Soul Force

I wasn’t sure how or if I would even write this post tonight. I have endured nearly twenty-four hours of stewing in my own rage and disgust. I will, however, do my best to shield you, dear reader, from such offensive mojo. Having said that, I have decided that duty binds me to write something about a repulsive act of vandalism to the wonderful work of Martin Luther King Jr on this fine day in our fading summer of 2010.

I am talking of course about the Glenn Beck Restoring Honor Rally in Washington DC today on the 47th anniversary of Dr. Kings historic I Have A Dream Speech. I have written about Beck before, and I fully understand that I should simply ignore his idiocy, but something unnamable will not allow me to do that. The man himself is at best is a charlatan snake oil salesmen, feeding on the ignorance of a defeated populace. No! He is not my concern. Nor are his backers at Fox. I am concerned by the ideas he represents and the power they seem to being having on a large segment of American citizens. Most importantly I am afraid of the effect his words have on me. Or how I allow him to make me so angry.

Before I continue, let me say that I can already clearly hear the voice of my good friend and reader Keith of People’s Parking saying that this post is a perfect example of my only see a distorted image of the political theater currently on stage in the America. I can hear him reminding me that these vaudevillian circus shows do not really reflect the struggles, hopes, and dreams of the US citizenry. I know he is right, but I cannot help myself. I need to wrestle with these words tonight and see who remains standing. It is with a confused mind and a heavy heart I sit at this machine.

I do not want to rail against Beck. Too many people will do that in the next few days, all over the Internet; most will be better wittier writers than me. Furthermore, I do not want to express my anger, disgust, or pity for the poor people who must be so lost and scared that this clown is the only form of political action they feel they can understand.

Before writing, the first thing I did was reflect on how Martin Luther King Jr. would handle this beast if he were to somehow magically appear along side Beck on Saturday. What would he say? How would he react? Surely his dignified aura would illuminate and inspire rather than nitpick and belittle. MLK would approach Beck with reverence and respect. He would stay true to his entrenched vision of truth and justice and allow the people to choose between the power of truth and the smoke of lies. He would weave words together allowing listeners the ability to fly above the scene and glance about the blanket of truth for themselves. He would unshackle us from our own fear and ignorance, allowing us to truly marvel at the power of love and peace. To reveal even a glimpse of reality, a hint of love is enough to expose the pettiness of a dogma built from fear and lies.

In short, that is what I hope to do tonight. My intention is to take the higher rode. Except for the opening shots at Beck in the beginning, I simply hope to honor Dr. King by exploring my own shortcomings when it comes to fear and ignorance, in order to show that we all suffer from judgment and hate.

The first thing I did before I started to write was re-read his I Have A Dream Speech, in addition to my previous post where I examined his speech about Vietnam. I was once again struck by how revolutionary Dr. King was despite the whitewashing of his legacy. Yes, he was a man of peace, and yes he preached non-violence, but this Ahimsa was not a passive ideal. His words clearly reflected his vision, which was that of full fledged revolution.

…one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition.

America has given the Negro people a bad check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we have come to cash this check -- a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice.

As I was reading this I could feel the tears well up in my throat. I could feel pure hatred and anger coursing through my veins and cover me like a cloud. How could we allow an imposter taint the words of such an amazing revolutionary with empty epitaphs and clichés? I was suddenly aware of my own seething breaths. I ran to my books and grabbed some Thich Nhat Hanh. I needed something, or else this post would soon head south. I would be embedding Dead Prez videos and quoting Public Enemy.

I flipped the pages and swore to copy verbatim any passage I found highlighted within:

The war stops and starts with you and me. Every morning you open your eyes, the potential for violence and war begins. So every morning when you wake up please water the seeds of compassion and non-violence. Let peace begin with you.

It is the hardest thing I have ever tried to do, but also the simplest: If you hate violence and ignorance do not react with violence or ignorance even in your words.

Our enemy is never another person; our enemy is the wrong perception and suffering within him, within her.

Feeling better I went back to the speech:

Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

You are not helping Martin. Suddenly I see hordes of angry African Americans from across the country, armed and blasting the raunchiest angry hip-hop swarm upon the Lincoln Monument. The nightmare of every white America comes true. A Negro Armageddon of violence and destruction. This time they have brought the tribes of Central and South America. The ghosts of Native Americans charging on destructive steeds. The poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free were descending on Washington with a taste for the blood of pasty white flesh. Beck is cowering beneath a curtain, urine staining his trousers, he weeps as his paltry crowd dissipates once and for all. America reclaimed by those who built her. Those who make up her flesh and blood. The 99% without the wealth. Those who created her art, her jazz and gave her soul. A true America built on the blood and sweat of millions of cast off immigrants and degenerates. Brown, black and queer all marching in the light of redemption and justice. Beck and his impotent minions eradicated once and for all. Disappeared beneath the true face of America.

Damn it Martin! You can’t do that. More Thich Nhat Hanh:

Violence is not inevitable. Peace is there for us in every moment. It is our choice.

I am getting a bit psychotic, so I am impressed if you are still reading. As I was typing that last line Tupac came blasting from my headphones. How do we deal with this battle between love and hate? How do we watch Glenn Beck on a daily basis and stay sane? How do we reconcile the fact that even within our own hearts we face a battle every minute of our lives? What chance do we have in our communities? Our nations? This planet? How can we bring peace to a world where Glenn Beck not only exists, but holds sway over large groups of people? (I see a vision of Tupac spitting in Becks face. I smile. I am wrong. I know. Hatred feels too good. We are doomed.)

Back to the speech:

I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.

There it is Martin. Thank you. The secret is that we are aware of our own ignorance. We learn to shed a light on it and expose it’s influence not only on our thoughts, but our actions too. What is it about Beck that makes me so angry? What is it in me that he taps into so adeptly? This is where my battle must take me. Where you go is up to you. We can, however, remember:

We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.

You know the rest…Where did this post take me? I have no idea. I didn’t know what I should say, but obviously I had a few things. As you watch the news today, or walk alone on the beach, play with your kids, plant a tomato, or wallow in grief I say this:

If we truly believe in love, if we truly believe that justice and truth shall set us free, then the only thing we can do is promote these ideals in every action we take. In every blog post, every conversation, we must quell our need to be hurtful and angry and spread some love. Even if it means we wrestle with ourselves every minute of our lives.

I am sorry Glenn Beck. I am sorry Sarah Palin. Yes, I love you too….(The day that sentiment is sincere, we will be closer to something real.)

Thank you for reading and good night!

Saffron and Blood

This post has been amassing inside me for a few days, and let me warn you before you continue it will be scattered mess. It will be all over the place, and I feel this early confession will save me from an apology later. It would be best if after completion, I would either edit and organize it, or simply delete it. However, due to shear bravado, excitement, a fire burning in my gut, or Henry Miller, I choose to vomit onto this page, clean up a few grammatical things (I said a few mind you) and hope something sticks.

This post is for every student who has ever been bored to death by the five-paragraph essay. Proof that sometimes writing need be nothing more than a bit of rock n’ roll. A writhing beat, pushing and pulsating with no direction or purpose. Forget organization, introductions, supporting details or any other textual murder machines. Grab a few loose ideas slap them down on the page, smack them around a bit, and feel your blood flow. Sometimes there is violence in writing and that is okay, if through your final draft you seek peace.

What has me in such a voracious mood tonight? A combination of things: I haven’t wrestled with the book in a week. I was on a roll and now it has been over six days since even a comma has been placed. Please before you cast stones note that I had friends in town from the States and I was battling hives and bronchitis, even the most dedicated scribe must be given a few allowances. I know, I know every good marathon runner knows that you never deviate form the routine, but I was really not feeling it.

After my brief hiatus the juices are flowing again and I need to get some of it out. I chose to leave the book till Monday, but I needed to write a bit tonight, and my mind has been with Henry Miller. I have decided to re-read his book "Big Sur And The Oranges Of Hieronymus Bosch"

According to Suite 101 the book was written... after Henry Miller had lived on the beaches and neighboring forests of Big Sur for thirteen years. Composed years after the success of "Tropic of Cancer" and "Tropic of Capricorn", the book highlighted an important step in the development of the novelist. Miller had matured from the earlier years as a young man, slowly making the difficult transition from literary unknown towards that of novelist, to an older wiser man; looking back over his life and the world around him, to produce a work unparralleled in its' grasp of complex ideas, turning them into beautiful prose that simplified the abstract into language of the common man. For Miller, the book would accidentally turn into his "magnimus opus" or the summarized completion of his life's work. The last pages of the book consist of an epilogue intended to be originally entitled, "This Is My Answer", was to be the final expression of the author's view on the meaning of art with-in the context of the life experience. What came later was the novel and incredible literary experiment.

This book had a profound affect on me when I was twenty-two or three. Before I go on let me tell you about this young man, me, and his relationship with Henry Miller. I have a three idols that I worship. You can have your Jesus, your Moses, or your Muhammad, but I will take Charles Bukowski, Hunter S. Thompson, and Henry Miller any day. I know every wanna be rebel has at one time or another found affinity with this trilogy. In that respect I am probably no different. As I write these words, I am not sure what separates my reverence for them, from the groupie mentality of every other college burn out. Alls I know is that in my twenties, I read nearly everything I could get my hands on by these men. I devoured their work. Their words were the fuel that led me down many, some would say dangerous and irresponsible, paths. Regardless of the effects my actions had at the time, looking back as a more calm, dare I say responsible adult, I know for certain that these men played the most crucial part in making me who I am. I am a man born of three fathers. I spent hours of lascivious reflective thoughts swimming in their words and pushing the boundaries of my mind. Sure they wrote of sex, drugs and booze and at the time I was into sex, drugs, and booze, but it was more than that. It had to be more. It was the power of art and freedom and life that seized my interest. Where others perhaps honed in on the flashy use of hyperbole to exaggerate their libidos or tolerance for sexual conquest, I saw only the beauty of lives lived in full awareness and awe, reflected eloquently in the creation of page after page of perfection.

These men did not live life as a passive activity that happened to happen to them. They tore life apart and danced with its corpse, caressed it when it was down and kicked it in the ass when it was being unruly. More importantly they used words to give shape to what their various nightmares and states of bliss looked like. Their words taught me more than anything I ever learned in school. I would trade my high school diploma, my BA from San Francisco State and my Grad degree from Columbia for their books without thinking twice.

They proved to me the breadth of what life has to offer. From the abyss to the stars and everything in between. No glory or shame, just life. Sometimes you are on top and living like a king and other times you will grovel in the gutter, but all of it is magical and important and perfect. Grab these moments as they pass and tack them to a wall with words. Scribble them in your journal, don’t let them pass. Scream to the people who move about in their daily drudgery that there is only one life and it is to be lived fully. There is no success or failure. No one should guide you, or judge you, or set your path.

I read their words on park benches and trains. On buses and airplanes. I read them with money in my pocket, I read them scrounging for change. I read them alone and I read them in love. The secret is I read them and read them and read them….

Wow….that came out kinda fast. I was almost shedding tears of excitement for a second there. This writing is serious stuff. Let’s catch our breath and regroup.

I am a different man now. I am thirty-six. I have two children. I should be more responsible and have outgrown the shenanigans of these old buffoons. But there is still that voice. He talks to me as I prepare for sleep or when my mind drifts in traffic. I can see him behind my eyes in the mirror. He reminds me that I made promises to myself that I would hold onto these books, these words, these dreams and revisit them whenever I felt that I was growing up. I highlighted the passages and marked the pages to remind myself of where the words had taken me, so I would know where I would need to go.

These books line my shelves not as mere trophies, but as maps, of photo albums, of a distant fading memory that I cannot afford to lose lest I become another sheep. Another fading flower, a father mired in midlife crisis crying alone for not living a life I should have lived.

I don’t regret anything about my life, but I still need the stories that help me live through it. I need them like I need my friends, to remind me of who I was and to remind me of the person I promised myself to be when I “grew up.”

I shake my head when people say that the Kindle will kill the book. Never. Because if the Kindle kills the book than it might as well kill me too….

I envision a room placed sometime in my future. There is lots of wood, a fire place, corduroy and velvet. Fresh flowers and whisps of incense. A collection of guitars and other stringed instrument. Persian carpets. A sheesha pipe and a sound system that registers on the Richter scale. This is the room I will die in. It will be painted the color of blood and saffron. There will be no walls, only shelves filled with my life: stories, plays, novels, words- annotated, documented and highlighted. Pages marked and faded. The stench of parchment will dance with the fire and smoke. No Kindle will ever give me that. No evaporating text dependent on fading fossil fuels will ever offer me the security of my own history.

There you have it. I started to re-read Henry Miller because I hoped he would help kick start my muse, and I will let you judge whether or not he did. I have only read the first 4 pages…

From what realm of light were we shadows who darken the earth spawned?

Brick Doc Brings It Home

Regular readers of my blog and people who follow me on Twitter know that I have a very special place in my heart for the Daraja Academy in Kenya. Promoting and spreading the mission of the school is something I try to perform passionately. If you are new to this blog, please read some posts I have written about my connection to the school here, then head over to their official website and blog.

I am amazed by the progress of the school and the amazing work Jason, his wife Jenni and the fantastic team they have assembled are doing. Every week, it seems that there is another story, blog post or video showcasing what is happening at the school.

Image from Daraja photo stream

The latest is this beautifully produced film, that not only tells the story of the creation of the school, but perfectly captures the beauty of the campus as well as the honesty of its mission. Directed by Barbara Rick who can be found on twitter as Brickdoc has done a great job of capturing the soul of the school. Her film is not only a great way to get a feel for the school, but more importantly it is the perfect way to share the girls of Daraja with friends and famiy who may not know about what is happening there. After watching the film, please, share the video, the blog post links, this link with as many people as you can. Send a Tweet, use FB, write about it, get the message out.

This school started as nothing more than an idealistic dream and through the work of people who care enough to share their time, money, and spirit it is now changing the lives of at least 52 wonderful human beings. You never know who may connect with this project by you just sharing it. If you are a teacher, please get in touch with me about starting a Daraja Club at your school. Leave a comment below and I will be in touch. Thank you Barbara.

Sit back and enjoy in full screen:



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What Next?

Imagine living in a country where government officials told you that riding your bike could be dangerous to your personal freedom. That thinking about and acting on your instincts to lessen your environmental footprint was a conspiracy dictated by the Untied Nations to bring down the US Constitution.

Imagine living in a country that was so afraid and paranoid that the word community had negative connotations, a place where citizenship, understanding, and awareness had been replaced by fear, spite, and ignorance.

Government candidates running on a platform that riding bike is bad but laying off state employees good, would not only not to be laughed off the stage, but actually had a chance of winning Governorships! A place where wanting to belong to a global community dedicated to unity was bad, but drilling for gas and oil was okay.

image by pfv.

There are some strange things going on in the fine United State of America. I will confess that I ignore most everything that passes these days as serious political discourse. Except for the occasional Daily Show or Stephen Colbert Report, I choose to wait for the wreckage of the vicious shallow farce that falls into my lap from friends, Twitter and my RSS feed.

On thing that is clear is that any system that takes Sarah Palin seriously and actually has Tea Party members running for serious government posts is ready to implode. I don't know about you, but I can't trust anyone who can't even manage to smile authentically.


I wish somehow this guy's caravan could get encircled by an angry mob of lesbian critical massers pelting him with...I will stop here before I become unproductive and mean.

I wish HST was here to say what I cannot. Shaking head in disgust and clicking on the link. What next America? What next?

I Won't Bite

I often receive anonymous comments here on Intrepid Flame, and I really wish I didn't. I am not sure what it is about signing your name to your words online that scares people, but I am hoping I can find a way to help alleiviate that anxiety.

The anonymous comments I receive are not spiteful, quite the contrary- they are often very kind and emotional. The purpose of maintaining a blog, sorry let me not sound so universal, the purpose of this blog is to share my inner battles with life- the joys, struggles, beauty and pain in order to connect with like minded people. I would love to interact with as many people who read this blog as possible.

There is a certain level of insecurity, vanity, and desperation that comes with pulling your own insides out. So when someone writes something like the comment I received today:

Thanks for your continued writings, it has helped me through some hard times.

kindred spirit.

I would love to know who it is, so we can continue the conversation, continue buidling the relationship. I understand that going public can make you feel exposed and vulnerable, furthermore, I understand that not everyone is ready for this kind of publicity, but I ask that if you must leave an anonymous comment, please try to leave at least a first name if you are a friend or family, or email me a quick note.

I write to connect. It feels great to know you are reading and that I am helping you, but I would love to take it to the next level. I am honored and proud that anyone reads at all, but remember you do not have to hide.

image By Annemarie Vriends

Come on out, I won't bite. How do other bloggers feel about anonymous comments? Readers, why do you choose to remain anonymous?