Preach

Sundays are my favorite day to take pictures.*

The Gift was composed outside a church in Pigtown on a Sunday in October. There was a group of folks conjugating in front of the temple when I walked by, so I slow rolled without taking a photo hoping to return later in the day. The thing that drew me to the sign was the florescence of the humble letters. There was a warmth and timelessness to the message, even though I wasn't totally sure what it meant. My goal was to capture the feeling, and do the research later.

I learned that the message was referencing a verse from the Bible (Ephesians 2:8) and in short it means: By the grace of God we are forgiven from all sins through faith in Christ.

Heavy.

To be honest, I don't go to church, but I have used the expression seeing Jesus! when dancing into the wee hours, which in this regard makes me a—faithful devotee. Our lives are diverse and if the Bible is your guiding light? Alright, alright, alright. I believe everything is connected; we are all one people, one flower, one star. Do unto others (Luke 6:31). Amen.

Now, let's go shake that booty! It's about to be a sermon up in here.


* Because they are quiet (like a church mouse).

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Thanks for Inviting Me

It was your wedding day.

I always thought you and I would be a couple. Buy us a brownstone on 116th in Harlem. Sell it for a million dollars and move to Echo Park. Get a convertible and drive PCH whenever we wanted. Write that screenplay together in our bathing suits and drink lattes all day. Stay up late watching French films in that midcentury-modern we talked about, remember, the one with the fireplace and the view of downtown? Your art would brighten our walls and my best sellers would lively up the shelves. And we would get stoned and listen to Harry Belafonte on the Hi-Fi. Naked in the hot tub, candle drips and patchouli sunsets, ecstasy and laughter. Oh the laughter, but alas, not from the bellies of our children. You wanted to raise a family and I wanted to be Charles Bukowski.

We almost had everything.

I picked these blossoms for you. Aren’t they dreamy? I still have the self portrait you painted for me. It's in storage right now. Things haven't been going exactly the way I expected. I'm renting an apartment in Burbank with a friend from college. I sold the Volkswagen, but I can still take a bus to Santa Anita. When I get my book deal, I'm going to buy that place we always wanted, you know, with the swimming pool and the herb garden?

You look happy.

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Teenage Musical Theory

Today was my first piano lesson.

I had been saving $20 a week for the last two years. Thankfully, I had a sweet job at the organic market in Hampden, and by sweet I mean they hired me, which I didn't expect considering I was 14 years old. But I wore my best track suit to the interview, I brushed my teeth real good, and I knew a lot about asparagus so I was pretty confident when I walked into the store and asked to see the manager. I had me a meeting and there was no way I'd be late.

You see, I was raised right. Mama don't play. She would say, "Baby, there ain't nothing you can't do. Just be on time." And she told me this while standing in the basement folding a load of laundry as I sat at the piano and counted the keys: 36 black and 52 white. Ain’t that a bitch. Now, I won’t go badmouthing anybody because Mama said that wasn't respectable, but I did secretly think the piano had the power to integrate in a positive way, which is precisely why I needed to save up for those lessons. I was motivated and I had theories. Theory number one: I needed to master them keys. I figured, if I could play all the notes without favor or fear, I'd: 1) get a scholarship to Johns Hopkins, 2) perform at the Hippodrome, and 3) run for mayor. The keys would spark a new generation of peace, love and happiness.

Mama said patience is a virtue.

I needed to graduate high school first. Fortunately, reading books and studying were my favorite things, besides hugging mama and laughing at the TV. We watched one of those political debates the other night. Everybody was yelling at each other, being mean and whatnot. It was funny in a prehistoric way, but it was mostly sad. It felt out of touch with what people really needed, which was, as mama would say—one love. And there wasn't a stitch of soul in any of those podium pitches to save America. When I'm mayor I'm going to preach unity and affection, I'll speak in iambic pentameter and haikus, the poet in the pulpit, I got nothing to lose. You know why? Because our collective psyche evolves at a snails pace. So I might as well be funky. And there’s a chance humanity will never realize our divine gift of compassion; we’ll just keep slapping each other upside the head until we’re zombies. As a species, we behave like spoilt three year olds; this is theory number two.

Let’s break out the slide rule. Ok, so humans have been on earth for around 200,000 years, but, we are only three grumpy years into our ultimate destiny of true enlightenment. Now, we’ll assume society will eventually mature beyond this hella bitch phase when we’re around 25 years old. So when we divide 200,000 by 3 we can see that each birthday on the road to self realization happens every 67,000 years. Which means: We should be nicer people in about 1.5 million years.

Anyways. I'm going to focus on the piano for now. I'm bringing love to the podium, y'all. It's a start.

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