic. I don't know. Tonight, though, we're going to go with the latter. As I sat in my lovely new home office, reading about how easy it is to get a literary agent using this one particular website, I thought about Nicholas Sparks. I saw a 60 Minutes special on him years ago, and I still hate him to this day. Former drug rep turned best-selling author. Drivel. That story was drivel, and that's what he writes. But people lap it up, and they turn his novels into movies. Maybe I should write some drivel, too. <br />
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Or maybe I can just pick my chin up, realize that this isn't something everyone can do, put in some genuine effort and time to reach out to literary agents...and beg them to sign me. I am going to have to play the odds. I am going to have to bet on that ONE person who wants to read my manuscript (I'll be sending queries for <i>Chief of Staff</i>). I am going to have to have some faith that that one person who reads <i>Chief of Staff</i> and loves it wants to sign me, or at least have some further exculpatory conversations about how I see myself down the road. Clearly, I see myself standing on the back of an enormous yacht, looking lovingly off into the distance as the sun sets over the horizon, tucked neatly between the hills of some tropical destination. I'd hope the literary agent sees me there, too. <br />
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Until then, I'm back to blogging. I'm back to searching through the Internet to find somebody who believes in my talent as much as I do, but is much more willing to expose me to the masses. I'll continue to write short stories and put them on my website (www.markvertreese.com). And I'll continue to write only for the love of doing so. I'm old enough and wise enough now to realize that's what really makes you rich....writing for people who WANT to read what you're giving them. <br />
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Come to think of it, maybe that's why I put myself through this. And maybe that's okay.Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-40788083849135224802013-07-23T22:53:00.001-04:002013-07-23T22:54:24.418-04:00I'm On It - Kinda<b>NOTE:</b> If you've been with me for a while, you'll notice that Magnolia Rambling has a new look and feel. I asked the genius who creates my book covers to design something new for the blog. Because I only recently realized I'm more limited in that area by Blogger than I realized, I made a couple of changes on my own. Look out for Magnolia Rambling-related merchandise in the near future. If I can't put his designs on the site, maybe I can put them in your hand or on your head or your back. Ramble On....<br />
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And now to the post:<br />
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I thought I was supposed to be writing more, what with my new found commitment to my blog and the world of writing. Ha! [Insert over dramatic eye roll here] <br />
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Nope, turns out I'm still living about three weeks behind my intentions and I have no idea how to catch up. That's a lie. I know how to catch up, I just need to figure out how to prioritize. Maybe I'll do that tomorrow. (smile) It's quite possible, now that I think of it, that I might just have too many mental irons in the fire. God I hope that happens to you guys, too. I have no idea how many followers I'm up to now but I'm sure bound to cross over into the low- to mid-range double digits at any point. Some of you, please, know what I'm talking about. Right?<br />
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Work floods my brain on a regular basis because it's never-ending. Clients and partners, both internal and external, all want something. My loving wife would like me to help around the house more without her having to ask. My child wants me to play chess with him. My best friend wants to ride motorcycles and hang out with me more often now that he and his family have moved out of the neighborhood. My literary agent....wait...I don't have one of those. Uh.....how do I put this so it sounds believable and doesn't make me look crazy? My public? Too stuffy and presumptuous. My people? Dumb. My fans? That just sounds wrong. How about the people who've read my novels? Simple and easy. The people who have read my novels and have been so kind to tell me that they loved them (one or both) are asking for book number three. My editor at <i>Charlatan Magazine</i> , bless him for having to deal with me, waits patiently for me to deliver my latest column. My dog is chomping at the bit to go for a walk when I stride through the door in the evening. My gut is waiting on me to master yoga and semi-debilitating ab exercises.<br />
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Everybody wants something. <br />
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The great thing about my problems (imaginary and completely insignificant in light of the problems we see blasted on TV everyday), is that they can be solved with something as simple as a little pro-activeness. Work is work, and I just have to deal with it. It keeps the lights on and gas in my motorcycle and the insurance paid on everything from the house to the used car lot that is my driveway. I am a whiz at the laundry, but I could do more to help my wife than I do now (especially without being prompted). I abhor chess, but it makes my child happy, so I can ask him to sit down and 'teach' me - it will make him happy, and it will make me happy to see him smile. I don't have a night job anymore, so there's nothing holding me back from scooping up my best friend and riding to a local bike night. I promise to any of my public/people/fans/people who have read my novels that I will at least start number three in 2013. (wink, wink) I will work to try and submit my column before my editor's deadlines, and I will gladly walk my 90-something pound Black Lab because it makes him happy...and he poops in the woods and not in my back yard. I am no longer talking to my abs, and that's all I have to say about that.<br />
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Listen, you hear people say all the time that you should slow down and smell the roses. Sure, give that a try. You'll find yourself three weeks behind just like I have. I think the real key is to stop, maybe look at the roses and acknowledge they exist, maybe smelling one or two, and then getting the hell back in the game or on the road, or whatever analogy you want to use. <br />
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At some point in the next year, we are going to be moving. I can't imagine the stress that is going to cause in my life, in my wife's life, and even in my child's life. The painting, the schlepping things to storage, the garage sale(s), the drama of showing the house and keeping it obsessively-compulsively clean every day, shipping my dog off to his original home to avoid scaring prospective buyers, and on and on. Now is the time for me to work on my pro-activeness, to live in it, and to make it part of my every day routine. What are you putting off, or thinking about doing tomorrow? Why can't it be done today? Why can't it be completed today? If you want examples of what not to do, come to my house and look at my unfinished projects. You'll still be a procrastinator, but you'll probably feel better about yourself. LOL!<br />
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I'm sure my wife will be loving this post, but also watching my every step. I've put it in PRINT! (gasp!) I've got to carry my weight on this one. Maybe I'll come up with a project a week and write you all to give you the updates, let you know how it's coming along, and when I've finished said task, ready to move on to the next item on my list. Come to think of it, that's a splendid idea.<br />
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I'll think about it and get back to you. Maybe tomorrow.<br />
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<br />Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-28010952923758572842013-06-14T18:27:00.000-04:002013-06-14T18:28:32.179-04:00You're Nothing Without PassionSeveral things occurred to me as I was about to hit the 'Publish' button and release my new & improved website to the world - literally. I thought about the usual dread I feel in releasing material to friends and family and strangers and enemies (completely grateful that even my enemies take a second to read my ramblings every now and then). I thought about the crushing guilt of not having posted ANYTHING in more than two years. Jesus, where does the time go? And I thought about those slick and ever-loyal sons of bitches who will be the first people to click through all five pages of my website (pace yourselves!) and land upon Magnolia Rambling only to see the same old tired posting from March 2011- the last it appeared I gave a shit about my blog and gave my audience something to read.<br />
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Well, the jokes on you! As it were....<br />
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I've got to say that I miss this. I miss sitting on my bed, laptop perched delicately on a pillow, the fan motor blowing unbelievably hot air across my legs. I miss making things up on the fly, not really knowing what is going to come next. I miss the thought of wondering what people will think of what I've taken the time and excruciating sacrifice to tap out - keys to the mental anguish I suffer as I sip casually on a Stella Artois and marvel at how much of an a-hole I sound like. It makes me laugh.<br />
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Like the first page of the website reads, "I Write It, You Love It (and tell a friend)". I live to write and I am the first one to kick myself in the rear for not coming back to the blog and my confirmed 11 followers for such a stupid long time. I used to have a part-time job at night and I used that time to improve my mental faculties, writing about this and that to pass the time. When I left that job after six and a half years, I fully expected that my every waking moment would be fully consumed with writing. I was going to start my third novel, 'The Situation Room'. I was going to blog at least once a week until my head and my fingers hurt. I was going to contribute tirelessly (and on time) to my now second career, Managing Editor of Behavioral Sciences for <i>Charlatan Magazine</i>. I was going to be a super husband, a super father, a super dog owner, and everyone would love me. And then I found the sofa. Ah, the sweet, sweet, comfort of my sofa. For six months, the sofa has won. But no more.<br />
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As I created my website, courtesy of the folks at Go Daddy who must have known that I am seriously technologically-challenged, and as I decided that www.markvertreese.com should be a one-stop shop for all things written by me, I thought about this blog, and my separation anxiety from my sofa. By publishing my website, and including a link to Magnolia Rambling, I was decidedly committing myself to kicking my sofa to the curb. From the outstanding - and VERY MUCH appreciated - reviews I've received regarding my novels, I decided it was high time I got back on the horse. First step, of course, was creating the website. The second step, though not writing this blog entry, was putting on my big boy underwear, firing up the laptop and telling my 'lazy' to take a hike. I absolutely love to write. And I don't care if I'm only writing for my 11 followers, the people who continuously and very boisterously support my novels, or the international audience which subscribes to <i>Charlatan Magazine</i>, I'll write when and what I can - and as much as I can. I seek to entertain as much as I hope to educate, and I think I've done a pretty good job so far. Not sure when it happened, or why it chose me, but writing grabbed me and never let go. <br />
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I love it so much, in fact, I've been toying with a new tattoo. I can't wait to get it. If any of you out there are inked, you'll understand it when I say that once you get one, you want more! I was talking to my Uncle Garfield following my big brother's funeral (love you, Mike). He asked me if I'd ever thought about writing for money, for a living. I told him that I never wanted to write beyond my passion. I don't do this for a check - obviously. And I don't do it for notoriety (I will forget I ever wrote that when I'm accepting my Oscar for Best Original Screenplay). I write because it feels good. I write because I like to make people laugh and smile and think. And I write because it's one of the only things that I'm actually very, very good at. My tattoo will read: "Never Write Beyond Your Passion" - location as yet fully undecided. <br />
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Whatever you do, whether it's finding your voice as a writer, being the best parent you can be, working your ass off at your job, or being there for a sick sibling or loved one, I encourage you all to do that which makes you happy (and please make it legal). Life is too short not to follow your passion. I'm following mine, and it feels great!Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-57615041674564333532013-03-31T21:42:00.003-04:002013-03-31T21:42:58.271-04:00Coming Soon!It's about time. Dontcha think?Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-5055368728063587102011-03-15T23:38:00.006-04:002011-03-16T00:21:34.073-04:00Ever Wish You Had Blinders?So, I was leaving the office yesterday around 5 and the elevator in my building stopped on a couple of floors - which is unusual, as it usually whisks me right to the lobby at <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">leavin</span>' time. There were already three other people on the elevator and after it stopped one more <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">freakin</span>' time, a guy walks on from the 2<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">nd</span> floor. He was a big guy, probably 6'3" or 6'4". He stands right in front of me, although in my opinion there was clearly more than enough room for him to have occupied someone <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">else's</span> personal space.<br /><br />Remember that the front wall of the elevator cars in this particular section of my building are mirrored.<br /><br />I had been selecting the tunes I wanted to listen to on my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">iPod</span> for the long walk back to my car and went back to it once the doors closed again. Well, in refocusing on my device, I caught a glimpse of his waist and thought, "How can a guy THAT big have a waist THAT small?" Unconsciously, I shook my head. I looked up for some reason and saw him smiling a bit. I couldn't tell if it was that 'You wish you <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">looked</span> this good' smile, or that 'Thanks for noticing I'm flawless' kind of smile.<br /><br />We hit the lobby and walk through the security gate toward the front of the building. I'd slowed down a bit because I was apparently having trouble working my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">iPod</span>, walking, and fumbling with my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">BlackBerry</span> at the same time, so he was about eight feet in front of me. By the time I'd gotten myself together and walked through the doors, I noticed he'd now stopped in front of the bank branch (the bank I work for has a branch on the first <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">floor</span> of the building, and is dominated by floor to ceiling windows on three sides). This guy was standing in front of the branch and was taking his shirt off! Uh, excuse me? Am I really seeing this? Yep. I'm seeing this.<br /><br />It gets worse.<br /><br />You know how time magically slows down in your brain when you've witnessed something completely unbelievable? I do now. And it hit me in an instant, like I was dodging a stray bullet in The Matrix.<br /><br />Not only was he tall, but you could tell he worked out. You could see that with his shirt ON. I was walking - probably slowly at this point - and I'm headed toward steps and a fountain, looking at this guy with no shirt on. He was perfect. Absolutely perfect. He was the kind of guy I HATE! He had the kind of body that my wife would so love me to have - but like candy falling from the sky or puppies learning to shag, it ain't gonna <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">happen</span>. Anyway, I could feel myself shaking my head again, and I knew my eyebrow was arching like it does when I'm disgusted, and I could feel the air rushing into my open mouth. I was aghast! Now, he WAS a little tiny bit ugly (and I'm not judging or at all happy about that...<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">heh</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">heh</span>), but with a body like that, he could probably make women do whatever he wanted. I reached the first step (of like five or six) by the fountain and I realize I'm STILL staring at him, irritated because chances are excellent that he probably wasn't the guy standing behind me at McDonald's while I ordered a number 4, large size. He probably ate dirt for lunch - and burned that off spinning for an hour at the Y.<br /><br />Shaking my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">head</span>, eyebrow arched, mouth open, face twisted up like he'd just kicked my dog and I wanted him to know exactly how much I hated his guts for having the body I will have to undergo genetic alteration to get.<br /><br />And then he looked at me! He looked directly at me!<br /><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">OMG</span>! Mind you, all of that happened in the space of about three seconds from shirt coming off to the guy looking at me LOOKING AT HIM! I was <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">mortified</span>. The only thing worse would have been if I'd tripped down the stairs or fallen into that damn fountain. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">LOL</span>!<br /><br />Guess who I saw this morning, jogging no less, as I drove my pudgy butt to work. Mr. Perfect.<br /><br />Jerk.Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-30685899647512393592011-03-12T18:58:00.006-05:002011-04-24T16:43:23.559-04:00Ramble On: Group TherapyMy very first article for Charlatan Magazine was about why we form groups. It was a topic given to me by my editor, and quite honestly, one I'd never thought about before. I mean, did you? Part of you probably doesn't give a flip about the explanation, right? And then, just sitting here reading this entry, and thinking back to how you felt when actually READ the article, it might just do to give it some more thought.<br /><br />I'm super lucky because the groups I deal with are really more like little families. In fact, one of my groups IS a family - and not the one I was born into. At the end of April, I'll be heading off to Garden City, SC, just below Myrtle Beach for the second annual Chocolate Thunder Summer Ride. Chocolate Thunder is the name of our motorcycle group, and we're a menacing five-strong. Watch out. LOL! Chocolate Thunder is made up of four Reid boys - and me. We've all got cruisers (long-distance motorcycles people generally think about as a Harley) and love to ride every chance we get. Kenny Reid is my neighbor and best friend; one of his older brothers and a cousin live in Charlotte, the other older brother lives in Raleigh. We get together and ride to destinations unknown, sometimes even getting lost on purpose along the way, just to see where roads will take us. Other than my wife's wedding ring, my motorcycle is the best thing I've ever bought.<br /><br />I met Kenny more than 11 years ago when we first moved into our cul-de-sac. Kenny and his wife are our couple that we do most things with. Our children, 3 months apart, haven't known life without the other. We go to their family functions and I hold the esteemed position of ham carver at the annual Reid Christmas party. We have done so much with their family, that we are considered to be PART of their family. And it's a wonderful feeling. Chocolate Thunder is like riding with my brothers and I love it. It's a group we formed after we all bought motorcycles one after the other. We have t-shirts, club nicknames (Ed comes up with them all - I'm Shakespeare), and while we ride to have fun, we try our best to keep each other safe on the road. Do something stupid and we'll make fun of you. Do something dangerous and we're the first to jump on your case - and make sure you know what to do the next time you come up against a truck in the bend of the road, or hit gravel at a stop sign.<br /><br />Riding my motorcycle is its own kind of therapy. Riding with Chocolate Thunder is therapy on an entirely different level. We only talk to each other, of course, at stop lights, so the majority of the time we only have our thoughts to keep us company. You might think the stress level of riding a motorcycle through city traffic or down the highway with cars and tractor trailers on all sides wouldn't necessarily lend itself to relaxation. Sometimes it's intense, yes, and you've got to make the right choice to avoid an accident. But the rest of the time, it's one of the most peaceful and enjoyable things I've ever done. And it's something I get to share with them when we're together. All of the Reids are big boys. I'm six feet, almost 200 lbs. And when I'm with them, I'm the smallest one. Well, I'm the least scrappy - let's put it that way. Anthony's a little shorter than I am, but I bet he could beat the living shit out of anybody who crossed him. Fo real.<br /><br />The power and confidence I fake when riding with Chocolate Thunder is amazing. It's almost a drug, and I love the way it feels. I can do whatever in the hell I want when I'm with them. Or I think I can. I don't think twice about giving some jerk the stink eye when I know the Reids have got my back. And although there probably isn't a whole lot I could do to help them (not like they'd need it), I'd be there is a second to help one of them kick somebody's ass. It might become more of a managerial role, of course, making sure the Reid in question knew what was going on around him, as opposed to me trying to scissor kick somebody in the throat. I know my limits.<br /><br />My family and I aren't Reids. We'll never be blood relatives. And there are certain things we don't think are appropriate to include ourselves in when it comes to their true family, and family gatherings. We don't invite ourselves to graduations or their mother's birthday celebrations. We won't be at the births of their second and third cousins. We won't attend graduations and it wouldn't be right for us to participate in their family reunions. But we are thought of as Reids, and every one of them has been kind and loving enough to acknowledge that and make us feel like we are truly part of their family. It is an honor, and it is a group to which I couldn't imagine not belonging. My wife, son and I witness Reid family business of the level which is appropriate, always knowing our place - as weird as that may sound. We have families of our own, of course, and to them we owe respect and deference to our respective family units. Some people forget where they come from and try their best to distance themselves from those to which they were born. We're lucky enough to have multiple families, and we try and take advantage of the love and fellowship each one provides (in a different way than the other) every chance we get.<br /><br />Life without the Reids wouldn't be the same. Just as it would be different I didn't have my sister and two brothers, and my wife didn't have her four sisters and three brothers. After a year of planning and talking and buying accessories and debating about who's going and who's going to chicken out, Chocolate Thunder will ride again. Group therapy at its best.Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-30434808095774048342011-02-16T23:41:00.005-05:002011-02-17T00:09:53.858-05:00Ramble On: Let there be lightGood grief it's been a long time since you all have heard from me. So much has changed since October when I last gave you something to read. The other day, my wife told me that I was in serious danger of being moved off of her list of favorites because I hadn't written anything in forever. Hell, before that, she told me that since I'm calling myself a blogger in the bio of the magazine for which I now contribute, I'd better well actually damn blog. I added the emphasis there, just to make it that much more interesting. LOL!<br /><br />In my quest to become a writing success, I reached out to the editor of <em>Charlatan Magazine</em>. If you've never heard of it, you will soon. Visit <a href="http://www.charlatanmagazine.com/">http://www.charlatanmagazine.com/</a> for your first foray into the world of Culture as Lifestyle, and make a concerted effort to seek out my column, 'Network', for insightful comment every other month. I started that late last year, and as a result, my blogging has suffered.<br /><br />One night while I was moving trailers around my part-time job at the International Package Delivery company, it dawned on me that I wasn't living up to my part of the Magnolia Rambling bargain. You were reading (and some of you even leave comments), but I wasn't giving you any new gristle on which to chew. My 'job' writing for Charlatan Magazine has been uber fulfiling, and I consider it to be a dream come true. But I'd created a void, and one that needed to be filled super fast or not only would I lose second-billing on my wife's list of Internet favorites......second-billing, in deed!....but I would let down all of the twenty-four people (including my ten followers) who come to the site for entertainment, a little laughter, and maybe to learn a thing or two when reading between the lines. And that's when it hit me. Ramble On.<br /><br />Every other month, my editor (how cool is THAT?) gives me the topic of the next cycle's issue. My task is to write a 'Network' article which will entertain as well as educate. Opinion isn't necessarily part of that equation, and as such, it has helped me become a better writer. Magnolia Rambling, on the other hand, is my baby. It was created out of a passion for writing, and used as a place in which I could store the crazy-ass thoughts and ideas that course in and out of my feeble brain at any given moment in time. You read Magnolia Rambling because it's funny, because you never know where in the hell my brain is going to take us on this magnificent journey, and because most of you think I'm the smartest person you've ever met.<br /><br />Okay...so that last part isn't true, but since it's my blog, I can write whatever in the hell I want.<br /><br />My idea for Ramble On is this: take the concept/idea of the 'Network' column I've written for Charlatan Magazine and put the Magnolia Rambling spin on it. Not only will it give me a great excuse for sitting down every month (for the challenged....I'll write the column for Charlatan Magazine, and the following month I'll write the Ramble On sister piece for Magnolia Rambling), but it only serves to deepen the hooks I've already sunk into you (and I'm talking about the ten followers here, not the extra 14 folks who happen by on a regular).<br /><br />My commitment to everybody in 2011 is that you're going to be hearing from me a lot more - whether you like it or not, and certainly whether you agree with me or not. Log in, read the posts, send in your comments, and keep your opinions to yourself if they don't line up with what I've just told you to believe. Ha ha, but not really. :-)<br /><br />We'll be playing a bit of catch up on Ramble On as the first topic revolves around groups and why we form them - it was the topic of my first article that was published in November, 2010. From there we'll move on to the almighty recession (January, 2011). And from there we'll talk about China and education (March, 2011 and May, 2011, respectively).<br /><br />Like the newly crafted moto of a very well-respected financial institution proclaims: together we'll go far.<br /><br />Ramble On...and good night.Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5762415608972314078.post-11131434628828215212010-10-21T02:21:00.006-04:002010-10-23T00:43:42.415-04:00If You've Got Leavin' On Your Mind"If you've got <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">leavin</span>' on your mind," is being crudely reproduced by the band on stage. Would Patsy Cline be flattered or pissed? The jury is still out on that one.<br /><br />I am standing, literally, in the middle of the land of dreams. Remember in Pretty Woman when that homeless guys asked you, "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Everybody's</span> got a dream....what's yo dream?" I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">can't help</span> but recall that line as the bass thumps through the smoky air and the lead singer renders her ass off in an attempt to impress the drunkards at the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Cadiallac</span> Ranch. This is Nashville, of course, and it's what you should come to expect from the per <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">capita</span> leader or wanna <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">be's</span> and not-so-future country stars.<br /><br />I admire both Karaoke singers and fools crazy enough to front a band - either in Nashville or <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Branson</span> or at Lodge #3112 or wherever. I don't have the balls I did in my younger days. Back then, I would have been up on stage in a hot second, belting my heart out at the sound of the down beat. Not anymore. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">OMGeezy</span> (which I stole from my wife), I cannot imagine the horror of singing in public. Weddings are about as far as I'm willing to go - and even that's more of a stretch outside my comfort zone than you can contemplate. Suffice it to say, if I'm not drinking from a flask outside of the church before or after the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">nuptials</span> (and off-key recitals of the bride's favorite hymn), know that the earth may soon implode. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">PDL</span> or Public Displays of Lunacy are not in my future.<br /><br />Once the music ends and the crowd noise subsides, you realize it wasn't the wine that pushed you onstage, but some horrible compulsion to show your ass, fueled by the 12 beers you inhaled in four hours. Either way, the evidence of your out of tune indiscretion may very well live forever on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">youtube</span> or <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">facebook</span>, or the next big thing. Shame, really.<br /><br />I look up at the stage and a toothless drunk is screaming David Allen <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">Coe's</span> most famous lyrics. From the countless college <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">pre</span>-parties I hosted and crashed in college, I'm not at all surprised to find myself singing along. I'll hang around as long as you will let me. And I never minded standing in the rain. You don't have to call me <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">darlin</span>'.....<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">dar</span>-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">lin</span>. (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">LOL</span>!)<br /><br />Now a co-workers is singing, "The Monster Mash." Oh my.<br /><br />Hey, Patsy? Check, please. :-)Magnolia Ramblinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16557556193661942431noreply@blogger.com1