If I were to point out the details my fairytale beginnings and, I have to admit, fairytale career. You would agree with me that there are far too many people to thank in my life and for me to fail now would be a disservice to them and the beauty of what they have done to me and for me.
Category: whatever
Ah the internet and the joys that it brings. . .
Aaahhhh the internet and the horrors that it brings. You see, I’m from that transitional period that we are still witnessing. I mean to say that I lived both eras. The time before the World Wide Web and the time immediately after its debut. The scariest of the two to me has got to be now. I hear many people complaining in fear and dismay about how hard the times are now as if before was just a breeze. I always take on the role of devil’s advocate and challenge them to pick a time when things weren’t bad and they somehow cannot because they have nothing to compare today to except history books. They then realize that even the history books are telling us what the writers of history or winners of wars want us to know. Then the admittance that back then knowledge, science, humanity, and so much more were not on the sophisticated levels that they are now.
Never mind the discouraging fact that you can see someone beheaded on the net in real time now. Back then remember all the atrocities of the gas chambers and camps were happening and we only learned about them after the fact. I’d like to think that we are quicker at showing our compassion and sometimes neglect now so something could be done to help those in need due to the availability of the net. A positive thing perhaps.
Not to make myself sound like the same fearful complainers I mentioned earlier but the risks of so much more fraud, the indoctrination of the minds of the youth, the pure hate that people can do to another, the overtaking of the world by AI or some evil country, etc… are keeping me exactly that; afraid!
“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, ….”
The other day I was online on one of those gay social media sites (‘oh lord here he goes again’. You’re thinking: ‘Doesn’t he have a life?’). a 20 year old said hello to me. As is my custom I try to return the greeting and his next line read something like:
“Do you drive?”
I said: “Yes I do but I do not own a car.”
He continued with: “Can you Uber me?”
I played dumb: “Why would I want to do that?”
“Are you gen?”
I knew exactly what he meant and I said: “No I’m Jean.”
“Huh!! Why you playing around?”
I kept my head still and looked around with my eyes as if I had a studio audience in my space and the cameras were on my eyes during the filming of my own absurd situation comedy. I swore I heard the giggle of the audience members.
He continued with: “you’re older but cute so I’ll just take 50 and an Uber.”
My head decided to accompany my eyes this time as they looked around searching for giggles.
I was getting a little annoyed at this time and imagined the tone of my recant to be just that: Annoyed but calmly so: “Okay, I’m lost. You want me to drive to you and pick you up where ever you are and since I cannot do that, I could send you an Uber and then pay you 50 bucks for what?”
Rudely he said: “Dang you are old. You don’t know what for?
I chuckled to myself and shook my head in disbelief as I began to write back: “Look I am not sure how many classes of economics you’ve missed but very few people pay for something without 1, knowing what it is and 2, taking it out for a test drive.
Fortunately I haven’t paid for sex in my life and I am not planning on starting now. Especially not to someone whose face and attributes are a blank.”
He quickly wrote back: “What you say??”
I decided not to play this game anymore and ignored him but later on I caught a glimpse of his last words to me: “Pa you know you’re older and I’m offering you a discount cause you older guys gonna have to pay anyway and you just playin’. SMH. I’m outta here.”
“More insults!” I thought to myself. Not only am I old but apparently my age and struggles to get this far in life leave me no other option but to pay for sex.
It took a 20 year old to wake me up and help me realize that Toto and I are no longer in Kansas anymore.
I’m pretty sure that this kind of thing,(young people asking for money in return for sexual favors) has been around forever but this is the first time that I am older. So my reaction to it was if anything, saddened and shocked.
The equation of money and sex. They don’t seem to add up to anything positive to me. Please, don’t get me wrong. I am not knocking sex workers at all but the thought of being 20 and making that relationship your priority because of your youth. . . SMH.
How long are you going to be young? It seems to me that young seems younger and younger. I shouldn’t say that because nowadays pedophile like relationships are taboo where as before it was more accepted. Meaning that youth seems to be an idea that gets shortened more and more by the changing of the times. On the flip side you have the naysayers who would fight God with all their resources to look younger. Botox and plastic surgery may take your facial expressions and your wrinkles away but at the end of the day, cosmetic procedures don’t take the aging process away. You’re still your age.
I wrote back to this young man my frustrations about what he and so many others are doing.
“It is really sad to read the absurd things you guys write online.” I wrote this thinking that this is the worst that it has been in all of the human race’s existence. “ Where are your values? Oh I forgot. You haven’t developed any yet. Aren’t you afraid of what people will think of you?’ You are making yourself into an object before you have had the pleasures of exploring who you are sexually. At your age you should be earning respect not losing it.”
I thought to myself, I’d better stop now. Who am I to preach to anyone? When I was that age I was very rebellious and thought that I knew everything there was to know about the life and the world. Worse yet, unless you were teaching me about something I had never seen before, your experience and knowledge was weaker to mine. What a snob and a pain in the (donkey) I was? I fear that no matter how much I would like to prepare the upcoming youth for life, my efforts will be in vain.
I went further online as I always do to investigate(See, the internet is good for something) and typed in: “What are the complications of equating sex with money?” I feel the answer from one of the AI chats online best describes my feelings about this subject.
I have to remember that regardless of when it was in time life has always been challenging for the people living it. Also, the fears which I am writing about now have always been there. The only difference is that now we are living our lives with less discretion although I am sure there are those who would differ on that. Lastly I have to remember that I don’t have any kids and I cannot take out my parental frustrations on anyone younger than me. As Shirley Bassey sang: “It’s all just a little bit of history repeating.”
“Equating sex with money can lead to various complications, including the objectification of individuals, reinforcing gender stereotypes, and contributing to the exploitation of vulnerable populations. It may also perpetuate power imbalances, hinder healthy relationships, and undermine the importance of consent and mutual respect in intimate connections. Additionally, such associations can contribute to the prevalence of sex trafficking and other forms of sexual exploitation.”
“Nuff said.”
GEN’s meaning is short for “generous.”“Gen” typically refers to someone who’s looking for or offering money in exchange for an interaction or relationship.
“O God, give us the serenity to accept what cannot be changed, the courage to change what can be changed, and the wisdom to know the one from the other.”
A version of the serenity prayer and an article explaining its origins. {https://www.pray.com/articles/the-serenity-prayer-origin-and-meaning}
I saw Rara today on 6th.
I met Rara a few years ago online. We had a nice night together and I got the feeling that possibly a friendship was in the future. Our conversations were about current and pressing issues in which we found that we disagreed a lot but agreed that the disagreement was a good thing because we both were open to hearing what the other had to say.
Time passed and now and then we were able to chat online but we’re never able to duplicate what occurred the first time we met. I was always disappointed in that but felt hopeful because the initial base of our relationship was not shaken.
One time I was worried because Rara mentioned that he had to take his dog and himself out of his partner’s apartment and move on to ‘better pastures.’ I never offered him shelter because he never mentioned the need for it.
A year and a half passed and we connected again online and he mentioned that he was working for Uber eats using the city’s bike share facility. I thought ‘how resourceful.’ If things ever got that bad I have something to fall back on. This time I did ask: ‘Are you ok?’ To which I got the reply: ‘I’m fine. I’m staying in the Bronx near where my ex lives.’
In a few more months Rara revealed to me that he was homeless and living near his ex meant he didn’t go far from his partner after the breakup but ended up living in the streets from that night on. I offered him to come here and spend a few nights if he wanted, wash his clothes and shower. ‘I’m sure the dog would love a warm place to sleep.’ He said: ‘I’ll let you know.’
I never heard from him that night nor for the next two weeks.
He wrote to me: ‘Can I come and take that shower?’ I said: ‘Sure. When do you want to come?’
He replied: ‘I’m not sure sometime this evening. We can go there when I’m close to your area.’
I had no issue with that knowing how hard it is to get around with resources.
‘How is your dog?’
‘I had to give him up. I couldn’t care for him anymore.’
‘Who are we then?’
‘My friend who I’ve known for years. We’re living on the streets together.’
I thought to myself. Wonderful that you’re not alone but the invitation was just for one person. I don’t feel good comfortable with that situation. I relayed all of that to him and it sounded like he shrugged it off. A few weeks later he did take me up on my offer and there he was at my door with two garbage bags of dirty clothes he carried from god knows where.
At that particular time I was pretty broke so the thought of doing laundry was a leisure. Unfortunately, Rara wanted me to pay for everything, his washing, his drying and the soap. I think that he had about 4 loads with him on top of it. I explained that I did not have the money to actually do all of my clothes so we found a compromise. We would do half of his and half of mine. That did not leave any money for the dryers and he decided he was going to go ask a friend close by for money. I thought ok.
He left with an old pair of sweatpants of mine and a blazer. He looked a sight.
Two hours came around and I heard nothing from Rara. I couldn’t wait anymore to decided to hang up my clothes in my apartment. At least they could air dry. I purposefully left his clothes in the dryer because at this point I felt used. I was pretty sure that he was having sex but why didn’t he even call? Morning came around and still no Rara. I had to go into the city and as I walked to the subway, from afar came Rara looking the way he left with a pair of ugly old sweat pants and a decent blazer no shirt and no socks. He reeked of alcohol and God knows what when I stopped to tell him that I had to go to see my mother. It was an emergency and I couldn’t stop to chat. He looked more bewildered than I had ever seen him before but I had to run. I told him that I would be back in 4 hours.
When I came back there he was at the front door waiting. He still smelled of the same substances as before so I urged him to shower when we got upstairs. He took two hours to shower. I laughed to myself that he must have had years of dirt he had to wash off. What irked me was the fact that he did not come out of that bathroom not once. I knocked and knocked trying to see if I could relieve myself but he never opened the door. By then I was livid.
I ran into the bathroom to urinate and heard a loud noise. Rara was angry that I did not do his laundry for him that he threw my vase on the floor and broke it. I am not a fighter and refuse to fight with anyone. I don’t even like to yell but there he was a homeless person screaming in my house about how unfair I was to not finish his laundry and fold and pack them. I laughed at the whole notion.
“Rara, who died and made me your servant? You know that you were in the wrong. I am not your servant. I offered you to come here to do your laundry not to do it for you. I am sorry you feel this way but could you
A. Keep your voice down and B. Go put your laundry in the dryer since you were suppose to get money for just that.”
Telling him to keep his voice down only made his voice louder. He continued his ablutions, went downstairs got his clothes and put them in a bag he came back up to pack everything he had up.
He took another hour before leaving in that time I went into my bedroom so that I would not have to deal with the ugly air hanging between us. I heard the door slam and ran to see what happened and Rara was gone.
He left however a huge mess. All the soil from the potted plants were on the floor as well as the unprotected plants. He left the bathroom soaking wet and to this day I am discovering the things he took with him which were mine.
I saw Rara the other day in the city. Right on 6th. Ave. He looked determined and crazed. He was carrying a paper bag in his hand and used his other hand to hold up his falling pants as he purposefully walked past me. I screamed Rara. He stopped as if he wasn’t sure if that was his name and looked at me vaguely. He wasn’t sure where he knew me from and walked away to his purpose
Written on the 25th. of December.
To Jari who just had a baby
You have been beautifully catapulted into a lifetime of firsts. Today marks your first Xmas as a mother.
Enjoy it. This is a role most fathers wish that they could play. A role which women do not play. They personify what the essence of the role is.
They are the role. They are mother.
Happy first Xmas as a mother. Life becomes more beautiful as a parent. I am told. You will notice reserves and resolves to protect that you didn’t know existed in you.
Enjoy.
Today was a good day!
Why really?
I am exhausted emotionally and saddened by what I witnessed as I become more and more aware of the onerous voice of a homeless man whose self inflicted argument sounds like it might reach its boiling point at any minute.
I wait for the subway with the hopes that tonight’s ride home will be less colorful and more tedious. This city never disappoints though when it comes to what you expect and what you actually receive.
As I sit in the subway bench I feel all of my energy go deeper into the grey bench. I feel like every second pulls more and more energy out of me and I fear that in a few minutes I will be mistaken for yet another black homeless person because:
1. Most of the homeless population are black and…
2. I would have been caught sleeping in the subway. Something that has become not legal since Mayor Adams took office. (https://www.nytimes.com/2023/05/26/nyregion/nyc-homeless-camp-bill-of-rights.html#:~:text=And%20on%20the%20property%20of,with%20the%20comfort%20of%20passengers.)
My thoughts are: How much further can we restrict those who need our help? How many more growth stunting rules and regulations can we get away with before we begin to look like the people we don’t want to be? The self hating nazis or our current enemies, the communists.
Today was not a good day. My meager need to be of importance is not important to me anymore. I have to take the lessons offered me as teaching blocks so I may survive in the world. What the hell am I saying. I am almost 60 and still alive. Obviously I’ve done something right. There is this inner fight that I experience every day of my life. The act of pretending to be more than I am is put into question and I feel that at times I am disrespected and even laughed at for not being more assertive, louder and more tough acting and looking. I gave that up so long ago. I decided to ‘be the change that I want to see”. I remember once while on the field at work, my colleague and I were just sitting in the car waiting for another colleague to join us and a man who obviously fit into the unhoused community came to my window and asked something concerning money and I responded with: ‘I am sorry sir I can’t help you.’
My colleague who was at the drivers side said a few curse words, rolled up the windows and locked the door. She then looked at me and said: ‘don’t worry, I know how to talk to them. I’ve been here all of my life.’
I was confused. What did her rudeness and foul manner do but make us, those who were supposed be helping the unhoused community,
look less favorable?
It seems like to my colleagues and basically everyone I’ve encountered here in nyc that kindness is looked upon as a weakness. What they don’t understand is that when they are being kind to me I tend to not trust them because I realize that their relationship with kindness is not a healthy one. There is street smart and then there is just plain rudeness, carelessness and entitlement.
Without getting into the murky details of what occurred tonight I will try to put it all in one paragraph.
My colleague and I were put together because no one else showed up for work. We were given everyone else’swork. We managed to get the word out to a few people. We engaged about 30 people tonight. We encountered a group of migrants who just got here and wanted to find food and shelter. We talked with about 20 men who were alcoholics but wanted to know where to go for a shower and some shut eye. One of these men would not listen to what we were saying and took our information and tore it up and threw it back at me because we did not have food at hand. We averted a violent panhandler who almost took our money and had back up for just in case his plan did not go right. That one still has me shaking. We took the wrong turn and ended up in Brooklyn instead of returning uptown to home base. The topping on all of this was this apparent policeman who tried to joke and ask me if I was drunk because I was having trouble parallel parking the car. Again, you have to understand that I was still in shock from the previous occurrences so I bluntly told him to: ‘go to hell! Go take your macho stupidity elsewhere.’ He continued to threaten me with his status and I said to him: ‘Sir, get out of my space and let me finish my work. I’m turning you off.’ When he eventually walked away, I thought to myself: ‘Thank god that wasn’t Derek Chauvin.
All in all, it was a good day. WE managed to get through to a few people. What more can you ask for? What more?
August month of dental trauma!
Part 1.
The month of August: written 08/24/23.
So far I have had to see a dentist every week this month. The month is not yet over and I have an appointment next week for a teeth cleaning. Well, I think, they will clean the two teeth which survived the many butcherings I have had. This week alone, I have been three times and have had two major extractions.
Today was by far the worst of the three. My exhaustion with dental gear, the numbing needle and those horrible sounds coming out of those very tiny tools got to me and I found myself crying like a baby when the gloved hand approached my mouth with its needle gun. I told the four dentists/students observing: (Yes, I go to a dental university to avoid the high costs): ‘You guys are going to have to pay for my caps seeing that you’ll only leave me two teeth. One to chew with and one to open up old Coca Cola bottles with. By the way, gentlemen and lady, I expect a bag of lollipops for the trauma I have gone through this week.’
I got a wisdom tooth taken out last week Tuesday and I tell you the experience was not that bad. The anesthesiologist was the best I’ve ever encountered.
He was in and out of there like a thief in the night. No pinch, no ugly needle pressure. Nothing. The dentist that followed was just as quiet. I went there thinking that this was going to be like my last wisdom tooth extraction but 1-2-3, ‘We’re done’.
‘What?’ I proclaimed
‘It’s out.’ She said
‘But I felt nothing.’ I continued
‘Yeah, you are pretty numb!’ She returned.
My mind kept going into that last ‘wise’ extraction when 5, YES, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, dentists were pulling at my tooth to get that baby out. I just remember the disbelief in my eyes aided of course by the anesthesia which made me feel like my eye was 20 feet away from my face. I kid you not. What I don’t remember was how they actually got it out but they did.
When I later told my regular dentist about the comical incident he asked me: ‘Where are you from originally?’ I told him that I was born in Haiti and he explained why the roots of my teeth would be so deep. Apparently people from the island of Hispaniola have a sharper jaw line than other islanders and the roots of our teeth grow deeper than most. I did not buy that and felt I needed proof of such a preposterous story and researched it. Lo and behold I did find an internet article to support his story.
Fred ‘n Weezie or was it George ‘n Ginger?
I just had a hard cry.
I.
I am having a hard cry.
So many unanswered questions, thoughts and feelings are in the process of colonizing parts of me. Those same parts of which I was convinced were immuned to these feelings.
It was as if I had seen a ghost from the past who had been haunting and pinching me through the decades of my life.
\
I walked into the 135th street subway station in Harlem and after passing through the turnstiles, the short platform begged anyone with depression issues to forget its length and give it a few more steps. I noticed that I had two more minutes before the 2 train makes it’s entrance as the remnants of the passengers from the previous train changed the scene.
Out of the corner of my left eye the two main characters crept in. Their’s was a show stealing moment. In actuality, the theft seemed futile as there were really no other competitors. Everyone’s eyes were on this Fred and Ginger spectacle. You were drawn to the ambiguity of their essence. As a audience you felt uncomfortable because although something about them looked nostalgically familiar, their covert reality made you feel ashamed of anything expensive you have rightfully enjoyed or felt you merited.
They.
They were a short black older couple. I guessed their ages were somewhere in early 70’s. The two made me think of the grandparents I never got to meet. One pair of my grandparents probably looked like them, short, quirky, noticeably funny and evil at times. At least that is how I imagined them to be. I was taken into that place where you separately chuckled with both grandparents on different levels and neither they nor you were bothered by that.
THEY seemed extremely comfortable with each other. A comfort that could be easily defeated by a harsh and cruel remark which could ruin the rest of anyone’s day. They were a living dichotomy. Even their arguments were laced with love and torture.
Their openness and ability to air their dirty laundry seemed somehow too exposed for my taste. You can tell that their ugly ‘laissez faire’ was not a chosen path. You got the impression that it was inherited. All of these impressions ensued as they were gathering their bags and whatnot while exiting the 3 train. Their banter, could pass for cruelty to anyone at first glance but their raison d’etre was to take you back to that comfortable place watching your grandparents squabble and joke with them. They knew how to keep each other in check. I thought immediately of that fun annoyance that people who had been together for a long time like to do irregardless of whether they were alone or with friends. An annoyance you realized was only part of the play. An argument that you and everyone knew was of no importance but necessary.
Again I thought to myself: ‘what were my grandparents like?’
Their squabble was resolved by the time they reached the complimentary benches which at times serve as a bed to some, a meeting place to others but were now a place to gather your bearings. They were checking on their belongings making sure they left the subway with what they came in it with.
The time it took for me to wait for the next train was exactly the time they needed to let me know that they are still my elders. They seemed a proud couple. Proud of something that I was having a hard time understanding. You could tell that they love and support each other. Like Romeo and Juliet, one would commit suicide if the other one were to die.
For some reason, things began to get muddy as I began to see myself in both characters. I am sure that they didn’t see themselves in this situation at this point in their lives. I saw courage in them as they were dealing with what they didn’t have. I saw beauty in their gait and pride in their chins. They transitioned from my potential grandparents to two homeless people without scene or costume change.
Stranger thoughts began to stream into my mind like a sushi assembly line.
I pictured an incredible number of people of color who at the time of the depression could have been born as slaves or were related to former slaves. Imagine if things were so bad for the conventional Caucasian person, how bad it was for a person of color. I don’t ever remember seeing much written or anything chronicling the lives of those who were not Caucasian during that time. On that note, there is very little written about the great sacrifices forced on the slaves to build most of this country but as per usual, I have seen my share of pictures, literature about even the immigrant’s contribution to building industrial America. I only mention this because it is no wonder I am watching this couple making do with their homelessness, at times they remind me of what is normal. Today in 2023 the bulk of the homeless population are African Americans. Not even the efforts of their ancestors is recognized. Just for that alone I shouldn’t have to stand there and look at this. It is unfortunate that we keep hiding behind our shame of who we were and who we are. It is incredible to think that the bulk of us are still living the lives of slaves. We survived though and here we are Thankful that we did.
Or are we?
Back to George and Weezie:
This is when the show truly begins because these two knew that they had an audience although like myself, everyone was trying not to look. I don’t know, there was something about the way he threw his scarf around his neck. It had more regality than any of the English royals could muster.
I smiled inside at that bit of choreography thinking he must have rehearsed a million times. …and for no reason I saw hell. I saw the dark deep tunnels of the subway system where the ‘Mole People’ have created an alternate reality so far from ours. A reality where the healing sun is never there to cast the rays of vitamin D nor the moon to cast its ominous memory of all things dark deep and avoided. I imagine a reality where the human nose is put to the test of identifying odors. A reality where fresh air is but a remnant of the quick passing trains.
…and then they shimmied.
I watched them as they shimmied out of the station with their worn tap shoes and a lingering waft of foulness.
I saw how they never looked down.
As I watched the end of their exit I started crying thinking that could be anyone of us but it is the poorest who usually go first. Inside I became a socialist.
Again, my mind strayed to a time I most probably witnessed in my previous life. I saw the slaves kneeling at the shore chained and also smelly. I saw them hopeless and helpless as their captors bargained them off straight out of the ship.
[Unfortunately I cannot find the credits to these old paintings. I am sorry. The first painting I remember seeing months ago and the second has nothing to do with this story but when I saw it in my research, it left a great impression on me].
I saw the respect that is owed to our elders and those who have paved the way for so many of us.
I started to feel uneasy because I realized how easy it was for us to stand and watch these two experienced human beings and shrug it off. As if our lives were more important. Or as if we were too afraid to actually look at our shame. We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have their experiences.
I saw the futility of my life. The silly way I hold on to a picture or a memory when one day it can totally disappear and the importance of what I held dear becomes wind gusts which I no longer identify with it.
That is when I saw my face in the man’s face.
Who knows how things will end. Who knows what twists and curves I might encounter.
Who knows if the universe is not sending me a message by showing me these two.
I felt like Antoine de Saint-Exupéry felt when he left europe for the new world because he was disgusted by the inhumanity of the Second World War. What an irony! He came to the place that openly committed crimes of genocide in the past and covertly continues the act whilst justifying their actions with well crafted, lame and unjust laws.
As I watched the aged and negro Fred and Ginger couple make their grand exit. I noticed a young man standing by the wings of the turnstiles. He seemed to me in his early 20s. He was also agape and teary eyed. We looked at each other for a long time and then did what we as a society always do. Disassociate and move on.
after finishing my entry I decided to research a little this idea of not being alone while homeless and there are quite a few lovely and heart warming stories which pertain to this idea. It is wonderful to know that even though reality has been harsh to some of these people. Love keeps them going. I don’t know, it sounds gauche but there is something so romantic about having the world as your backyard and someone to share it with. Here is a sweet article from the Guardian about said subject.
Love is for everyone who is open to it.
https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2017/nov/04/homeless-couples-tell-their-love-stories
Lynn
Lynn Seymour dies
Gone are the days when adorations were sincere and there were no secret agendas nor anything to be gained from loving and adoring something or someone who put you on this earth.
I love words and I love languages.
I remember growing up and trying to teach myself more about this profession that I chose to lead me for most of my life. The internet had not made its international debut and the public library was our cultural salvation. I would walk from Flatbush ave in Brooklyn to either the Brooklyn library or if my necessity was too great I would take myself to the Lincoln center library and salivate on videos, articles, what have you about my chosen field of profession.
I was beautifully taken aback by the paraphernalia I found on Lynn Seymour.
“The lines of ticket buyers went around the whole theater of people hoping to get a seat to see Lynn Seymour dance.”
Wow.
How amazing it is to have that kind of rock star status in the dance world. Status like that feels as old as the Beatles. You cannot imagine my surprise when in the 90’s one Monday in Madrid a thin almost wobbly teacher walks into the studio and gets a lovely smile from everyone n the room. Admittedly the smile was due to her huge round sunglasses but let’s just say it was misinterpreted and no-one was hurt after the incident.
My dance changed from then on. I became a better person as a dancer. I remember distinctly that change and still call back on it when I teach. We went immediately to Palma de Mallorca on tour. Catherine Allard and I were like groupies around Lynn. She was more than a breath of fresh air. She was a reminder of why we were dancing. We went everywhere with her. She was as smart as smart could be. She knew about every piece of the cathedral in Palma de Mallorca and wowed us with her breath of knowledge. As we teetered between sightseeing and the New York Times crossword, she occasionally picked up rocks that she found interesting. I finally asked her why she did that and she said: “I am making my own shrine at home for Rudy{Nureyev} and use the stones which I find interesting.” It was true her bag was somewhat heavy.
Where am I? Oh ye, I am on this side of the ocean. Penny told me yesterday: “Lynn Seymour died. She died on March 7.” My world slowed down considerably.
Oh we are but memories. Lovely memories that we cherish and hold on to with all our angels in fear of never having them again. If only the universe could make us that little promise. Our memories will not only be ours but we will not lose them. I would be so ecstatic.
Now, I am opting for holding onto mine with all my might and thanking everyone I have ever had an interaction with for their contributions.
Happy Chrismahanukwanzakah! …
Jay’s line!
I am not sure if all of these are correct as I got them from someone else. I know for a fact that I had to change a few of them and grew very lazy. So sew me!
While you’re at it. Have a happy holidays.
Happy holidays
Full of love and peace.
Веселих свят
Сповнений любові та миру
Joyueses Fêtes! ~Felices Fiestas! ~Masaya pista opisyal! ~Laethanta saoire sona! Trevlig Helg! ~Boas Festas! ~Mutlu Bayramlar! ~Buone Feste! ~Forhe Feiertage! ~Prettige feestdagen! ~li holide eximnandi! ~Glade Feriedage! ~Kales diakopes! ~Boldog Unnepeket! ~Selamat Hari Raya! ~Vesele Praznike! Jie Ri Yu Kuai! ~Bones Festes! ~Sretni pranici! ~Chag sameach! ~Jie’ri’ kua’ile’! ~Tanoshi kyujitsu!
~Happy Holidays to all
Bonnes Fêtes
Plein de l’amour et la paix.
Felices fiestas
Llena de amor y La Paz.
Fijne Feestdagen
Vol liefde en vrede
JE
Parsley
I read about this two weeks ago. Being as naive as I am and with no means of tapping into history, I was shocked to learn about this. Now gas chambers and the slow murder of anything with a heartbeat is unacceptable. Through all these years of life I had never heard of the “Parsley massacre”. I wish I hadn’t. I have had to re-access the reason for the negativity which I keep encountering from certain people and I guess this and other occurrences of which I have yet to learn would do better to explain.
I remember, I was part of a dance workshop in North Carolina and I was working with a talented young girl{an innocent} on her interpretation of a ballet which was made on me. At the end of the session, the mother who sat through the whole class came up to me and thanked me for working with her daughter. I asked her “Where are you from?” She told me and I boasted: “Oh, we’re from the same island!” Her face changed in two seconds. She grabbed her daughter and walked out of the studio. I was left dumbfounded. I shrugged it off and thought nothing of it. Well, episodes like this keep occurring.
Please know that history, although extremely important is history. I don’t hate you. How could I? You are as human as I, as pathetic as I am and as beautiful as I am. I will however approach you with caution until I am sure we are on the same path of love and evolution. While Hitler was being hateful and narcissitic on the European continent, there were a few of his cronies in the Americas trying to compete with him on who can be the worst. If you do read this, I hope that you agree with me that the massacre was not done to the savages but by the savages.
JE7 