People Or

Breezy and partly cloudy, that’s one of my favorite days. Do you find yourself looking out the window to be refreshed by nature? Remember staring out the window in grammar school, thinking about nothing? Any place we are, we can connect with love and peace by looking out the window. I remember in Chicago staring at a gangway between two brick buildings like something would suddenly appear.  Sometimes I’ve found myself needing it so badly I’d trance out.

Human angst, the state we seem to live in is a contaminating energy. I love people; we are wonderful, wise, and witty, willingly or not. All the silly-serious things we do amuse me, for the most part. Haughty people who raise their noses in the air when we happen to make eye contact sometimes make me laugh out loud. I don’t mean to be rude.

Most people are wonderful to meet, a smile and a nod as a brief eye contact is made in passing brightens my day. Is that really weird? I’m going to New Orleans for a people fix. It’s one of those places where you won’t encounter the mundane average woman who looks through you as if you weren’t even there when your eyes meet for a second. I haven’t phased your consciousness, really? In those women, I always feel much pain. I find that can be a contaminating energy; do you feel it that way or do you have better self-protection skills?

Almost four years after Kirt’s death, I am starting to feel the rhythm in my new life. Time at my home in a beautiful valley has been terribly lonely, but with time nature heals.

On a one-to-one basis, we need to start finding the good in each other. We are all one, the same human race.

Crazy energy in January opened a path for aliens, no, not Muslims or Mexicans, aliens from who knows where! Trump supporters ran the streets insane because a tough-talking guy like them would take charge, while liberals went apoplectic about the bomb in his hands, the environment, and a whole bunch of other stuff. America radiated crazy after the blast, so who would notice a few time space shifts?

I can’t say too much, they frighten me. They’re not like us at all. Hopefully, I can sneak a bit into my story and they won’t notice. If you don’t hear from me, you’ll know why. Be watchful for the unusual. It’s all there for you to see for yourself.   

Get Over It While We Can

Whites are racist. Blacks are thugs. Orientals are smart but untrustworthy. “I’d like to slap the next white woman I hear saying black lives matter,” the black celebrity said. Do we hear ourselves? And yet we say that God created us all.

Who are you? What are you? With pride and defiance, we cling to our myths of greatness, of why we’re better than you.

Paint all whites with the brush of white privilege to demean their successes or suffering, to say,”We’ve had it worse” brings out the poor me in every hardship case, so the argument becomes who has it worse. Is the goal to claim the title of who had it worse?

Poor whites for too long have comforted themselves by looking down on the “niggers,” while rich people refer to us all as the great unwashed. Arrogance and pride rule our dealings with others, whether we believe ourselves better or don’t want to be seen as less.

When I was a kid I couldn’t figure out who I was or where I fit in since most of my friends were Irish or Italian or Polish; plus in New Orleans, there was always an assortment of black people around. I, on the other hand, am a mixed breed of Irish, Hungarian, Austrian (although we refer to ourselves as German, we’re from the same town as Hitler) and as it turns out my orphan grandmother from upper New York state was French and American Indian. Everybody has a culture except a mix breed; that’s how it seemed to me.

Under the watchful eyes of my German grandfather on Sundays, the family gathered to eat, play games, help out as needed, or just hang together. I learned to ride a bicycle in front of grandparents, aunt and uncles, and cousins. Family love and camaraderie interrupted by a move to Chicago didn’t give me time enough to absorb it as part of my culture.

By contrast, my mom’s family seemed a scrappy lot who didn’t really like each other, so I began to focus on my friends’ families.

Every group of people doing the same daily routines as everybody else put their own spin on it. From cooking to mealtime rituals our little differences imprint who we are in a way that fascinates me still.

According to folks I’ve known, I’ve been a Jewish want to be and a black want to be, as well as East Indian and Latin. Who you are, is of great interest to me. By learning about others it helps me put into perspective who I am.

Dining in a humble home in Appalachia, eating home grown vegetables and the steer that grew in the back yard gave me as much pleasure as any formal dinner by a famous chef. In either event, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Haven’t we all been to parties where someone spouts, “When I look at you I don’t see black;” this being one of the most well-intended bits of sophistry I’ve ever heard. Yes, this is a friend, a wonderful person you see; blah, blah, blah.

How can you say that you don’t see this woman’s beautiful ebony skin? Yes, they’re black, or brown, or red; there’s beauty in all.

Here’s the deal; we’d better start embracing the little differences between earthlings. Aliens are coming to rape and impregnate our men. No earthling squabble is going matter. 

Love Affair With Parks

Sitting in a shady city park with statues, and flowers, and people passing, I resonate with peace and excitement at the same time; how delicious!

I remember having lunch in a small park in downtown Chicago when I worked in the Loop. The stress and boredom of meaningless job drained into the trees. As teenagers, we’re required to hold at least one job we hate; right?

From the age of eight when I first saw Spanish moss hanging from ancient live oak trees, I fell in love with City Park in New Orleans, which remains on the top of my list.

The tree lined park, Plaza Antonia Quinones can be proud of its beauty with a fountain and a stage for horns from the San Juan Philharmonic playing tonight.

Havana’s wonderfully ornate light poles delighted me as I strolled with my dearest friend through the park in the shade of overwhelming statues adorning Cuban government buildings. Horse drawn carriages offering tours were under scrutiny by my brave animal advocate friend.

She boldly strode up to a man whose horse kept licking its lips. “Go immediately to a water trough; your horse needs water.”

Have you ever seen a senior lady with her back up? She radiated command. Those ladies who have ever gotten their backs up know what it’s like to be so filled with moral outrage your eyes are bloodshot. The water station was visible from where we stood. The man dutifully complied.

Havana also had beautiful horses and carriages. I insisted on riding with a handsome dappled gray. What is it with women and beautiful horses? My heart skips that beat, sweet!

Where ever I go I spend time in local parks; only one gave me bad vibes. I left quickly. On the island I call home watching loving families play in the parks and on the beaches remains a great time soaking up vibes.

Memory took me down many paths in many parks. Considering how important parks have been in my life I pray that people running the world realize how important they are to my stability.