TGIF

This week has been extremely trying, but somehow I survived it.  Between the stresses of school and a few personal issues that have me contemplating pulling out hairs, I didn't realize how happy I'd be for this week to end.

Thankfully, it's the weekend.  I think I need to relax a bit.  Back to the worrying on Monday.

Hope everyone enjoy's there weekend.  Here's a cool song to get the good times going.

Let's shuffle the week's bad vibes away.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Blessed are the Peacemakers

On the subway this morning, I half-listened as two complete strangers began to argue intently over a misunderstanding involving a bag that had been sitting in the seat.  Apparently, woman A had unknowingly knocked woman B's bag to the ground, resulting in the type of awkward exchange that always seems way too intense for the moment.  Neither woman appeared to be backing down, their trades of insults and threats getting louder and more out of hand.  Had this been the bus, I am almost certain the driver would have asked them both to get off at the next stop.  Luckily, someone intervened.  A third, much younger woman, calmly removed her headphones and asked a simple question.

"Is it really that serious to be arguing over?"

Most of the people around, who had been deeply enthralled in what felt like it would soon be a physical altercation, immediately slumped their heads or averted their eyes back to their own personal matters.  No doubt, they all felt just as silly for getting so mixed up in the ordeal.  The looks that fell across the faces of the two women could be categorized as both fitting and surprising.  I expected them to unleash their anger onto this other woman, but instead they were silent.  They both looked guilty and childish at the same time.  I remember wishing I could hear what they were thinking.

Then my attention refocused on the peacemaker.  As I said, she was younger than both the other ladies.  An average young woman on any other subway train.  I was impressed that she didn't seek any kind of gratification from calming their quarrel.  She simply returned her headphones to her ears and continued waiting for her stop.  Long after she'd gotten off the train, my mind was still working over her.  Who was she?  And just what separated her from all the other onlookers, including myself, who were unwilling to intervene.  It made me think of the Beatitudes, from growing up as the son of a minister.  I've heard them many times throughout my life, but never really was able to apply real life meaning to them.  Until today.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God

As I think of all the people throughout history who can easily be called peacemakers, I release a smile.  Mohandas Gandhi.  Martin Luther King Jr.  Mother Theresa.  The Dalai Lama.  As well as the many others before and yet to come.   In spite of their differences in faith, all of these great people held something within them that reminds us of our respective versions of Heaven.  And that says something about the beauty of the human spirit and those who are willing to stand against conflict.

I'm not sure the young lady on the subway is aware, but I see a bit of this in her too.  Maybe, the beautiful truth that we all need to discover, is that there is a bit of peacemaker in us all.  Imagine how our world would be, on the day we all embrace it.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Good Reads: Lit by Mary Karr

So, I've been marginally more preoccupied since classes began on Monday, but I haven't forgotten my love for good literature.  Which is why I'm about to begin a new recurring theme here at Rare View Me.  I am an avid reader and occasionally I stumble across a book that I consider to be a gem.  So, I'll tell you about it here.

The first book is Lit, by Mary Karr.  Some of you may recognize the name.  Liar's Club, her first memoir, is number 4 on Entertainment Weekly's Top 100 books of the last 25 years.  Interestingly enough, I remember wanting to read that book when it came out, but couldn't remember who wrote it.  Fast forward over 15 years later, and I've been introduced to Mary Karr.

(photo via Mrs. Blandings)

Writers will love the poetic prose that Karr often writes in, defining some of her life's most trying moments with words that seem to perfectly fit.  Born poor in Texas, to tragic parents, this is the story of her finally escaping, only to fall into the depths of alcoholism.  I have only read about a fourth of this latest memoir, but I am already rooted in the story and the author.  I feel connected to her in a way that is rare to create, simply through page.  

I decided not to spoil any of this great book for you, by including a lengthy excerpt here.  I will offer up this opening line, which sets the mind in motion for a remarkable journey.

Anyway I tell this story is a lie, so I ask you to disconnect the device in your head that repeats at intervals how ancient and addled I am.

I have also included one of Karr's poems, as she is a highly acclaimed poet and essayist, considering herself a poet, first and foremost.

Who the Meek Are Not

           Not the bristle-bearded Igors bent
under burlap sacks, not peasants knee-deep
           in the rice paddy muck,
nor the serfs whose quarter-moon sickles
           make the wheat fall in waves
they don't get to eat. My friend the Franciscan
           nun says we misread
that word meek in the Bible verse that blesses them.
           To understand the meek
(she says) picture a great stallion at full gallop
           in a meadow, who —
at his master's voice — seizes up to a stunned
           but instant halt.
So with the strain of holding that great power
           in check, the muscles
along the arched neck keep eddying,
           and only the velvet ears
prick forward, awaiting the next order.


                       --- Mary Karr, from Sinners Welcome


Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Thoughts and Tremors

It's been a while since I posted.  I've been busy with school, busy with writing, and busy with trying to carve a life out of this existence.  Okay, maybe that's a bit too esoteric, but granted, I have been busy.  But a few days ago, the ground shook.  I mean, it literally moved.

This is a scene, via CNN, of people evacuating after Tuesday's quake.

I don't live in California.  I've never even visited any place remotely close.  If that's what living there means having to get used to, I will never make that move.

The earthquake that hit the East Coast on Tuesday caused little damage to the area where I live in southern Maryland.  It did however, scare a lot of people.

I remember thinking that someone upstairs was running.  And then the running got stronger.  When the entire room began shaking, I jumped to my feet and tried not to panic.  At first, I thought I should hide in the closet. But the front door seemed more appealing.  By the time I got outside, from my second floor apartment, I was surrounded by equally alarmed neighbors, and most of the shaking was over.

But my heart kept beating.  I kept trying to figure out if what I'd just felt was real.  The entire world moved.  That's a scary thought and one that made me think:  what if it had been worse?

Earthquake readiness wasn't anywhere on my mind three days ago.  I figured a meteor would hit long before I'd be trying to forget what 5.9 on the Richter scale feels like.  But Tuesday showed me that you have to be prepared for anything.  Even the once-in-a-lifetime East Coast earthquake.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

The Occasional Crazy Rare Quote # 13

You know, they straightened out the Mississippi River in places, to make room for houses and livable acreage. Occasionally the river floods these places. "Floods" is the word they use, but in fact it is not flooding; it is remembering. Remembering where it used to be. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was. Writers are like that: remembering where we were, what valley we ran through, what the banks were like, the light that was there and the route back to our original place. It is emotional memory -- what the nerves and skin remember as well as how it appeared. And a rush of imagination is our “flooding.”

                                                                       --- Toni Morrison 




The wisdom floods from her words!!


Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet