Magicians and Musicians

Doing the work I do, I have often felt like a preacher without a church, like a shaman without a headdress, like a magician with tricks designed not to astound, but reveal the magic we collectively share. I feel each Orff workshop, whether I title it The Humanitarian Musician as I have today’s class in Bangkok or something less lofty like Play, Sing & Dance, is both an act of healing and resistance to the evil afoot. So when someone posted this piece on Facebook, I felt wholly seen and known and affirmed and encouraged. 

 

To the shamans, magicians, priests, priestesses, and all who move energy:

 

We are not here by accident. What you are feeling—the exhaustion, the frustration, the witnessing of a world out of balance—is part of a larger correction. The matrix we live in is real. It thrives on fear, disconnection, and silence. But we were never meant to comply. Our work is to stabilize reality.

 

2026 will expose what cannot survive lies. Systems built on extraction, greed, and control will falter. Leaders without spirit will be unmasked. Truth will rise. And here is where we come in.

 

Not as saviors, not as gurus—but as stabilizers. As keepers of balance. As those who know how to move energy with integrity. .We dismantle the matrix by:

• Refusing to feed it with fear or silence

• Practicing magic that restores life, ancestry, and community

• Supporting each other without diluting our traditions

 

No one path holds the full truth. No practitioner is truly alone. In 2026, those who work with integrity will be amplified. Their words will land. Their work will spread. Their presence will calm rooms. Those who manipulate or harm will quietly lose influence. This is not punishment. It is physics.

 

Remember: you are not late. You are not crazy. You are not powerless.

You were trained for this moment. Do your work. Protect life. Tell the truth. Build what lasts. Bless what is real. Recognize other practitioners as allies, nodes in the same living network.

 

The matrix cannot survive coherence—and we are becoming coherent again.

 

So much resonance in these words. Indeed, my work is to move energy. To stabilize reality. To restore balance. To create community. To reveal the magic of music within us and lead it forth out into the open air. To break silence with truthful speech and heartful song. To build what lasts and bless what is real. 

 

This indeed is the work I was born for, trained for and committed to for 50 years without faltering. My little piece of the puzzle that helps complete all the pieces so many others are contributing, step-by-step bringing into focus the beautiful image of the lives we all are meant to lead. 

 

The death-dealers grab all the attention of the headlines, but we who are working quietly behind the scenes will bring them down and hold them to account. We don’t know when or how, but the work proceeds quietly and makes its impact, even if we can’t see it yet. Here’s to music and magic, today with 40 beautiful souls in Thailand, tomorrow with whoever shows up. Immeasurable thanks to Akaya Windwood for posting that piece and to the person who wrote it. 

Carnival of Stories

My most recent Podcast was about the role of Stories in education. (Check it out on Spotify: The ABC’s of Education.) It’s a theme much on my mind, as I find myself like a kid at the Carnival, rushing from one storied ride to the next in mild euphoria. Each one a world unto itself.

 

I’ve always been an avid reader and it’s safe to say that I’ve never been without a book to read for the last, oh, 65 years or so. Always a work of fiction, often a parallel book of non-fiction and sometimes, yet another book of poetry. But in my elder years here, I seem to be immersed in stories more than ever and in a multitude of mediums. 

 

For example, on this trip. I’ve brought three books, one a mystery I finished (Richard Osman’s The Man Who Died Twice)  and then gave to a friend here,  and now another mystery I’m re-reading, E Is for Evidence by Sue Grafton. Her books are all plot with familiar characters I like and adequate writing. The third, by Niall Williams, titled History of the Rain, is low on plot and high in poetic and beautiful writing. I’m actually reading both books side-by-side, since they are so notably different from each other. Then listening on Audible to a third simultaneously, a re-“reading” of Memoirs of a Geisha to prepare for my upcoming trip to Japan. The Osman and Grafton books are part of a series and a good part of the pleasure is returning to yet more adventures with the same characters. Likewise, the Williams book is set in the same Irish town of Faha that was the setting for the two I read recently, This Is Happiness  and The Time of the Child. I think this book pre-dated those, so no familiar characters, but the village is the same. 

 

Since the pandemic, I’ve become mostly-delightfully addicted to the endless choices of streaming series on TV, often watching something every night. Immersed in series with 5 to 10 seasons and 5 to 10 episodes each season, I again feel the pleasure of visiting the same characters who you come to know and enjoy in all their idiosyncrasies. Even when I travel, like now, I can access Netflix on my computer and just stumbled on a new Australian series called The Newsreader  which is holding my attention, complete with its own cast of colorful characters. All of the above guarantees that I always have something to look forward to, something I consider a key component of happiness.

 

How to keep track of all these people and all these ongoing plots all at the same time? I couldn’t say, but I seem to be pretty good at it and I think it is both a pleasing jungle gym of mental exercise and probably a good way to forestall any encroaching dementia. Then on top of these stories is the ongoing saga of the Warrior’s basketball season, news from friends via Facebook or chat or WhatsApp or e-mail, the ongoing horror story of the news which I choose to merely skim in survival-mode micro-doses. 

 

Then of course, is the story I’m actually living. Not only living but reflecting on and telling here in this Blog and again in my handwritten journal and again in conversations with friends. Like I said, a carnival of stories and it is the anticipation of the next chapter and the re-connection with the people real and fictitious that is partly responsible for feeling that my life is threaded through with meaning, a constantly revealing and unraveling plot that brings so much more satisfaction than mere random moments of experience.

 

Not the most exciting chapter in my traveling music teacher confessions, but just my thoughts-du-jour sitting in the Singapore Airport, about to turn the page to my next Asian Music Tour chapter as I get ready to fly to Bangkok.

Stay tuned…

 

Behind the Scenes

I’m sure it’s clear to anyone reading these posts that I love this life of the traveling music teacher. I recognize both the privilege and the blessing of it and take comfort that as much happiness it gives to me, its purpose is to give inspiration and affirmation to others. The feeling in the room in the workshops, the shared reflections of the participants and little testimonies written to me post-workshop in e-mails confirm that it indeed offers something worthy to others and that only increases the pleasure of it all. 

 

But lest anyone feel a touch of envy, there is so much behind the scenes that’s needed to set up these opportunities, so many details I need to attend to in order to make it possible, so many ways I have to make sure all the moving parts are aligned and then effectively closed  before proceeding to the next. And so much of it is getting maddeningly harder and harder to do. 

 

There has always been the countless back-and-forth via e-mail with the organizers, the travel arrangements, the workshop planning and teaching, the preparing the post-workshop notes, but in today’s world, it is reaching the limit of my patience and skills. For example, consider this trip to Singapore.

 

Back in the golden years, I stumbled on a fabulous travel agent (forever thanks to Connie Dahlstet!) who would take any complex itinerary I sent her way and work her magic. She retired right around the pandemic and then passed away and her profession feels obsolete today. So I handle all my own travel and in this multi-city trip, it’s a complex maze to work through, especially dealing with multiple airlines, each with their own ap to download and different routes to actually get your ticket downloaded. Including needing a code sent to your phone to get through the next gate of the process, but not able to receive phone messages without paying being outside of the U.S..

 

I’m somewhat aware of which countries require official visas and that is its own nightmare labyrinth of bureaucracy. But lately, many places ask now for some kind of “visa-light” entry card. I was suckered into paying $85 for one to get into Singapore and later found it that it was supposed to be free. Flying to Bangkok today, I have to check all over again.  

 

Meanwhile, there's arranging schedules with two different international schools and one government school organization, all asking me to fill out different forms to get the needed permissions to work, all asking for different workshop themes in different spaces with different numbers of participants and different instruments available. Usually hosts take care of the hotels, but this time I was asked to do so myself, having to find two different hotels in two different parts of the city. Usually I’m picked up at the airport by the host, but this time I was expected to find my own way to the hotel until I asked for help and one host arranged a meet and greet driver. 

 

Most maddening of all is how unnecessarily complicated it has become to get paid for my work. Each institution with their own complex web of forms, their own timetable (often waiting one or two months to finally pay me), their ridiculous little details that make no sense (like requiring a paper version of a bank statement with the bank logo on it in an era where my bank pressured me to change to online banking and doesn’t have any such thing in their online version). In the good old days, I did the work, my host handed me a check or cash at the end of the workshop and we were done. While today’s institutions take their merry old time honoring their part of the transaction, I have to keep track of who owes me what and often remind them to “show me the money!” 

 

If I was a lawyer charging billable hours for the time it takes to wade through all these forms and writing them to remind them to pay and such, I would earn three times as much as the actual workshop! In short, I love the work itself, but the growing maze of paperwork to make it all happen has me wondering how much longer I can do it. 

 

So amidst all the gushing about the pleasure and the wonder of teaching like this, these are just some of the maddening behind-the-scenes details that are getting increasingly complicated and needlessly so. Maybe I should actually retire and just play golf. But hey, they probably now require three forms of identification, forms filled out from a QR code, proof of insurance and more before they let me on the golf course. 

 

Ah, this modern world.  

Confucius Says

One of the great gifts a conscious elder has to offer the young is the recognition that “we’ve been here before. And here’s what helped.” Insights that can only come from a long life of wholly lived experience.

 

Likewise, people of any age who read books from the days of yore can discover the same. How social forces twenty, two hundred, even two thousand years ago, had some similarities to today and how the courageous and wise people of the time dealt with it, can speak across the years to us. 

 

Take Confucius. He was born in 551 BCE in what is now the Shandong province of China. This father died when Confucius was but three-years-old and he grew up in a time when rival warlords were fighting to gain power. Highly educated, Confucius gathered a group of disciples who recognized his wisdom and was eventually given a small town to govern. His philosophical teachings emphasized personal and governmental morality, harmonious social relations, righteousness, kindness, sincerity, and a ruler's responsibilities to lead by virtue. These ideas felt threatening to those benefiting from their selfish and lavish lifestyle. At odds with the rulers,  he voluntarily exiled himself from his home province, not returning until he was 68 years old, and died at 72. 

 

As described in the Inspiring Quotes entry: 

 

“To Confucius, happiness came not through gluttony and self-indulgence, but through frugality and duty to others. He believed fulfilling the needs of others could also fill oneself with serenity and gratitude. Forgoing one’s duty to serve, on the other hand, could have wider damaging effects: A ruler who ignored the needs of their subjects might unbalance the cosmos and suffer a reign beset with natural disasters.”

 

As I suggested at the beginning, wisdom is timeless. Connect the dots with today. The entry continues:

 

“Confucius set out four simple virtues that he believed were enough to keep the world in its proper order: benevolence, moral wisdom, righteousness, and observance of traditional rituals. According to Confucianism, ritual brings together a community in peace and helps to cultivate humanity, goodness, and love. Confucius taught that once we understand our shared humanity, we open ourselves up to feelings of altruism, respect for one another, and even friendship.

In Confucius’ idea of the ideal state, the rulers were kind, religion was properly celebrated, and the wise were treasured. Despite living in difficult times and often in exile, Confucius spent his life seeking to help others achieve this.”

 

I believe Confucius would be quite at home in the No Kings Rallies. Some quotes from his writings that speak to us directly today:

 

“If you see what is right and fail to act on it, you lack courage.”

 

“The person of virtue is not left to stand alone. Those who practice it will have neighbors.”

 

“What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others.”

 

"In a country well governed, poverty is something to be ashamed of. In a country badly governed, wealth is something to be ashamed of."

 

“Study the past if you would define the future.”

 

Let us hope these reminders from the past will help shaped the future.

 

Land of Contrasts: Photo Gallery

 

Land of Contrasts

The day begins in Paradise with a bad soundtrack. A long morning swim in the Holiday Inn pool and then my dreams of summer bliss sitting poolside with a good book thwarted by soul-crushing musicrap raining down on me from the speakers. Why do we run from silence? What’s wrong with just listening to the wind rustle the water? Some time later, the music switches to some light pop with a bossa-nova beat, a blessed relief from the pounding disco beat and a just-right movie soundtrack that doesn’t intrude, but actually perfectly frames the moment and makes it yet a bit sweeter. 

 

Then off into the streets of Little India in search of lunch and doesn’t take long to choose a masala dhosa (South Indian thin crepe with potatoes inside) for $2.50 Singapore dollars (around $2 U.S.). Eat with my fingers as I used to do when I briefly lived in Kerala, India 47 (but who’s counting?) years ago, feeling the thread between that young man with an old soul and this old man with a still-youthful spirit. Wander down the crowded streets past the long chain of stores selling jewelry, clothing, electronics, food, none of which I need at the moment, none of which light my flame. But good to be out walking, even when a slight drizzle sends me under the eaves of the stores. 

 

Within five blocks or so, I pass a Hindu Temple, a Muslim Mosque, a Buddhist Shrine and a Christian Church. Diversity is woven into the very fabric of Singapore culture and while I’ve portrayed this modern city as one giant mall, the truth is larger than that. In-between those brightly lit shrines to Shopping are funky food courts, back alleys, strings of stall-like stores, roosters roaming freely, the hum of the crowds out on the streets and if you know where and when to look, some ancient festivals that include trance-dance and direct communion with the spirits. 

 

Out to dinner with some Orff acquaintances and catapulted back to the ultra-modern mall, where the restaurant charges $25 for a beer, $45 for a chicken and waffle entrée, all accompanied, naturally, with the disco beat from hell in the background and too-cold air-conditioning. There is a waterway inside the mall with boats you can board (for a fee). After dinner, we escaped into the perfect- temperature of the night air, just in time to see a light show over the waters with coordinated music soundtrack. Quite well done, I have to say, and standing there, feeling a bit of my childhood 4^th-of-July-fireworks-wonder.

 

Good to be a “tourist” briefly before turning to plan my next two-day workshop at a school. Stay tuned for the Photo Gallery.  

Apologies to Chiyo

With an upcoming trip to Tokyo, I decided to listen to a book I read a long time ago and remember liking —“Memoirs of a Geisha.” It is not easy to listen to, this tour of the ravages of Patriarchy and women’s complicity in salting the wounds of its cruelty rather than massaging each other and plotting resistance. The constant insults and beatings and just plain meanness that mark each day in this house training Geishas is testimony to the notion that human beings are the most wretched species to walk the face of this earth. Whether the setting takes place in Japan or China or South Africa, in Germany or Australia or Chile or the United States, our determination to make each other miserable all leads inexorably to two choices: 

 

1)    Our default setting is cruelty. We win the game by being the victorious attackers rather than the pathetic victims. Kindness is weakness, caring for others is ridiculous when you have to watch out for Number One. 

 

2)   Our deeper default setting that awaits our awakening is kindness. Cruelty is weakness, narcissism is toxic to both the community and the narcissist, deferring to meanness is cowardness.

 

Comparing these stories I read to my actual experience in the world and the quality of the people I meet and hang out with is what gives me hope that against all odds, we have evolved significantly and are continuing to move closer to our God than our Devil. Each day in my life is an indisputable testimony to this truth— especially in the classes I teach, but also in the neighborhood clean-ups my wife organizes, the alum teacher gatherings hiking out in nature, the No Kings Rallies I attend. 

 

The change we are all desperately awaiting does not just come from the voting booth, but from the switch in default setting that makes kindness the norm and cruelty the aberration. I’m not naïve— recent events expose how very far away we are from where we need to be. But also how much closer we’re getting. 

 

I only wish this had happened earlier for poor, suffering, abused, Chiyo in her geisha house. 

Surfing on the Waves of Love

Don’t think I’ve ever written a Blog post in a car, but here I am in an Uber (called “Grab”) in Singapore on my way to my Holiday Inn Hotel in Little India. 

Had a lovely day yesterday teaching a “non-jazz” Orff workshop to 30 people. My host Siew Ling kept insisting on group reflections during each of the 4 days of teaching and she was right. In order to lock any usable ideas in, they need to be said out loud and better yet, shared. I often am so impatient to fill every minute of the workshop with music that I often let this go and this was an important reminder. And also so satisfying for me to hear their takeaways and feel that they indeed, had some understanding of the key points I’m always hoping to make to transform their teaching. Many were heartfelt testimonies as to not only how they were inspired, but deeply touched by the little 7 hours of life we shared.

 

Walked the mile back to my hotel and had the good sense to plunge into the pool for one last swim. Perfect! Then send off the day’s notes, pack and turn to the plans for my next day teaching at XCL World Academy, where Brazilian friend Luciana teaches. It looked to be a full and challenging day, with three morning classes with 3rd, 4^th and 5^th grade — each one with 60 kids!! Then an improvisation class with twelve 12^th graders, another with twenty four 11^th graders and then a workshop for some 16 teachers at their staff meeting. 

 

I did it all and it was glorious. Yet another testimony that after four long days of teaching and then thrown into the challenge above, I should be exhausted, but nothing could be farther from the truth. I feel wholly energized and uplifted and ready to have dinner with another friend tonight. Because, as I say time and time again, when you know how to teach so it’s fun, the children pick up on it immediately and send all their happiness back to you. All the smiles and laughter and sheer joy comes back as energy that creates more energy. And then when the music is good, it’s another major jolt of energy charging every nerve, muscle, brain cells, heartbeat of the human organism. 

 

I am a deeply flawed human being like all of us with my fair share of disappointments, but when my activities are wholly aligned with what I do best, what I love most, what I value and care about, all of it echoing back to me in waves of love from the energies I set in motion and the people whose lives I touch, whether for a single class, a whole course or a long connection, well, then I might as well say it plainly.  I am the luckiest person alive. 

 

And now, I have arrived at the hotel. 

 

Bridge to Childhood

It’s nighttime in Singapore and I’m listening to Offenbach’s Barcarolle in my 12^th story hotel room. The body fortified by another simple dinner at “my” vegetarian restaurant, topped off by a $.35 (US dollars) soy ice cream cone from Ikea, the Spirit uplifted by the final day of my three-day Jazz Course, my Soul at peace after a full 9:00 to 5:30 day of teaching and another two hours gathering the notes to send out while planning tomorrow’s workshop on the theme The Humanitarian Musician. Busy, but also moved to tears at least four times today, not counting a brief awakening in the middle of the night last night and getting an e-mail from a group of college friends reaching out to each other in this time of great darkness. 

 

Spotify sent me from the Barcarolle to Saint-Saen’s The Swan and here in this blessed Solitude, the space is cleared for the notes and the feelings behind them to fully enter. Now it’s on to Carmen and all of this music that I’ve known for oh- so- many years. The mere arrangement of tones and rhythms is walking me across the bridge to my childhood, where I sat in this same sanctuary of solitude and let my imagination roam freely. Each piece bringing me to a different land, but all lands sharing the sense that this world is a beautiful place to be wholly savored and enjoyed. A place where everything makes sense, where I could feel invisible helpers assuring me that I was put here for a purpose, and they were here to escort me to the life I mysteriously was meant to live. 

Adult life seemed a confusing interlude, determined to distract me from my childhood wonder and bury me under busyness, to damp down or downright trample my dreams, to lure me into the trivial and away from listening dreamily to music and letting it carry me where it will. Like everyone, I kept losing that thread. 

But if I’m to claim any merit, it would be a certain tenacious determination to not wholly let go. So yet another day of playing with strangers become instant fellow travelers, creating the space for both laughter and tears. As I mentioned, the latter came to the edge of the eyes many times today, most profoundly watching the video of Nina Simone singing I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free. In a mere six minutes and ten seconds, her singing and playing travelled the full range of emotion that constitutes an authentic life—the tender hopes and dreams, the angry outrage and fury, the sly smile of joy untouched by other’s failings, the humility and grace, the courage and purity to be wholly herself. 

 

Back in my hotel room, the music rolls on, now Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro, bringing this aging man back into his 10-year-old body and mind. But the adult-mind reminding him that he’s in charge of 30 people tomorrow for 7 more hours and that it might be a good idea to go to sleep. So I’ll leave off here, grateful have revisited that child filled with wonder, innocence, dreams and love for this life. 

Good night.

 

Intelligence Having Fun

Back to the life I was born to live. In a room with teachers eager to learn, sharing the music I love with 50 years of learning how to share it effectively and joyfully. A small group of 11 in this Singapore workshop on teaching the Blues, so enthusiastic in their playing and insightful in their reflections, noticing the details of the magic that emerged. 

 

Alongside the pleasure of playing great music that everyone could do, could hear, could feel and could understand (my 4H club of hand/ heart / head and hearing), I shared some of the historical context. I told them that it will mean something different to them because it is not their history and yet, I found them nodding their heads hearing the story of human beings owned as property and 400 years (and still counting) of unfathomable suffering so white folks could get rich without working, a nonverbal “Word!” to information that Americans find so difficult to hear. From there, they joined in on a powerful improvised field holler and the path was paved to keep walking all the way to the Blues. 

 

Having paid their dues of attending to a difficult history, they were qualified to receive the full weight of the joy the music offers. Especially when invited to improvise their own particular style of expressing themselves musically. Smiles abounded and I shared with them a quote I saw in a window on my Saturday Singapore walk and wander. Attributed to Albert Einstein, it perfectly captures why I love teaching the way I do so much and never want to stop:

 

“Creativity is intelligence having fun.”

 

Yep! I would have loved to have Einstein in my Orff class! We understand each other.

I ended the day walking the mile and a half from the school to my hotel, stopped at a charming vegetarian restaurant where I ate the other day and tried the pho noodle dish (delicious!). Then stopped in IKEA next to my hotel. Why? I went there last night to buy a bowl for my breakfast cereal and after buying it—for 70 cents U.S.!— I noticed there was a machine dispensing Soy Ice Cream for 30 cents U.S.! I haven’t had ice cream that cheap since Uncle Gaylords in San Francisco in 1975, so I felt morally obligated to get some. But the problem was you first had to get a token and the line for the tokens was 30 people long! In fact, the entire IKEA was like a Black Friday Walmart, packed wall-to-wall with people out shopping on Sunday night. Really?

 

So having forgone the line last night, I thought I’d peek in and there was exactly no one in line. The whole store with just a few people wandering about. I guess Sunday night at IKEA is a thing in Singapore! I got my token and my coin and enjoyed my refreshing treat and topped off the early evening with a long swim in the hotel’s Infinity pool. 

 

The teaching is enough for me to exclaim time and time again, “I love this life!” but when combined with warm weather in January, good cuisine at amazing prices and a daily/nightly swim in a silky-smooth pool, one could get spoiled. Maybe I should write a blog about it, something like “Confessions of a Traveling Music Teacher.” The theme would be the meeting point of creativity, intelligence and fun. I think I’ll look into it. 

(Ha ha!)

 

Maggot In Chief

“Follow your Muse” is the unspoken agreement of any author who has been chosen to be the conduit for private thoughts that at their best, serve a public purpose. No one can predict precisely how they will land with a reader or with whom, but that’s not our business. Just maintain an intuitive faith that something needs to be said and if you don’t say it, no one else will.

 

In the past few days, my Muse has turned me towards the unfathomable chaos of my confused country come face-to-face with centuries of undigested grief and deep shadows. All of it coming to light at once. So any insight that goes beyond name-calling to a deeper understanding of the forces at work is fair game. In that spirit, I ask:

 

“Has anyone noticed how closely MAGAS and MAGGOTS are connected?”

 

If you do, it should send you running to Google to remind yourself as to what exactly a maggot is? But I’ll save you the trouble. Here was the first definition:

 

A maggot is the soft-bodied, legless larva of a fly, a worm-like stage that hatches from eggs and feeds voraciously on decaying organic matter like rotting food, feces, or dead animals, rapidly growing before transforming into a pupa and then an adult fly.

 

So calling the MAGAS maggots is not just an amusing Shakespearian insult, but a scientific description they’ve earned. They have no spine and their heart and brain are negligible. Led by the Chief Maggot of all, they feed voraciously on the shit that he releases into the sewers of his Twitter. They are disgusting creatures that wriggle and worm in the decaying flesh of people killed by ICE, in the moldy, crumbling pages of our Constitution, in the rotting, deteriorating, corroding beams of our Institutions, in the trash heaps of lies and deceit and spin. 

 

And fed by it all, what do they grow into? Flies! Who buzz around our heads and keep feasting on feces and use their whining voices to annoy us at picnics. 

 

The metaphor enters new territory when we consider that in the natural world, these pests actually have a role in the ecological balance. They assist the process of decomposition, releasing new energies into the system that are vital to life and growth. In short, the compost of our waste matter is an essential component of growing food and flowers. 

 

But balance is the key word. When the waste is overwhelming and lines our streets like a New York City garbage strike, and the flies multiply and the rats show up on the scene, there is trouble in paradise. If we can convince the red-hatters that they are on the lowest level of the food chain, secretly stick maggot stickers on their hats and awaken them to the shame they’ve refused, maybe that would help support the balance. And after looking for new names for the unspeakable Head of the Trash Heap, perhaps we might consider:

 

Maggot-in-Chief. 

 

So ends your science lesson of the day. There will be a test. 

The ICE Floe

It has been said that in some Inuit cultures, elders who had outlived their usefulness were sent out on an ice floe to die. Closer examination reveals that if indeed this practice (called senicide) was real, it only might have happened when resources were scarce and the young were in danger of death by starvation. Nevertheless, the term “sent out on an ice floe” drifted into our language and describes the sense that an elderly person might have of no longer being needed or useful.

 

If there is one person on the planet who qualifies for this practice, someone who has not only never been useful or needed but does nothing but daily wreak havoc and horror wherever he turns, it’s ………. 

 

Well, if you don’t know now, then you never will. Let’s just say that he is responsible in direct and indirect ways for the recent murder of a kind, compassionate, patriotic mother of three and will never admit an ounce of remorse or offer a microdot of condolence. He has completely transformed ICE, a formerly legitimate branch of the government, into a group of vigilante thugs with no training in law enforcement and let them loose to tear families apart, spread terror and murder innocent people. All the while abducting the leader of Venezuela and threatening to take over Greenland.

 

So if there’s any justice in this world and any God still functioning in any celestial realm, then I have the perfect natural consequence. 

 

IN HIS UPCOMING TRIP TO GREENLAND, HE SHOULD BE ABDUCTED AND SENT OUT ON AN ICE FLOE TO A DIE A SLOW AND PAINFUL DEATH. WHILE INUIT DRUMMERS, JOINED WITH PEOPLE ALL OVER THE WORLD, WILL PLAY, SING AND DANCE, “GOOD RIDDANCE!” 

  

Requiem for Renee

Yesterday I asked how much to let the news seep into my heart and used my privilege of being far away from the direct impact of ICE violence to make it seem okay. Shame on me. But today, Renee Nicole Good’s story found its way into my heart and this poem is my response. 

 

ON THE MURDER OF RENEE NICOLE GOOD

 

My silence is not complicity. 

It is neither uncaring nor unknowing. 

My silence comes from a heart which can find no words large enough 

to express the enormity of this next calamity. 

Add together grief and anguish and deep sorrow, 

outrage and horror and fury, and 

you still don’t get one step closer 

to expressing what needs to be expressed,

but is impossible to express. 

 

The grief has come, arm in arm with the fury. So as the politicians begin their avalanche of lies, the talking heads begin their empty chatter and the Facebook comments reveal our calloused hearts, I give voice to my Fury.

 

“Any citizen who dares to defend this action, to spin it, to ignore it,

to justify it, to refuse it, to shrug it off,

is not fit to claim membership in humanity.

If you are Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu or other, you will be

denied entrance into your sacred buildings—you have defiled any god’s mandate to see the divine in all. If Catholic, you will be excommunicated.

If you are a teacher, you will be fired for violating the sacred trust of protecting children’s future.

If you are a politician, you will be impeached and taken from office for violating your oath to uphold the Constitution.

Family members who defend the Criminal-in-Chief will be struck from all wills, public figures blocked from all media, social and otherwise, spouses instantly divorced and prohibited from any further contact with the children.

 

Then all of you together will be locked into a football stadium or 100 or 1,000, 

to begin the education you never got or refused to learn. To finally look clearly at who we have become, and realize, once the lessons have begun, that it is exactly who we have always been. Consider the following:

 

• Our gifts of smallpox blankets to the native peoples who helped us survive.

 

• The brutal rapes and lashings of those enslaved human beings who made us rich. 

 

• The burning of those mothers who bore our children, denounced as witches.

 

• The assault and massacre of strikers who worked in intolerable conditions to give us warmth in our home.

 

• The church child-abuse perpetrated by those who led our worship services in the name of God, covered in the cloaks of institutional silence. 

 

• The lynchings and later, the sanctioned police murders, of black folks who gave us jazz, sports, literature, uplifted us with the moral courage of Martin and Malcolm and Fannie Lou Hamer and Shirley Chisholm. The endless list of innocents slain with their murderers mostly getting off scot-free —Tarika Wilson, Eric Garner, Michael Brown, Tamir Rice, Freddie Gray, Breonna Taylor, Fred Brown, George Floyd and 583 more black people since 2010.  (Every morning, all in that football stadium will be required to say their names.)

 

• The slaughter of innocents abroad and our own young soldiers in needless wars 

  so we can claim the oil that mysteriously got in their fields, 

        the oil we need to drive to the mall that has defaced our own land 

               to buy products made in sweat-shops far away that no one needs 

                        and then fill up our oceans with unrecyclable waste. 

 

Perhaps then all of you who have refused history’s lessons,

 will finally understand that everything that happens like this 

         makes sense inside a narrative 

                that makes no sense at all. 

 

Now you just might understand that a human being who just wanted

      to raise her children with love, 

            write poetry to praise this life and

                  perform her duty as a concerned citizen,

                             has now joined the Ancestors of the Needlessly Slaughtered. 

 

While the leader who set this all in motion and approves it, will wake up the next morning in his defaced White House without a single word of remorse or condolence. 

 

Oh, day of reckoning, when will you finally come? How many more must needlessly die before we greet you?

 

 R.I.P. Renee Nicole Good."