"It's Hard Being Me," in Three Acts- Act I (Nothing Perfect)

Disclaimer: Please, if it's not too much trouble, keep in mind that this is a creative platform. I deal in humans and words. Not politics.

Act I: Nothing Perfect

He looked at her. "What do you think?"

She shook her head. 

"What?"

"Ignoramooses have no right to speak on such matters," she said evenly, looking him dead in the eye, like something deep inside her was smirking at him.

"What?"

"I have not earned it."

"You haven't earned what?" he huffed, apparently growing even more impatient, if that was possible.

She pressed her lips together and studied him a moment. "The right to speak about politics."

"How do you mean?" he demanded.

She exhaled. "If one day, I should decide to go to college and work hard and study politics and earn a political science degree and work in government, then, and only then, will I have gained enough knowledge and insight to not be an ignoramoose about politics. And then—and only then— will I have earned the right to speak with any degree of authority in matters of politics. Until then, I shall write my thoughts in my journals, and I will cry them to the Lord, but I will not speak my mind about politics, for what mind is it, but a barren one— one of passions, not thoughts?"

"But democracy! Free speech! What of these?"

"What of them?"

"You have a right to them, you know."

"A right before the eyes of the Constitution. Not a right before the eyes of Truth."

"What are you trying to say about the Constitution?"

"That is was a document made by man, to govern man. By flawed and broken, to govern flawed and broken. Successful? So far, very. But perfect? Never."

"But what about your duty to your countrymen? Is it not your obligation to participate in law-making? In election?"

"To what point and purpose, Jack? If I do not understand the systems I am voting to change or to maintain, what good can I possibly do? I have just the chance of a lottery— maybe I'll hit the right number, maybe I won't. I'm shooting blind. I won't even be making decisions so much as just rolling dice, hoping to get lucky."

"But you're more educated than half— no, the majority— of the voting public. If you're not qualified to vote, who is?"

"Precisely. And there you have a democracy."

"Oh, so now you're against democracy, too?"

"I'm not qualified to be against anything."

"You're rather infuriating at times, you know that?"

Jack wasn't kidding and Jane knew it. And it hurt. Of course she knew she was infuriating when it came to politics. That was precisely why she tried to stay out of them. But somehow someone always managed to pull her back in. Somebody always had the insatiable desire to be infuriated.

"What I mean," said Jane quietly, "is that government all comes down to personal responsibility— the responsibility of each singular person. There will always be people committing wrongs. And everyone will eventually commit wrong. It's in our blood, in our DNA. And no government, no legal system can possibly stop a person determined to do wrong. What kept you from not robbing a bank today? Not the fear of imprisonment, retribution— no, simply the fact that you had no inclination to do so. Whether you're talking about a lowly citizen or a government official, there is always and forever the potentiality that they will seek to do wrong. That they will backfire against the system. There is no possible 'ideal' or 'perfect' government. Talking politics is always 'how can we make the best of what we've got?' And that's why we don't get along, politics and I. Because I cooperate with ideals. With dream castles and dream societies and dream people who obey my every whim, who obligingly—gladly— slip into my ideals, my ideas of perfection. I am not a 'practical' creature, Jack, and I never was. Don't try to shove that hat on me now. It won't fit."

Jack stared at her a long time, wheels turning in his skull.

"I'm not sorry I asked," he said much more softly than Jane expected, "but I am still sorry you won't vote."

Jane swallowed down a lump in her throat and gazed off into the distance. "So am I."

Jack would never know how excruciatingly true that statement was, how deeply she felt it. But he loved her, and that was enough.

Make Your Voice Heard

Go and catch a falling star.
Send it on the evening breeze
lightly salted by the ocean's sneeze.
Watch it whoosh over the land
like at a yellow light a minivan. 
I find myself in this story--
Who has written it for me?
A long blade of grass sticking
up above the others, licking
my bare hand as I pass.
But what about the other grass?
There's a whole field to be sure.
I think laying in it is the only cure. 
When the sun doesn't shine
doesn't mean its not mine.
I walk up to the marble desk
I'm sure a little prodigal son-esque. 
It's mine, thank you, I'd like it
now (you needn't mind the pocket). 
I'd like to call it my rising star.
But I'm pretty sure that's rather far
from the truth of the matter,
said Door-mouse to the Hatter.
A rocket-ship, it might be,
or a firework launched at sea.
But I think I know the hitch,
though no one ever minds the glitch:
no one can catch a falling star.

Mark 1: 41- "Are you willing to touch me?"

They talked about lepers in Church today.

And then I met Shawn.

He likes trains.

And there's this car that, by golly, you ought to see the look in his eyes when he talks about that car he's saving up for.

And one day, one day soon— before my time at UCLA is up— he's gonna roll up to campus in that beautiful car.

Look for me, he says as he walks away, I'm gonna drive up here and take you for a ride.

We'll go cruisin, I say.

We'll go cruisin, he agrees.

Shawn has milky brown eyes.

He looks like he hasn't slept in days.

Which it seems he hasn't, as he mentions, walking me back to campus.

Shawn has more than a bit of stubble,

black being invaded by white.

He tells me he's 35.

Shawn has dark brown skin,

the color of rich chocolate and

sloshed dirt.

The cops in New York are dirty as heck, he says.

He'll never move back.

Shawn's got a good head on him too, going on about everything from

driving a train to

the ancestry of the Germans to

how to melt down gold with special acids.

He works hard.

He likes to clean.

He's got his eye on his dream like you wouldn't believe.

Just another ex-convict you meet on the bus,

I suppose.

But to me, he's special.

Because all that time I thought he was the leper.

And then he reached out and touched me, and said, 'Be Clean!'

And now I know what it's like to live without peace.

Safety is not a right, but a gift, it seems.

Only for the elect.

I never knew it.

Working hard is not enough, it seems.

Sometimes you have to stay where you are.

I never knew it.

There is injustice in this world, it seems.

Apparently the legends are true.

I never knew it.

I knew it all, but I never knew it.

How did I never know...

Until one day a man reached out to me and opened my eyes.

I was the leper all along.

I have been touched today by a world I've never been able to know.

And I don't like it.

Maybe Jesus's greatest pain wasn't the cross after all, but the compassion he carried upon his soul's shoulders for everyone else.

The heaviest burden to carry is someone else's agony.

What is it— really— to be alive?

Shower Musings (a.k.a. I Really Need A Waterproof Notebook) Part I: "Body and Soul"

One day a girl was walking down a large city street. Seeing a man sitting with a cardboard sign up ahead, she thought of how sad his lot in life was. She said a prayer for the man, and then a prayer of gratefulness for the power bar in her purse, the large pasta dinner she would be greeted with back at the apartment. As she finally passed the man, she gave him a loving smile and the words, "Jesus loves you!" Passing, she felt guilty: who was she to pass by without kneeling down to pray for and with her fellow man? Without offering any service God had rendered her to this poor creature, to make known the love of the Creator to this homeless man? So though her feet hurt, though she was expected at home, she turned around and crouched next to the man. Shakily, he raised his eyes to hers. An eagerness in his eyes that the rest of his frame was devoid of, he croaked desperately, "Food?" 

"Sir," the girl said, touching his arm, "The nourishment of God's love is everlasting, beyond the sufferings of the temporal body. May I pray for you?"

The girl bowed her head and did not see the man's eyes glaze over, his mind far from that dingy street and the sweet-smelling girl beside him.

The girl prayed a beautiful, fervent prayer and then raised her head, offered the man a gentle, "God bless you, sir," and went away contented.

The next day, a pastor was walking down that same street, with a posse of Christian warriors, among them a doctor, all on a mission to share the love of Christ. Coming upon the man, they knelt beside him and tried to wake him. When the doctor at last pronounced him dead, one of the young women threw her arms around the man and wept. The doctor looked at the pastor and told him quietly that the man had only died a few hours before they arrived. "He must have starved," the doctor muttered sadly, shaking his head, "If only he'd gotten a little bit of food in him in the last twenty-four hours, we could've saved him."

From this little shower-time musing, I have taught myself the following: A body is only temporal, but it is here now. Just because it won't last forever doesn't mean it doesn't matter now. Fill transitory stomachs when you need to. As Tiana's momma always said, "The quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

Little Dancers

A story ought to be like a storm, or at any rate, a stormy piano piece. Quiet as a music box as the curtain draws up. The little dancers stir, ruffle-y blue dresses rippling like water. They get up, balancé en tournant, ronde de jambe, sous-sus. Hold, one breath, two . . . BOOM! The drum drops the world out from under you and you realize those are no music box dancers. They surge: angry, frothing, vindictive waves, lashing their fury against the little row boat. This is the climax, now, and you know it, because the music tells you so. With a final battering, the little children in the boat are knocked against each other and BAM! out like a light. The waves gather round in a circle, ceremonial, and nod to each other, satisfied. They draw themselves up, pointed and severely serene, and melt back into little dancers, chassé right, chassé left, balancé, sous tenue. Just a little music box, tinkling little starry notes. Little dancers in ruffle-y blue go chassé relevé arabesque, chassé relevé arabesque off stage, one after another, little sprinkles of stardust twinkling across the heavens. But now, now you know better. The storm has come and passed, and you know better. Thus ends the little story. And from now on, you watch for little dancers, because you know they are the storm.