About my friend Bronwen

I just added a new link, to Bronwen's Melancholy Garden.
It's a blog I started for an online friend who lives in England. (The photograph is a triptych of Blackpool in winter, created by her daughter, Charlotte). I haven't heard from Bronwen in a while. Sometimes she is too weary to get online. She has MS, and is in her forties. Since being diagnosed, Bronwen spends a lot of time collecting realistic thoughts about life (in contrast to the cheery remarks of medical professionals), and has compiled an anthology that covers centuries, which she sent to me. I posted the introduction, but I haven't posted all of the anthology itself yet, which I want to have available as a link to a PDF file. Until I figure out how to do this, you can read Bronwen's well-written personal philosophy. She also added a profile. I am concerned now, because if she is unable to get online, I don't know what's happening. She could be in the hospital, or she could be gone. It was more than a year ago that I saw one of her "cynical" remarks on another website, and complimented her on it; everyone else was dissing her for non-positivity. That's how we started corresponding. Anyway, read the introduction to her anthology if you like, by clicking on the new Bronwen's Melancholy Garden link, and I will soon post a link within that to her complete book (which she had sent to a publisher, but which had so many copyright issues due to song lyrics that were included that the outlook wasn't good for an actual book). But the internet is another matter. I send my love to Bronwen, wherever she is.

Context is everything

I have no topic tonight. Realizing how much the needs of "others" motivate me. If no one needs what I have to offer, then why exist? The genius of some people is simply to NEED things. I am so grateful for those who make me believe I have something to offer, even if it's only the use of a pencil sharpener. I want to be IN THE THICK OF IT. I am still inside life. Let it flow around me and knock me off my sandbar.

Spectator sports

The other night, we went to the Sex Workers Art Show. It happens here at a run-down factory building, the same building where there's an open mic poetry night I sometimes attend. I'd been before, but it was the first time I took my hubzand. It was a different show than last year's, with more spoken word and fewer dances, but what dances there were were fun. Especially Ms. Dirty Martini's "Patriot Act," a dollar-bill-swallowing, bump-and-grinding, assinuating, irreverent, very fleshy spectacle. Ms. Martini at one point extracted a long necklace-like length of paper money from her ample rear end, prompting the Amazing R to pay a visit to the "merch" table to talk with her about magic and tricks. I stayed up too late, but it was worth it. The organizer and emcee, one Annie Oakley, wanted to remind everyone of the thankless anonymity of sex workers and also of those in service industries and low-end jobs -- basically, the minimum wage earners of this country. The Sex Workers Art Show is politically correct in a good way, and I'm proud that our city somehow snuck it in. And yet, it still raises questions about how much and in what ways the "sex industry" should cater to naturally arising "needs," and how much it manufactures those needs. Business has never felt obligated to question its own morality, and the business of America is still business, even if we are farming most of it out. At least the Sex Workers Art Show was American-made, but then, it was show-biz.

Living, not writing

It's not working. Life is taking over. I'm helpless to resist. Long ago, I wrote, "Why must it be either live or write? This question keeps me up at night." I'm now getting plenty of sleep, as if it's been decided for me. Does this mean I'm a failure? Ah, but the time's not up yet. I still have weeks and weeks. Sort of. It feels as if time's going too fast, though, and that a huge paper is not a contribution to my well-being or the world. No, I'm not being lazy. I do plenty. But I just can't focus. I have produced approximately twenty-five rather dull pages on my topic. It required staying in my pajamas and not doing ANYTHING else those days. But really, I just want to be a person and enjoy my friends. Have coffee, talk. Write personal poetry. Any suggestions? Does a master's degree matter at my age? Haven't I proved ENOUGH just by surviving and thriving?