RMiddleton

poor neurodivergent artist here & im not complaining about that that's my choice. But the rigamarole I go through below is ridiculous 🙃

Bc of my weird life I have to do like a 13-step process to withdraw a little money I received today. I can't get to it bc it's in venmo which my phone offloaded because I have no available space on my phone. So I'm watching the DVD extras on The Vanishing before I unplug it from the 1 of 2 USB ports on my MacBook Air (the other USB being an external drive that the computer never lets me unmount, I have to shut down before unplugging the drive—& speaking of shut down, that's what my computer will do if the magnetically attached charge cord slips off because I like Macs & for that I am condemned to have laptops that can't be laptops because their batteries aren't serviceable). After watching the director interview on the DVD 📀 (free from the library bc this movie is not accessible to me streaming) I'll remove the DVD player that's fortunately plug and play [although I cannot use the built in Mac DVD app because of a bug {that asks me repeatedly to reset my DVD region, warns me that I can only ever do this 5 times before (if I make a mistake) my external dvd drive becomes a brick, but won't permit me to set the region and it can't be because I did it already 5 times can it? No it's a known bug documented online} with an annoying multi step process to fix it so I said Fuck it I'm getting VLC again & VLC is clunky but it just works]. Then I'll connect iphone to the free USB port using the only remaining cord the Mac still accepts. Then I'll move movies and photos off phone (because I can't afford cloud backup subscription) for which I'll use the barebones Mac Image Capture app because the Photos née iPhoto app is unusable. Phew! I store on an external HD because my MBAir came with very little memory and again I can't afford monthly cloud payments. I store in sorted folders labeled Resources with sub folders by date. After clearing space on my phone I'll be able to reinstall venmo and go through whatever process they make me do to get the money out. [these services don't need to exist right? Isn't it true in the UK you can wire directly bank account to bank account?]

Anyway I'm just kidding I think I'll just get the money from venmo website on my laptop IF I can remember which browser I may have used with venmo before, if any. If I get the money this way I won't clear the stuff off my phone and the phone will continue with subpar performance.

Haha! There was an easier workaround I thought of on the toilet. I deleted Google maps app and that freed space to reinstall venmo and... the money wasn't there! The buyer hasn't made the transfer yet I guess.

This is for my one sale from the summer that the buyer chose to pay in installments

Being a neurodivergent artist is great!

And I mean that. That's not sarcastic. What isn't great is having to live in this society.

I suggest that the United States needs to do much more than elect better people under the current constitution. A peaceful revolution is called for.

The right is right. Under the US constitution and historical tradition, the right is in keeping with American values. Liberals are wrong when we have said:

America is exceptional

America is the greatest country on earth

Bigotry, hate; and murder are not who we are as Americans

America values equality

None of the above are true. All of the above are wishful. Trump and his cronies are the heirs to the slave-owning founders, to Polk, to Jackson, to Jim Crow, to Woodrow Wilson, to FDR, to Nixon, to Reagan, and to the Supreme Court for all but a very few years.

The United States has never stood for equality. I'm not so much saying this in anger as with a clear eyed coldness. The nice words in the revered documents are lies. They are marketing materials. It's quite clear that the professions of equality are lies; simply look at the laws.

I will expand on this soon. I'm tired. Hugs!

I live inside my mind. I view my number one task as survival. Before I can do anything else well I must sustain myself. What am I? A consciousness in a body. But I think more accurate to say a conscious body. My senses supply information that I interpret using emotion, aided by memory.

I am sitting in the sun enjoying a recording of a violin concerto by Saint-Saëns as I write this. Why so I like the sound of this music? And the nearby splashing water that I can hear? Why do I dislike the sounds of loud motors, and shouting, and most human broadcasts?

I try to keep the election far from my mind. I'm a white man. If I wanted I could pass as straight. I fantasize myself organizing a meeting in which I, crying no doubt, say to a group of Trump voters: “I think of you as evil people. And I am scared of you. Why am I wrong to feel this way?” The responses that I imagine would be defensive, righteous indignation, and filled with factual errors they all learned from intentionally lying sources. And they would be demonstrating their own emotions in response.

If I think anything like this I just get stuck. It's been this way for decades. It's why “good whites” cannot reach our relatives, neighbors, and coworkers.

I can't get stuck. To go on I focus on the Saint-Saëns, followed by They Might Be Giants, and everything else I'm checking out from the library to keep my spirit afloat. James Baldwin. Poetry. Abolitionist history. A film about fascist Italy. Aretha Franklin.

I'm changing me. Change the world? Maybe tomorrow...

I love what I do so much. A snarketarian might say, “What the fick do you do? You have no daily job that produces income!” And that is true.

Here's what I do:

Now I'm waiting for a telehealth call from my pain doctor. Improving my physical condition is essential for me to do anything else. I'm happy to be working on this goal with help.

I'm talking to friends and new friends and neglected friends and physician assistants and neighbors and random folk — all with joy and respect. I'm not at my best every moment so I'd rate myself as spreading 93% joy. I see results in my effect on others.

I'm cleaning my house. A little every day. With joy. I'm keeping an assortment of plants alive. I'm inviting visitors over.

I'm cooking every meal at home, happily.

I'm walking and stretching every day.

I'm enjoying nature so much.

I'm celebrating human culture with books, videos, and music all free from the library. I'm so happy about that.

I may use equipment at the library to digitize some old family items. I feel good about that.

Is there more? What else is there?

I'm sharing my journey openly. I feel very satisfied with that evolution of my art practice.

---

What I'm not doing: feeling mad, sad, bitter, jealous, greedy, impatient, or bored.

I know how to be happy!

conversation excerpts between new friends from different worlds

Whenever he spoke of his home Starling grew so agitated that his slight, frail frame seemed vibrating, boiling within, ready to burst. His skin changed color! Not to the extent that the rock lizard visibly shifts its color, but significantly. Earthling was concerned.

Starling's pulse quickened, breaths grew shallow, tegument pigmentation intensified. He spat-spoke, “Living on a planet once teeming with life my species believed they were all that mattered. We thought we were the only intelligent creatures. Because we used tools, we said. Until we paid attention to all the others who also used tools! Then we had to find other reasons.”

“Here too,” our Earthling representative echoed his alien friend, in a tone meant to affirm yet calm. Agreeing not challenging is the way to encourage change, E. knew. With nonchalance: “If not tools, language, then it's emotion,” Earthling laughed wistfully, “And whaddya know? Other critters do all that stuff!”

“Yeah,” Starling snorted, still sulking but surprised at his genuine comfort in knowing his species wasn't uniquely arrogant. Surprised how quickly he felt some commonality — familiarity — with the Earthling. His anger faded only because his focus shifted to his host. Amiable, intelligent, admirable even. Still a little hard for Starling to look at. He must keep his shameful feelings of disgust a secret from his only hope for survival. He will work on these feelings on his own time, he decided. Earthling interrupted his pondering, or it may be more correct to say no time had passed at all.

“We did finally learn one legit thing that separates us from all other species on the planet.” He was waiting for Starling to be ready.

Resuming full attention, taking interest in what the Earthling had said, Starling asked, “Oh? What is it?” He wondered if it would hold true of his species as well, though he could never know for sure anymore.

“Our lives are a progression of doing one thing while thinking about another.”

Is this a joke, Starling wondered. His expression must have betrayed his thought, because E. added, “I'm serious! Of all the species on this planet mine is the only one capable of doing one thing while thinking something else. I don't know how they proved it, it isn't my field. Something about object permanence I think and distractability, attention disorders...” he faded off.

Starling looked directly at his companion. Damn if I don't like this guy! “I still don't think I understand what you're staying.”

“Oh that's all right, neither do the scientists. But they definitely believe it. They are conducting additional tests. It's unending right?”

He's laughing at me. With me? Starling wondered. I think he's smiling. Hard to tell. Do they even have the same emotions and language use? So far it feels like yes but... S. knows he is completely at sea. Asea. Aspace.

“Live in the moment,” the sages have said. “Be as the creatures of the sea and air, with no worry burdening them down.”

“Damn. Yes, I see.”

#BobbHamilton #AfricanAmericanPoetry #BlackPoetry #DiversifyWikipedia

Yesterday I went to my city's main public library. I don't know what's going on with them, but the two books I searched in advance & went there to get were not on the shelf despite the catalog saying that they are. I received very peculiar service from a young man who assured me “the next time you come in I'll make sure those books are there” without taking any written note of the books.

Nevermind all that though, because I went in there for poetry & I left with poetry! So much poetry in one small volume, I won't be surprised if I have to renew this loan once or maybe even twice. While looking for the books that were not there I picked up an interesting little book titled You Better Believe It. I opened to a random page and read absolute fire from a Black American. It was always my intention to check out 3 poetry books, the two I scoped in advance (by Naomi Shihab Nye & Jericho Brown) and one that caught my eye.

You Better Believe It: Black Verse in English from Africa, the West Indies, and the United States selected and annotated by Paul Breman. That link opens a short Wikipedia entry that begins: Paul Breman (Bussum, 19 July 1931 – London, 29 October 2008) was a Dutch writer, bookseller and publisher. There is no entry for poet Bobb Hamilton. Here is the brief bio within You Better Believe It (see image below):

Bobb Hamilton comes from Cleveland, Ohio, where he was born 16 December 1928 and attended school right through Ohio State University, from which he obtained a B.Sc. (psychology and philosophy) in 1950. Since then he has made his home mainly in New York, where he has found more scope for his many-sided talents as an artist. For Bobb Hamilton is not just a versatile writer who can turn his hand with equal facility to reportage or poetry, he is just as adept in the visual arts as a painter, a sculptor, and a ceramist. He has actually taught art for a considerable time, in the New York City Welfare Department, and has used the experience in his work as therapist at a hospital. Since 1968 he has been instructor in black literature and history at Queen's College, New York. His involvement with the whole of the new movement in black art is deep and of long standing. Officially listed as its 'East Coast editor' or 'New York representative', it seems to be very much Hamilton who has, for nearly ten years, held together Soulbook, the 'quarterly journal of revolutionary afroamerica' with its early third-world commitment, emphasis on socio-economics, and surprisingly strong poetry sections (which range from Baraka and Kgositsile to Ho Chi Minh). More recently Hamilton has also become the editor of Black Caucus for the Association of Black Social Workers.

Do you not feel, as I do, that this Black artist deserves a Wikipedia entry as much as the white European publisher who brought his work to my attention? I am a humanist, celebrating the good of humanity. It's fine that Bremer merits an entry. But why not Bobb Hamilton? I feel like I know why.

Truly I am grateful to Paul Bremer because this volume is FULL of what looks to be great poets, most of whom I have never been exposed to. And I think Bremer's biographical sketches convey due admiration for these poets. I suppose the bio in this book should not be copied over in its entirety to a new wikipedia entry, but uh... Well, that point is moot for me because I do not currently have a wikipedia account. I would be pleased if someone who reads this post created an entry.

When I learn something new that I am interested in I quite enjoy taking the time to learn more. There's plenty for me to peruse via this DuckDuckGo result for poet Bobb Hamilton. For now I will try to expand upon what's in the bio above.

Soulbook · No wikipedia entry · 9 issues of Soulbook imaged at Archive.org · Soulbook mentioned in 2016 blog post on Kalam ya Salaam's The Magic of Juju — check out Kalam ya Salaam's The Magic of Juju at Archive.org

I'm embarrassed to say I did not know who Keorapetse Kgositsile was. From wikipedia:

South African poet and political activist (1938-2018) Keorapetse William Kgositsile, also known by his pen name Bra Willie, was a South African Tswana poet, journalist and political activist.

I am likewise clueless of Amiri Baraka, “American writer of poetry, drama, fiction, essays, and music criticism. He was the author of numerous books of poetry and taught at several universities.”

I have a feeling I'm going to experience white American cluelessness over and over again throughout You Better Believe It. I plan to read this book cover to cover and will probably have more to say here & on Twitch/YouTube, Instagram, & Mastodon.

I do not want to end without noting that very few women are represented in this poetry collection. My next library visit will correct that omission.

Poetry is coming back into my life with a vengeance as a survival strategy. Many mornings my whole life I've struggled to get out of bed. And would you believe the invention of the iPhone didn't help? No, I'm afraid picking that thing up first thing in the morning is not a ray of sunshine. Even when I use it for good, life-affirming purposes I am very likely to see some notification or news that brings me down. The instant that I connect to an outside source the unrelenting pace of information starts. When taking my mind from sleeping to waking I prefer to open my consciousness slowly. I find slowing down to be the key component to good decision making and a happy mood. I'm resolving to keep poetry books by my bed as an alternative to starting my day with the iPhone onslaught. I will try thumbing through and reading a few to get inspired for the day ahead. Poems are the original microblogging platform.

What if when I posted financial support links a dozen new patrons gave small recurring donations

What if my mother was open to emotional growth

What if my gay godfather, the only adult I felt kinship with, had not died of AIDS before I was out

What if the country I live in was committed to improving the lives of all people

What if I had free healthcare

What if I sold paintings at the last major show I put on

What if a friend or family member broke the facade to have a quiet, caring conversation

What if I knew one stable, serious, caring person in a position to help who wanted to help

What if meaningful jobs were plentiful instead of the exploitative jobs I had

What if I were part of a caring community

To my friends and family: I don't know if you don't get me, or if you're scared, or you just don't get me. Maybe I offend you, or you think I'm dangerous, or you don't get me. I'm sure the truth is that you probably don't think about me very much at all. You have your own considerations. Or maybe you did reach out to me and I didn't acknowledge it. If that happened I can say that I may not have seen it. I block out a lot of incoming communication because spam and corporate dehumanization and deception actually hurts me emotionally. Maybe you're the same way and that's why you don't see me. Or maybe you're barely getting by. Maybe I annoy you. I annoy me. But as I say I figure that you have enough to keep you occupied. Why would anyone take on a problem? I wonder sometimes, do you wonder too, how people end up on the streets? Or fully dissociated? Ever since my 20s I've had recurring periods when I felt disconnected from others to the point that I imagined myself on the streets.

One mystery I contemplate is that it may be possible that others feel close to me and I don't feel close to them. Then again I'm not sure that's possible because I'm the one saying that I'm alone. So if you did think we were close here I am saying that we're not. I think it must be a matter of perspective. In an old song Howard Jones asks: What is love? And does anybody love anybody anyway? That level of questioning resonates with me, and maybe it doesn't resonate with others. I've often felt a conflict between loyalty to ideas & loyalty to people. Maybe others don't feel this conflict. Maybe they do, but few speak of it. Maybe it seems futile to ask so many questions that deconstruct societal bonds.

I watched a recent retrospective on the tv show My So Called Life, a program that might have done me some good if it had come out a decade earlier. The two bits that stuck out to me were the attitudes of the mother of the main character. For one she wanted to know “what type of family” her child's friends came from. My mom spoke like that all the time. And when her child says that she could be the one in the desperate situation that her friend is, the mother responds with angry denial, “that could never happen to you!” There is a strong belief in special status among “my people” (those I come from but feel no connection with). Bad things happen to other people. And maybe those people deserve it! This delusional thinking prevents empathy and it also causes self harm. We all will die. It might not be elegant. We all will need help. A disaster can take everything away from us in an instant. Belief in class privilege prevents planning. We all do better when we all do better. There is no one among us better than any other.

What if we acted according to that truth

What if

I see a post, a place I'd rather be. The money it would take to be there! (& the environmental harm!!)

Same video on open source mirror: https://yewtu.be/qNPbokfyotY

Realizing that I may never enjoy travel again but as a USAmerican I'm closer to that lifestyle than the majority of Earthlings. That's what Americans do not want to give up, I think. Their relative privilege. “If the world is closer to destruction than ever I may as well enjoy it.” Liberals think this! “The world has never been fair and equal, that's not my fault. Why should I suffer for things that aren't my fault?” Not realizing or believing that our privilege also gives us disproportionate power to make the world better. Maybe the Earth is closer to destruction than ever before; it's also closer to universal dignity than it's ever been. I happen to believe that greater fulfilling happiness comes from embracing humanist love for all than from trying to get as much for myself as I can.

Yet who am I to talk of happiness? I'm not so happy. I say it's because I must live amongst dehumanists while trying to be humanist. I hope to find a way to be. If and when I do I'll let you know.

Detail of More Perfect Union, an abstract expressionist painting of acrylic, oil, marker, and newspaper on canvas. The painting was made in 2013. The title comes from a small piece of newspaper stuck to the surface of the painting that shows a photo of a couple in the New York Times weddings section. Prior to nationwide legalization of gay marriage in 2015, the Times began publishing same sex marriage notices in its pages. The fight over recognition of all marriages was in the news and on my mind for many years. The couple (not shown in this detail; it's just as well — schedule an appointment or buy it to see!) in the announcement attached to this painting is a man and a woman with an “androgynous” short haircut. It amuses me that on first glance I saw a male-male couple; I wanted to see it that way. Gender nonconformity is wrapped into the LGBTQ community's equal rights struggle — we are also fighting for the right to be a slightly built, soft spoken straight man & a tall, short-haired straight woman. What just happened in Paris is a Cis woman being harassed due to transphobia. Equal rights are always best understood as protection for everyone. There can never be a single “normal ideal” that's beyond all suspicion. “Mind your own damn business” makes for a funny retort that VP candidate Tim Walz has been employing to fend off the right's nonstop harassment campaigns. But so much more is possible than the negative freedom of leaving others alone. All freedom is interwoven. Respect for self is necessary to respect others & respecting others strengthens self respect. Truly loving ourselves transcends skin, appearance, and abilities. A more perfect union is love for all.