Are we really connected?

I've been in some discussions lately about just how connected we really are these days. The internet, email, cell phones, texting . . . In theory, all these things should allow us to remain "close" to those from whom we are geographically separated. I just don't know if that's really the case.

Signal Interrupted

Connected not
connected
Broadcasting

receiving

nothing.
Signal interrupted.

How many terminals?
How many channels?
How many decrypters?
How many keys?
How many codes?

Exponentially exponential..
Line upon line
filtered and
refiltered.

Code degradation.

Internal software error.

Static on the line.
Nothing on the line.
Dead air.

McCain Flap

I'm gonna keep this brief. I used to respect John McCain. Back in 2000, I thought he must be a good guy because of the vile ways in which the Bush campaign attacked him:

". . . during the South Carolina Republican primary the George W. Bush-Karl Rove smear machine unleashed a torrent of racist attacks against McCain, including the now infamous push-poll phone calls to white suburban voters asking: "Would you be more or less likely to vote for John McCain if you knew he had an illegitimate half-black baby?" Rove's racist calls referred to McCain's adopted child."

Joseph A. Palermo at The Huffington Post, 2/14/08

But, since he lost out in 2000, McCain seems to have rolled over and done Bush's bidding with few exceptions. I grew to believe that McCain was like most other politicians, with maybe a few more scruples and a more refined sense of fair play. Thursday's New York Times article has confirmed this for me.

Now, when I first heard all the uproar on morning TV, I was astonished. The way the article was presented, it seemed like one of two things was going on here: either McCain had been caught in a sexual indiscretion with a lobbyist or the NYT had irresponsibly reported on a non-event. Since I'm a cynic, I didn't buy what MSNBC and CNN were saying without reading the article for myself. As far as I can tell, the main issue the article was addressing was that John McCain, who himself decried even the appearance of impropriety by legislators (after being caught at just that as part of the Keating 5), had once again been spending a little too much time with special interests and their lobbyists. While the morning news folks were up in arms about unnammed sources who claimed a romantic involvement between McCain and the lobbyist, the bulk of the article was ignored.

Again, read the article for yourself. Think for yourself. I saw two mentions of the possibility of a "romantic" relationship between McCain and Iseman, and those were cited only as suspicions by McCain staffers. Everyone interviewed for the story seemed to agree that McCain was being seen with Iseman too often. The report confirmed that staffers even confronted him about it. What The New York Times seems to be guilty of is reporting on a non-story: a congressman who hangs out with lobbyists! Wow!!! Unbelievable!

'Nuff said.

Where was I going?

Map This

How many times have I believed
I've come to the journey's end -
when I arrived at a certain age,
made a momentous decision,
reached a significant milestone?

This, I think, defines me.
This makes me into someone new.
Now I am . . .

a teen
a driver
an adult
a mother
a career woman
a wife
a "displaced worker."

Is life a succession of endings then?
Or a weaving trail of new beginnings?

Perhaps, instead, an assortment of intertwining paths
which sometimes curve back upon themselves,
or veer off into unknown territory -
the deep, dark forest
which holds both the frightening
and the fascinating,
or parallel the roads of others,
sharing views but not perspectives.
All paths without end or with ends unknown ~~

Where do the unwritten poems go?

Blowing in the wind
Originally uploaded by dotlyc

I was thinking lately about the ideas that come to me at just the wrong time - when I can't or won't write them down. Where do they go?

A slip of an idea
barely formed
so fragile
so delicate
able to be whispered away,
scattered with a breath.

Why was I crying in church this morning?

As we go through life, our tastes change. I used to hate broccoli. Now I enjoy it. The same is true of classical music: it used to be something to be endured, not appreciated. Now I take pleasure in the interplay of the instruments and their dynamics. But I never would have thought that I could gain an appreciation for PMS.

Most women dread those few days each month when their bodies and their emotions go crazy. I, however, have begun to feel a distinct feeling of gratitude for that time. When else is a woman allowed to show her feelings? When else is it "okay" to cry, to criticize, and even to yell a little? People may turn to me with a look of incomprehension when I sit weepy-eyed, discussing racism in a class. What place do tears have in a scholarly discussion? When I sit sniffling with my children in front of the television, watching the "Feed the Children" infomercial, I can take comfort in the fact that I am allowed to feel sympathy and regret at these images. After all, my hormones won’t let me get by with being just a casual observer. That emotional control which society so values and encourages can be thrown aside for a few uninhibited days. I can show how I feel, and if anybody asks, I can say, "Oh, it’s just PMS."

Forced Wallowing

I try not to wallow in the past, try not to have any regrets. But sometimes, something triggers a flashback.

Time Warp

It creeps up when least expected
And – BAM! – a sucker-punch to the brain.
Cringing, pulling away.
Unh! Where did this come from?
Unrelated to the now
A sudden fracture in time.
Dragged through the portal to act it out again
There, in that when, as surely as she is here now.
One second a woman,
The next, a teen in a moment of utter humiliation
Or a five-year-old crying in shame
Or a twenty-year-old biting her tongue too late.
Then sucked back into the present, shuddering.
Safe harbor after time-travel.

P.S. The fibromyalgia study didn't pan out.

Things to Do: Be More Socially Relevant

I am feeling a bit guilty that my blog has turned out to be more of a personal journal, self-analyzing, home-therapy type than a socio-political commentary on the state of our world. This is what comes from using my poetry as a springboard for my comments, I suppose.

However, recent events - specifically the possibility of having an African American candidate for President in the general election - have me thinking about ethnic conflict in America. I mean, sad as it is, it still exists. Some people still hold on to the notion that different means inferior. Get it through your heads people: each of us is different, but we are all human! The thought that some people cannot grasp this sometimes sends me to the brink of despair. I, however, still have hope that we (humanity) can get beyond this. I doubt that I'll live to see it, but I do believe it will happen. Can't say the same for everyone else, though.

Never Say Never

I refuse
I reject
The brick wall of never.

Never
Word of terrible weight
Depressing, strangling
Barrier to possibilities.
Never brings tears to eyes
Hopelessness to hearts
Shrivels belief
Kills promise.

I prefer
I embrace
Not in my lifetime
or
Not in the foreseeable future
or
Not until human hearts can be open.

Never is eternal
Guilt and regret
The sins of the parents
Visited on the sons and daughters
The nation
In perpetuity.

Give me a someday
A brilliant future
Of hope, light, and harmony.

But I will never accept never.