[Die]urnal

And the memory calls back. You saying-

"If I come in while you're sleeping, don't get up on my account."

But it was inevitable. You are so like the sun,

And I, a mere man, diurnal to the last.

Dying to earn.

So I rise up when your face sets it's light on my side of the globe.

And I will only rest once it's gone.

All through the week, the light you give me- I work it away,

Only enjoying it at weeks end.

When you come, and quicken me, then once again,

My week begins,

Until I'm weak again.

Work is an art, and mine imitates death,

Because life does.

So many little deaths,

Trying to get it right with nightly practice.

My own was wordless and without motion,

Under a warmth of blankets pressed down like hair,

The layers echo patterns outward from my body,

Tartan, Paisley, Kente, and a patchwork that tells the story I'm to dream that night.

They cover my head,

So I close my eyes.

In that moment I know nothing but the darkness,

And it is peace.

After Thought

They were a mass, milling about on a marked, plotted field of green.
This mass, black, surrounded by fashioned stones- some polished- large enough to take notice of,
They are still no Stonehenge.

But we fool ourselves into believing the lie of our immortality.

The black mass, a Black mass,
Celebrating a Black life.
All this black on Black, for a life that was Black,
And there's nothing wrong with that.

It was a full life, colorful-
But mostly Black. It wasn't choice.
It was circumstance.

Movements through that life,
So tied to a color,
Possibilities for that life,
Limited by an 'other'.

That life made a mark,
So they do, in the green.
And like those before, they choose stone for this commemoration.

They say 'This will last,"
While I think 'Maybe longer than you.'
I've seen stones crushed to powder.
What does that do for a legacy?

To build a rock on death.
To mark that instead of life.
I don't want to see her gravestone.
I want to see the birth stone.

And I want it to be...
Black.


Note from me: I often find myself thinking about the disparate views on what it means to be Black. Not in an introspective way. I'm almost positive it has no meaning, not in any inherent sense. It only means something once someone like myself interacts with another person. Reactions will differ infinitely given an infinite amount of subjective experiences. It's something I'd like to term 'Black Relativity.' I propose that 'Blackness' only has meaning relative to the degree of reaction from the individual(s) with whom a Black person is interacting.
If I don't respond in a way that renders what someone's sense of 'Blackness' is as null, then I've had to either confirm or deny that sense. That is to say, 'Blackness' needs a *viewer, someone who- cued by a person's complection- is ready to make judgments ranging from an abstract idea like What it means to be inside black/brown skin to a specific idea like What her/his favorite music genre is. If we must interact for that sense to have worth, then when we are not interacting that sense is rendered null. Brings a new meaning the Black Death, doesn't it?

Osama Bin Laid to Rest

I was watching the news with my man Amon last night, when he asked me "Is this who we are, as a country?" He asked in response to videos of Americans celebrating Osama Bin Laden's death. I'm curious to know what my friends think about these feelings sweeping the country. I've seen celebrations on T.V. Singing in front of the White House, cheering in stadiums. You'd think we won a war. But can you blame anyone for feeling satisfied about our government delivering on a promise to take down a known terrorist. Hell, I'm still waiting for some folks to die. If I waited for their minds to change I'd be dead myself before that happened.

I'm not a huge proponent of war, but I've benefited from it. Though, someone always does. But in a larger, historical sense, the Revolutionary War resulted in the the formation of the United States. The Civil War allowed my ancestors greater freedoms. World War II took the Nazis to task, and I don't know anyone who thinks that was a bad decision. Surely we can be happy Hitler's dead, right? So what is the distancing from relief about Bin Laden's demise?

Oh. The 'What/Who comes next' effect. Yea, I'm wondering too. I felt the same way after Mubarak resigned. But I recall Egyptians being pretty hopeful. Perhaps against the Arab world's muted response, our American exuberance seems out of place. Is the fear then that we'll be looked on poorly as a nation? Perhaps. But if so...whats new?

So...what is the big deal? How are we at war this long yet upset for feeling better through someones death? I'm sure no one was thinking that taking out Al Quaeda was going to involve 'time out' corners and handshakes. People say "Support the troops!" all the time. You know the troops are killing people, right? And sometimes- get this- they accidentally kill civilians! But they're saluted! Veterans can't get taken care of when they're back in the USA, but damnit, we thank them when they're dressed up at the airport! It's the American way.

And so is war.

Let's not mix our emotions any more than we already do. This was a big goal. Maybe the ten year gap in goal setting and achievement has caused some to forget. There is nothing wrong with placing this in the proper historical framework and feeling good about this. I'm not saying go out and have a theme party! And by no means should MARCHING BANDS be involved, Glen Beck! But can't we breathe a sigh of relief that this man is gone. For goodness sake, after ten years, haven't we been waiting to exhale?

Moment of Reflection

I have done what I am born to do;

Love and be loved.

I sent it out.

I got it back.

I sang a song of Power,

And its melody was Energy.

I turned my thoughts to joy and goodness,

And my thoughts turned my life around.

Potent Quotables

"I'm amazed at the instruments of Fate. Some people will never realize that though they may wound, they may also heal. The same bee that stings also pollinates."

-January 18th

Potent Quotables

I thought it would be good to use my blog to sometimes record quotes I make or thoughts I have. I hesitated doing this for a while because I felt like my blogs should have a certain length. But in truth, they should only have substance. And if I can serve that up in one sentence, I'll share it.
So, here goes [something]!

"The world seems acceptable at any one moment in time. Hold it for an instant and all the madness and beauty can be explained away. Take into account its history, with and without our presence, and the effect is dizzying. You'll grow sick before you grow wiser."- Dec 9th

Reel Talk: For Colored Girls

*Contains Spoilers*

This weekend I ventured to see For Colored Girls, Tyler Perry's audacious adaptation of Ntozake Shange's For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enuf. Having seen the extended 'choreo-poem' on stage some years ago, I was drawn in by the prospect of witnessing these great monologues come to life on the big screen, and being performed by some larger than life actresses.

And the actresses really are the draw of this film. Ignorant of the story, as the stage production has no linear narrative, that wasn't there to pull me in. Nor was there the lure of a director who's work I respect or admire. This movie, for me, was all about the cast and how they would portray the 'colored girls' the title refers to.

The casting is truly inspired in many respects. Loretta Devine is pitch perfect as the vocal, conflicted Juanita Sims. Struggling with living the life she preaches to women at her clinic. The young Tessa Thompson is captivating from her first scene as Nyla. All eyes on her in a dance studio as she recounts her first time, listing the names of boys off effortlessly. And again as she lay in a hospital bed, post-back-alley abortion, describing what she remembers of the event. And Phylicia Rashad can do no wrong as Gilda, whether delivering a hard truth to Crystal (Kimberly Elise) or as she cradles Tangie (Thandie Newton) and slips into another of Shange's spellbinding monologues. It makes me wonder how much better that would have been were Lisa Bonet cast as Tangie. Hmmm.

But it's not all good. Janet Jackson was pretty dull throughout as Jo. She's really more a set piece in most scenes, as Perry felt it necessary to lift the character of Miranda strait from The Devil Wears Prada and have Janet do an imitation. And speaking of imitations, her fictional magazine even uses the same font as VOGUE for its cover! The flat Anna Wintour/Miranda caricature did not bring me into the story the same way the others did. Nor did Whoopie Goldberg's Alice, a religious fanatic that sometimes feels like a ripoff of the mother from Carrie.

Perry makes Alice a hoarder, which is a small detail that adds to her character and gives audiences something current to relate her craziness too. It was unnecessary, but not as unnecessary as Jo's cheating husband who she contracts HIV from, thanks to his infidelity with other men. The husbands ambiguous sexuality was, again, a stab at being contemporary, but it really just shows the filmaker's lack of understanding about the issue he's dealing with.

SIDE NOTE: The film has moderate parts for men, as the 'play' has none at all. One scene that feels like an approach at a male monologue finds the character struggling to say "I'm not gay. I'm just a man who likes to have sex with men." One can't help but hear the directors voice there, since that line- like the character- is an invention of Perry himself.

Much of the film suffers from a "lack of understanding" on the part of the director. Do rapists usually get buck naked before they go for it from behind? I don't know, but that terribly mis-scored scene with Yasmine (Anika Noni Rose) and Bill (Khalil Kane) will no doubt get several homo-erotic readings. Mostly thanks to Perry's preoccupation with the male form and the type of penetration.

The original production is bold in it's simplicity. The women have no connections, excepting the ones the audience makes for them. Their journeys are different, but their outlooks are colored by their experiences. The film version feels in part like half-hearted homage to The Women of Brewster Place, finding many of the characters sharing the same apartment complex. Why not keep them separated, and let their experiences link them? Even with all of the characters in the same city, the story is still all over the place.

I can't recall discerning a 'message' when I saw the original, but the film seems pretty explicit: Avoid men at all costs!!!

The beauty and the struggle of these lives is corrupted in a way, into a tale of how terrible men are. Feminism is not about hating men, it's about empowering women. You get both with this film, and it's simply too much.

And that shouldn't suggest a black woman should have directed this, or would have done a better job. One of the best film adaptations of a story about blackness, femininity, and hardship, that incorporates song, deals with rape, forgiveness, and maintains it's literary origin was made by a *white man. I'm just suggesting it shouldn't have been, or at least didn't have to be, Tyler Perry.

Improvements in style aside, it's more of the same from Perry. Overblown drama, a gloss of subject matter, and a profound love of 'the diva'- complete with her sharp looks, clever dialog, and scenes of 'going off.' The film is worth seeing for the performances alone. Even Macy Gray is haunting as, Rose, the abortionist from the aforementioned back-alley, who's speech rambles on in a nightmarish way as she sanitizes her tools in liquor. But overall, the film suffers from it's contrived nature at Perry's hand.

Is this movie really for colored girls? Not if those colored girls aren't also critical of what comes off the screen. I wonder how other men felt leaving the theater. Did they feel 'eyes crawling up' on them? It would have been hard not to. Love for women is present without question, but as a male, I felt Perry has colored me 'bad.'

*Thanks Stephen Spielberg. I still quote lines from The Color Purple.

In[Natural] Light and Magic

Lightning bugs in the grass...
They're just bits of magic really.
Like the bits of gold that fall from the sky when it rains and the sun is out.

Minutes old light from the sun,
Catching eons old water from the heavens.
Taking it, for a second.
Transforming it.

Alchemy.

The light, deadly when focused, is beauty when it's scattered.
It casts all its personality across the clouds...
Or the clear, blue sky.
And it delights us.

Like lightning bugs in the grass.

Primal

Think with no words.
Only instinctual knowing.
Move forth with clear directive.
KILL of be Killed.

No reason ruling. Only nature.
Ride on the very back of nature.
Yet conceive no word for nature.

None.

Know what it is. Its truth.
Know that giving it a name,
Will only diminish it.

Swallow up its beauty and its cruelty with your eyes.
Call to the moon.
But do not be like it.
Do not be phased.

Oh, how good is a night song?
At home in the country these creatures call.
The crickets create a chorus with no cane or top hat,
Rubbing their legs together like the lovers indoors who listen and are soothed.

Contours of the wild, amplifying amphibians,
From the frogs through the trees
On the seasons warm breeze.
Their Lilly pads- their soap boxes.
Their song- their argument: "I'm best...pick me."

Owls constantly questioning identity,
A lone wolf, crying for company.

These voices, these songs,
Black, only because they are swaddled in the night.
Night songs.
And what a masterful conductor.

(Please play video below then read my post)



HI,

I’m [insert professional athlete name here]. I play games for a living. Somehow that makes me important enough to endorse products and garner enormous wages. It also makes me an automatic role model. When I win games, people behave like we've just secured Peace in the Middle East. If I make an unpopular career decision, people react like there is a Revolution going on- burning things and the like. People watch what I do more closely than their own leaders. It's rare that I comment on how Unbelievably F*CKED our country/world is. Advertisers don't want spokespeople who are too political :/ So instead of speaking out, I just play with my Balls. Good day.

*I saw this video and decided to write the previous statement. Just look how people show up and show out. It’s true, it's entertainment. I've been to more films than I have political rallies. But I also strive to be more informed and make better choices. I never learned to do that from athletes. Teachers on the other hand...

But, no one shows up for them like this. Or for the countless others who fill positions in society that we could not do without.

Kobe Bryant never taught me anything. Lebron James never gave me a DIME that he made up North, and he won’t when he goes down South either! But if he wins a ring in Miami, I'm certain there will be a parade.

NOH8: UNCG Edition

On March 21st I participated in a photo shoot for the NOH8 Campaign. Since California's passing of Proposition 8, which amended that states constitution so that it can continue to discriminate against Gay's and Lesbians who previously could legally marry in California, there have been countless protests and people speaking out against it.

The NOH8 (No Hate) Campaign, designed by Adam Bouska and his partner Jeff Parshley, has garnered world-wide attention in the last two years. That may have something to do with its growing celebrity status. While the first shoots were of average, everyday Californians, the celebrity community jumped on the band wagon (they love a good cause) and has since popularized the campaign and helped inspire it to spread.

Recently, it spread to Greensboro, NC- thanks to my good friend *Brandon Lee! He organized the first NOH8 Photo Shoot in October of 2009 for anyone in town who wanted to participate. This March he and Brittany Clark conducted a second shoot and people representing UNC-G specifically got the chance to lend their face to the campaign. And I was happy to be one of them.

All the pictures have a couple of things in common:
1)A silver piece of tape covering the mouth (this is a silent protest!) and
2)the NOH8 logo adorning something in the picture.
But that's where the similarities stop.

And that's really my favorite part of the pictures. They allow a certain amount of individuality to come through from the subject. The poses are varied and the props are unique. Most wear white, but some don't. One of my favorite images is of Lt. Dan Choi, an Iraq War Veteran who was discharged under 'Don't Ask Don't Tell,' wearing his Army fatigues. His fist raised high, he stands defiant, refusing to accept the prejudice that made him a celebrity when he really just wanted to be a soldier.

His story, like hundreds of others, is told through the photograph. Elements of individuality are there, and they are great. But it is the common elements which speak the loudest. His mouth was covered, just like mine was. And he, like I, wore the NOH8 logo. Pictures say a thousand words. I'm glad that with these, we were all saying the same thing.

NO
H8

Here's a link to the NOH8 website if you would like to know more http://www.noh8campaign.com/

*Check out Brandon in this video, talking about the first NOH8 shoot that he organized in Greensboro!

Weeding Out The Truth

Wednesday night I was treated to a visit from my friend Howard. I say treated because I consider him a kindred intellect (he's affectionately known as "Dr." as I am likewise known as "Professor"). During the course of our chat, we came to the topic of Marijuana.

It was something I thought we would only touch on, but it turned into a bit of a discussion. Howard stated that he could not understand why people would smoke Marijuana. I replied that people do it because of how it makes them feel- weightless, calm, prone to laugh, docile, numb, etc.
"But," he said "it kills brain cells."

I responded that something like that would only happen from constant, long term exposure-i.e., being a 'pot head'. But soon I would discover that is not true at all.

The next day, after work I started to research just how much you would have to smoke and how long it takes people who smoke to begin to suffer brain damage. The answer I found was not what I heard from teachers and peers.

None of the recent tests used to show brain damage in humans have found that Marijuana is harmful to brain cells or brain chemistry. So why do people believe it does? I found two reasons.

The 1982 Journal of Pharmacology contains an article titled “Remote Memory During Marijuana Intoxication." It states that "Marijuana produces immediate, temporary changes in thoughts, perceptions, and information processing." Because people that smoke 'weed' are subject to these effects, the perception is that they are...well...stupid. For some they appear slow in thought, perceiving events in delay, and being confused by something like a simple TV program.

Funny Example: I've heard tell of a couple of girls who smoked weed one night and popped in a DVD to watch a movie. After seeing what appeared to be the same images over and over, they were confused about why the films plot points seemed to repeat. After some time, one of them realized the problem. *They had only been watching the DVD menu.*

Like the article on memory states, the changes in thought are immediate, but also temporary. They only last for the length of intoxication. Know people who seem like they're always affected?? Its probably because they're always smoking!

Weed is not killing their brain cells, though they may be doing that themselves. There is a practice among some smokers of holding their breath after inhaling. Its common knowledge that holding your breath for too long cuts off Oxygen to the brain. "And what do brain cells need class?"

OXYGEN!

"Right!" Holding your breath for too long can cause brain damage. It is also a pointless practice since THC, the chemical in Marijuana that gets one 'high' starts affecting the brain as soon as it hits the lungs.

But that is just one reason people think Marijuana kills brain cells. Another is because of a speculative study done over 25 years ago that has, to this day, never been substantiated by any other(+). This involved Rhesus monkeys who were subjected to high concentrations of Marijuana for an extended period of time, more than an average human ever would.

The experiment was government sponsored and most likely carried out in a way to produce results to support Marijuana criminalization. And criminalization is ultimately why weed is 'bad.'

Because of its illegality, we associate weed with being something more negative than what is legal. Cigarettes are proven to be packed with poisons and highly addictive because of nicotine. Weed? Neither poisonous or addictive. Most Marijuana smokers do so occasionally, causing 'minor' irritation to their lungs.

We have virtually the same effects on our body breathing in emissions from vehicles and factories. Cigarettes and other drugs (yes, I'm calling cigarettes drugs) have no positive effects on humans. Marijuana, on the other hand, not only doesnt kill brain cells but is proven to stimulate the growth of brain cells in certain regions of the brain http://www.druglibrary.org/schaffer/hemp/BRAIN.HTM

While this post may seem like a long winded way of convincing people why they should smoke weed, it is-in fact- not. I am not encouraging anyone to smoke. Anything! I am, however, encouraging people to be knowledgeable about facts and the science of what is around us.

People can and will tell you anything. The government especially. (Don't even get me STARTED on gay-marriage!) Remember when it was said that because of skin color blacks were inferior, and that because of skull shape some people were smarter? That women were not as smart as men, and that crack babies existed?

Most reading this are not old enough to recall, but Im sure we all know how it was commonly thought that you could get HIV/AIDS from kissing, or sweat. Miseducation stretches throughout history, and the miseducation becomes mythology and fear tactics in examples like "Masturbation causes blindness" or "Black men want to rape white women."

I admonish you, dont believe everything you hear, or read. Research, and cross reference. Do not only be taught. Learn for yourself. The less you do, the more the truth goes up in smoke.

(+)“Cannabis Sativa: Effects on Brain Function and Ultrastructure in Rhesus Monkeys.” R. G. Heath Biological Psychiatry 15 (1980)

No Doubt About It

Saturday night. As my friend Jessica and I walked through one of the many gravel lots of the Verizon Wireless Amphitheater in Charlotte, we could here in the distance a soaring chorus.
*Whoaaa, I never meant to braaag, but I got him where I want him nooow*

It was the sound of Paramore on the stage, singing there hit "Misery Business." It was only a short time before we were in view of the stage, and the hundreds of people gathered before it. Jumping, dancing, and singing along.

You'd think they were the main act!

Though they weren't, they were no less energized. Hayley, the lead singer, sounds remarkably like she does on CD (difficult to do live). And naturally, the rest of the band...played their part ;)

But when they're time on stage had ended, and they had properly hyped up the crowd, it was time for what we'd all really been waiting for.

The lights went down and the screams went up. There, on a screen on stage, the silhouettes of the band members appeared one by one. Last of them all, Gwen Stefani. The crowd went...well... b-a-n-a-n-a-s!

When the screen lifted, we were treated to "Spiderwebs," a single from their third, and possibly most popular, album "Tragic Kingdom."

When the song began I was instantly back in 1995, No Doubt being a favorite band of mine for years. "Spiderwebs" was the first song I ever heard from the group, so it was really quite poetic for me.

Over the next two hours, we were treated to hit after hit from the bands stellar decade plus career. "Dont Speak," "Simple Kind of Life," and a rendition of "Just a Girl" in which all of the guys in the audience were asked to sing aloud. "Can we do that here in North Carolina?" Gwen asked, tauntingly. While the concert was a raucous walk down memory lane, it was also a look to the future.

Not just because of the space age set, or the band members modernist, monochromatic wardrobe. The band is reportedly coming out with a new album in 2010, and this tour is really getting people worked up about it. Some people say they did their best work in the 90's. Others think since they recorded their dance-hall inspired "Rock Steady" in Jamaica, they haven't been better. Im sure all will agree, whatever comes next, it will definitely be worth checking out. Critiques may question weather the group can turn out another album with the same punch as their firsts, and the same groove as their most recent. I, for one, have no doubt.

"EVEN"

Sun, bright shining,
Giving relief from a from a freezing building.
Who thought the wide open could be so warm?
A space where no one is.
To be warm and alone feels like a contradiction.

But I am not alone.

Strong flowers, full blooming, giving off intoxicating aromas.
Their sweetness alone is heaven,
But it is mixed with something.
Smoke?
Yes...

But there is no alarm to this scent. No danger. No cigarette even.
No.
This smell is piped tobacco. This smell is sweet like the flowers.
This smell is a memory.

This pipe, wherever it might be, is a funeral pyre.
The plants mourn their fellow.
Their tears...
Perfume.

A lightning strike in distant past.
A fire ignites and billowing clouds follow.
Nothing new under the sun.

Even then- heat.
Even then- fire.
Even now we need to breathe.
Even now we breathe in smoke.

--Alva Jones Jr.

Reel Advice

Summer is here once again and that of course means summer blockbusters. The casual movie goer has plenty to choose from, but it is the fan-boy(and girl) who has something to go crazy over. This summer audiences will get to see two very popular novels turned into films (Angels and Demons, Harry Potter) and one wildly successful children's book(Where the Wild Things Are). Not to mention seeing some of television and films favorite characters return in J.J. Abrams STAR TREK, and a hilarious looking send up of the 70's classic Land of the Lost, starring Will Ferrel.

When I look at the next few months coming attractions, two words come to mind.
High Expectations.

It's true. In the past I was a bit of a purist. Especially with comic book franchises. For me they have a rich, complex history which must be respected. A few years ago, any deviation would have been complete and utter disrespect to that history. Having Storm lose her African accent felt like having a part of someone I had known for years changed in an instant.

And that is just a minor alteration. In some films, entire back-stories have been changed, or, totally fabricated. But in some instances, these new elements have enhanced film versions. Batman Begins is a good example. The fresh take on Batman's origin breathed life into a dead franchise.

After reading Watchmen and watching the movie, I saw how boring a direct adaptation can be. All the characters were there, the same events, the same costumes...even the same dialogue!

There was nothing new or unexpected. No creativity. No imagination. No reason to watch if you've already read. It was faithful to a fault.

That's what I liked about 'X-Men Origins: Wolverine'. This film has gotten less than favorable reviews from fans of the comic and television series. But its mostly thanks to the common argument- "It's not like the book." Ive come to the realization, its not supposed to be. Having read "Origin", the comic that details Wolverine's beginnings, I would have been bored to tears with a shot-by-shot, Watchmen-like, treatment.

'Origins' does just what its supposed to and takes a well known character and fleshes him out with a compelling back story. A story full of tragedy, hefted up to a near Shakespearean level by the romance in the film, as well as a few twists. Twists I did not see coming because the film maker, Gavin Hood, deigned to do something different. And I thank him

When I watched with my family opening weekend, we were blown away, seeing some puzzle pieces fall into place as well as being surprised. Sometimes on the edge of our seat, sometimes clutching ourselves, sometimes each other, barely even wanting to blink at some parts (see fight scene toward the end). It was a complete movie experience.

So if something you've read or known in a different form is being shown in a theater near you, take some time before you go, if you go, to leave your version of it behind before you watch. I did with Wolverine. And despite what people are saying, I still recommend it...claws and all.

TEARS. RUNNY NOSE. MOUTH HANGING OPEN. HEART...BROKEN

That describes me at the end of The Wrestler. The film, staring Mickey Rourke(Body Heat, Sin City) deals with the life of a theatrical wrestler who knew his greatest glory in the 1980's and is now living out his life in present day New Jersey in much less than splendor.

The wrestler in question, Randy "The Ram" Robinson begins the film being locked out of his trailer and being reduced to sleeping in his van until he can get money for rent. Its a long fall for a guy who had a video game made with him as a main character.

This man was famous. He was big. Now, he plays that video game on what appears to be the first Nintendo ever made with a young boy who seems to have more important things to do than Robinson does.

But Robinson does have important things to do. He has to get his entire life sorted out. He needs to sort out his love life with the stripper, Cassidy (Marisa Tomei), fix his damaged, threadbare relationship with his daughter, Stephanie (Evan Rachel Wood), and retire from wrestling in order to regain his health.

Despite a healthy dose of humor, the film is hard to watch. Its sad and its violent. But out of the aspects of the film that make it not only bearable but actually uplifting is that Robinson does sort it all out. But its not by falling in love, or mending the wounds he's caused his daughter. Robinson sorts it out by realizing just what his whole life really is. Its wrestling.

After taking a job in a grocery store, Robinson assumes an accidental "Clark Kent" persona. Because of a jerk boss he is forced to wear a nametag with states 'Robin.' He wears a hair net and jokes with the customers. You wouldnt assume he is the man who sustains body slams and barbed wire by night. He's more lamb than "Ram."

And after trying life a different way-reaching out and attempting to foster a relationship with Stephanie and Cassidy, quitting wrestling- he goes back to what he knows. He turns his ear to the ones who were always there and listens to them.

You see, although his fame dwindled, his popularity never did. He's still recognized and lauded for his talent by people in and outside of the profession. He has fans all over the place. People who havent forgotten who he was, and who still believe he is that person.

By the end of the movie he's not making decisions for himself any more. His life doesnt belong to him. It never did. The life that he had, at the height of his success, belonged to the fans. And everytime he steps into the ring, its theirs again. Thats the only life worth living for him. And thats the life he chooses.

The film is gritty and ruff. Its real. An effect created by the sprinking of non-actors who appear in the film. Some, average people with small speaking parts. Many others wrestlers themselves who's "stage" names scroll across the screen during the credits.

In places I was reminded of the character Budd from Kill Bill vol.2, destitute and alone, with nothing but a shotgun and a country song as company. But there is nowhere near the amount of sympathy present for that character as there is for Robinson. Budd is so full of hate, so villainous you feel he deserves his place alone in the desert.

Though Robinson is no saint, you want his life to work. You want to stand in the thearter and cheer him on. Strangely you become one of his ever present fans. You keep him alive, all the way to the end.

I Was There

I was recently blessed with the opportunity to travel to DC with friends to witness the inauguration of Barak Obama as President of the United States of America.

The chance just fell in my lap the Saturday before it was to take place thanks to my friend Ke' Shawn, and I moved Heaven and earth to make sure I would be able to attend. With everything paid for I simply needed to clear it with my parents, my professors, and my place of employment.

It was an easy enough sell for all three, understanding this as a unique moment in history. With that taken care of, we were on our way that Monday night and that morning we were there with the throngs of people in Washington, DC, all ready to see and experience this unprecedented event.

By tram we made our way to the Mall to meet the day with millions of our fellow countrymen. It was as cold as ice with barely any room to move but at one moment, a current surged through the crowd and all discomfort was forgotten.

There were times leading up to that moment -favored dignitaries being announced and taking their seats (Jimmy Carter, Colon Powell, etc.)- which hinted at feelings of warmth. But at 12noon, Barak Obama said "So help me God," and suddenly the 20th of January became the hottest day in July.

I could scarcely take it in. I stood, grinning like a child, wholly rapt in the moment. I felt like crying, but I laughed aloud instead, gladdened more than moved. Besides, that warmth was only a feeling and not a truth. We were still basically on the surface of Pluto and, my tear ducts having frozen, I could produce no tears.

We stood and listened to his speech. And I felt a great connection to those millions there who had gathered there that day. And to those across the country who were watching on TV. To those who viewed it in other countries, and even those who listened on the radio.

When I think about it I am reminded of a revelation I had one day driving back to school from my home town. I was listening to a performance of "My Man's Gone Now" from Porgy and Bess on NPR. It was a live performance and the woman's voice reminded me of a soprano I had heard in a performance at the War Memorial Auditorium a year before with my friend Jameel.

When the performance was over, the applause began and ended and the radio personality announced that the song was performed by a woman who won an award from UNC-G's School of Music. I sat for a moment and remembered that the woman who sang at War Memorial won a similar award. In fact, it was the same award. It was the same woman. The same performance. It had been recorded and rebroadcast on the radio.

When I realized this, I thought back to the applause and knew that I was apart of that sound. Some of those claps and cheers were mine. I was there. It is such an interesting, complicated feeling. You know you are you, an individual. But in an instance such as that, you are lost, among a sea of people, of sound.

But like the great and terrible moments in our recent history, since the advent television and radio, you are-in a way- preserved along with that moment. From those poor people who's screams are audible in the background as the newscaster describes the tragedy of the Hindenburg to the grateful millions who's cheers filled the Mall on Washington that day- we are the ones who can say "I was there." Whether like a burden or a badge, we carry it.

I am one of the grateful millions. One who can utter that phrase for all the years of my life. One who can say "When History called the role, I was there to answer back 'Present'."

Gran Torino- A Picture of a People

Gun toting, teeth grinding, epithet spewing, septuagenarian. This is the main character, Walter Kowalski, in Clint Eastwood's Gran Torino.

The film, one of this years Oscar contenders, finds Eastwood's Kowalski- a taciturn World War II veteran- living in a neighborhood now populated with those he once only saw as war-time enemies.

The power of this film comes partly from Eastwood's now typical performance, that of the grizzled, growling 'man with a problem' who's going to 'fix it.' In 2004 his 'problem' was Maggie Fitzgerald, the paralyzed boxer of Million Dollar Baby. This year, its a violent Hmong gang that has terrorized his neigbors Thao and Sue, whom he befriends during the course of the film.

The other part of Torino's power owes itself to the ever present racial slurs Kowalski and others let loose. Some might make you squirm while others could cause you to snicker or laugh out loud. Whether you're squirming or squeeling, you must take the time to stop and think about the material that is presented. I was able to find quite a few lessons in this story. A story which, in truth, sounds impossible at first.

Walter Kowalski hates foreigners (Koreans especially) but they're his neighbors and he ends up becoming friends with them?

That extreme oversimplification of the plot gives it an almost Disney-like 'cheese' factor. But I assure you, this is no Disney picture. And while at first the premise seems unbelievable, the films pacing makes sure no major character developments occur too quicky or, quite possibly, at all.

Torino does a good job of informing viewers about its supporting cast, the Hmong- people from different parts of Laos, Thailand and China who came to America after being targeted and killed for fighting alongside the U.S. in Vietnam. This is a culture and a history I knew nothing about, despite going to school and working with Hmong people. I was happy to be enlightened.

Throughout Torino, we find Kowalski grumbling something or other. One scene shows him chiding Thao about the neighbors lack of curb appeal. Kowalski, the 'American,' is a man concerned about appearances. His grass always cut, his car washed and waxed, and his flag-our flag- always waving. Meanwhile, he has virtually no relationship with his sons, failing health, and guilt so burdensome he can find only one relief. His neighbors, on the other hand, may have shabby facades, but inside those houses are close knit families with strong ties to their heritage.

The trailer for the film calls it "prime, vintage Eastwood." That's an easy critique considering some of the scenes look like they were filmed with 'Dirty Harry 6" in mind. Instead, I say that this is prime, vintage America. The America that, despite its sublime curb appeal, put its racism in the front yard (right beside the Gardenias) and held so many problems inside.

Kowalski is a man out of place and out of touch with the larger world around him. Perhaps like last years Academy Award winner for Best Picture, this film would be called No Country for Old Men, that is, if it did not display some hope that there is a place in the present for those who suffered through the history many of us only read about. The history that made them bitter and hateful. The history that made them 'American.'

A Love Letter

October posed a problem for me. My friend Shari left for Manchester, England, like I did one year ago. As her date of departure approached in September I recalled how I felt as the time came for me to leave the country. Upon looking back, I saw that one thing I really cared about was staying in contact with those I had left here The States.

Naturally, there was the internet to help me both update people on my life and stay updated on things going on here at home. But I didn’t want that to be my sole method of communication. E-mail, an already cold and detached means of correspondence would only be made more so by the distance. So I decided to write letters to those I was separated from.

Now with Shari gone, I longed to do the same. The only problem is finding the time. Writing a blog is one thing, but piecing together a carefully worded extended thought is completely…oh wait… it’s the same. But still, the formation is different, the way it all comes together. It’s difficult to explain but as a writer I see a distinction.

So, as usual, I have been going to class, working at the library, ushering at our auditorium, spending time with friends and doing all the other things a young college student does in his spare time. But I was plagued by the fact that though I’ve been doing all of those things, I wasn’t able to work in writing a thoughtful letter to my dear Shari!

Now I get pretty busy, but as my father says, “All those great men in history had the same amount of time in a day as you do; twenty four hours- no more, no less.” And these guys weren’t sitting around on youtube all day. They were forging governments and invading countries.

Needing inspiration from “the greats,” where else could I turn but to Love Letters of Great Men, the compilation of epistles (letters) by some of history’s most notable figures. And these are some greats, might I say. Voltaire, Beethoven, Van Gogh. These men who produced books, music and paintings also found time to produce “I am a prisoner here in the name of the King; they can take my life, but not the love that I feel for you.”(Voltaire). And “Oh God, look out into the beauties of nature and comfort your heart with that which must be.” (Beethoven).

Leafing through the letters of these famous men, one thing linked them together, aside from their elevated status in our historical memory, and in their own time. It was their passion that spurred production. It was the love they felt for their loves that allowed these well-springs to open amidst wars and turmoil and bridge the expanse that often separated them.

My hope is that this post will do just that. Narrow the gulf between us…convey my love to her, who now is so far away, though at times feels as though she is at my side. I miss the walks around the museum, the span of time sitting, looking at a painting, drinking it in, then looking at each other and knowing that the other knows what you’ve tasted. I miss the pain in my gut and the tears in my eyes, both from the laughter shared with her. I miss where she is now. I know that her adventures there will be different than my own yet very much the same, as we are very much the same.

Autumn is here. The leaves have begun to change. The days get colder and we see less of the sun, obscured by the clouds of a new winter. But still, there are days like today when, though only temporarily, all is bright and beautiful. Despite the clouds of tragedy that surround, it causes me to hope, and look forward to when my sun will return to me.

For Shari, a sister more than blood can say.