I’m writing a post for my other blog, but it involves addressing a lot of complicated, dark history. Completing it will take a lot of time and energy I don’t have now.
I do have to say something now.
Y’all, love yourself. Love your neighbor. Don’t withhold that love–not for how someone is voting, for the color of their skin, for their unkind acts, for where they live in the world.
Just love each other. Hard.
This is a political message. It absolutely is. Because, see, our collective fear is being exploited. Right now, this very moment, the United States is preparing to take acts of war against Russia, all on pretense.
This is not an ahistorical act. This is a profoundly historical act that has to do with power, a power that adheres to neither me nor you.
(If you’d like to understand more about where I’m coming from before I finish writing my next post, please, please begin reading The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism and understand that we’re witnessing the next shock being generated right now. Look into the TPP, TiSA, and TTiP to understand who benefits when we
citizens consumers lose.)
Love is a revolutionary act. Truly. So please, for the love of god, listen. Love. Reach out, especially to those whom it’s hard for you to hear.
Don’t allow your fear to be exploited for destruction.
Please love each other. Hard. Unequivocally.
I loved Paul’s comments.
Though we never met face to face, I will miss him greatly.
In his last email to me, he wrote, “Sometimes we are only offered bad choices Deborah, but to refuse to choose is to loose the right to choose.”
Today I’ll make some loving choices in memory–and honor–of Paul.
Those of us who’ve grown to love the lively words that bounced from the head and fingers of Paul Curran will never be the same.
The writer from Canada has died, according to his neighbor Steve Watson.
I received this email on the contact tab from my blog:
With great sadness I have to tell you that Paul Curran has passed away. Paul passed last week.
A series of the column head shots Paul sent me since 2013 to just a month ago.
I found the email this morning. I arrived yesterday. Steve Watson was listed as the photographer in the If We Were Having Coffee Sunday column Paul had me post here on Sept. 11 after his emergency operation.
I could not find an obituary through search engines.
Paul lived in Ottawa, Ontario…
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Anthony (And now and then an elephant all in white.) is my husband. He’s infuriating and delightful. I love him, else I wouldn’t have married him … even though he was on Survivor (gag!) and marrying him involved marriage (gag!, or so I thought, until I married him).
Wild Is The Wind (2)
We all spend so much time
trying to find happiness in the world
that we are blinded to it
like so much dross on a dusty shelf,
when there is gold to be found
in the everyday,
in the mundane,
The smell of fresh cut grass on a summer day
The smell of the dust, just as it starts to rain;
The laughter brought on a truly terrible,
ill timed fart;
The satisfaction of rescuing
that one piece of meat that’s
been stuck between two back molars
for the better part of the day,
after Sunday Brunch,
having only used the dexterity of your tongue,
and creative suction;
Home improvement shows;
Finishing the final brush stroke,
on a set of miniature fantasy soldiers
just as the movie you had playing in the background
resolves its audible crisis, rolls credits,
and plays music to exit a theater by;
Your dog coming over to you,
on your lowest day,
and putting his head on your knee;
A kiss on your cheek in the middle of the night
from your love,
followed by a half murmured comment to
someone in a dream,
followed by stolen covers and soft snores;
A half naked child waking you up at 3:41 am
on a Tuesday morning,
to find solace in the warmth
that is buried somewhere
deep within the cavity of your nose–
so deep that only a child’s foot can free it;
Twenty-Five undisturbed minutes in the bathroom;
Handwritten correspondence in the mail,
your name scrawled across the front;
Clearing off a long littered desk;
A good cup of coffee;
Driving home in loud silence
after an overwhelmingly
Not Quiet day;
An Ice cold glass of water on a fall morning;
The moment of removing
sock, then shoe,
sock, then shoe,
and then flexing your feet;
Putting on a clean pair of jeans
that you’ve not worn for weeks,
putting your hand in the pocket
and finding a five dollar bill;
Hugs, and smiles, and laughs,
and memories of baby teeth;
tiny toes on children;
Music, played too loud,
from car speakers,
with the windows rolled up,
so no one hears your singing along badly to
Tony! Toni! Tone!
L.L. Cool J
Going to bed tired,
laying your head down on a cool pillow
and letting sleep devour you,
one molecule at a time,
only to have that one moment,
of knowing the answer is–
Sitting on the porch,
on any given afternoon,
watching people going about their day,
their ordinary day.
Eyes looking at you with love;
and watching them close,
and flutter to sleep;
So many little things,
lying around our world
like so many wild horses
waiting to carry us off,
(holding on for dear life,)
cackling like school children
overflowing with tiny
Two months ago, a friend gave me a bracelet made from bomb fragments. She gave it to me, I wrote, because “she knows I appreciate beautiful things that are made from horrible ones.” My country, the U.S., bombed Laos half a century ago. We did this long after we had any defensible reason, for “we […]