Martin Luther King Jr.

Martin Luther King Jr.
M. L. King Jr. (January 15, 1929 – April 4, 1968)



Please, edit and revise, and send back to me, if you don't mind.

Alone, he sat, sipping his coffee, thinking about his next move. The light was sneaking past the heavy clouds outside the window, outside the café. He had left chaos and destruction behind him, that much he had resolved. What to do next? Resolve is only the beginning. What to do next?

He sipped his coffee.

Find a new job? Get a new apartment? New city, new friends? What constitutes change, what change constitutes progress? He knew that he had to do something, accomplish something, to finally finish those things he started. That’s where he should start. That’s where he should do. Instead, he sipped his coffee, looking at the light.

The clouds were dense; think foam hanging in the sky. It wasn’t quite like a blanket in the sky, more like endless pillows. Light was working its way around the giant puffs of faint translucence, struggling yet succeeding to reach the floor of the earth. He yearned to feel the warmth of the sun, the sensation of connection, connection to the world around him, to connect him back to reality.

He sipped his coffee. It was beginning to get a little cold. His leg began to fidget, the half empty mug began to spin in his hands. Twitchtwitch. Twitchtwitch.

Do something! Make something! Contribute something! the light that was working so hard to reach him said. See how far I’ve come? See the burdens I’ve borne, the hurdles I’ve leapt, the walls I’ve penetrated. Match that. Do something.

Do something, do something. He sat there. Twitchtwitch. What is there to do? What is there to do? What is there to do? What is there to do? The mug, spinning, offered no advice. The leg, twitching, pleaded the mug, “Look at all this energy I’ve got! Give me direction! Let me create!”

The mug, mute as ever, continued to spin. Until he took another sip.

This time, when he set the mug back down, it lay still. His hands collapsed upon themselves, resting on the rough-appearing though heavily lacquered-until-smooth-to-the-touch wooden table. Again he stared out the window, this time, however, letting the hard-working light illuminate the people outside the window, outside the café.

He noticed the runner passing in front, in the garb of an ironman competitor, and noticed her crossing paths with another runner. This guy, he was seriously overweight, and in the bagginess of his clothes he tried to hide it. But still, he had to acknowledge , the man ran.

He noticed the students studying outside the café, and inside the café. The nearest was sitting right in front of him, and he could see over her shoulder, see what she was working on. It looked like some essay about early American writers. It also looked like complete trash. But the girl still wrote. Maybe she didn’t know how awful her creation was. Or, more likely, she didn’t care.

What to do, to overcome these issues. How to see, how to act…are the two related? Do they connect? Or are they permanently at odds, our actions limiting our sight and our sight paralyzing our actions? The mug, mostly empty now, the coffee in it decidedly cold, was spinning once more. Though the twitchtwitching of his leg had subdued.

The spinning of the mug entranced him as he looked down, and the café floor fell out from around him, the table that supported the awful essay and the girl that wrote it was flung away, along with the rest of the tables. The counter faded to black, the walls crumbled, the roof flew away.

Alone, finally alone, he picked up his pen, and started to write a story. He wrote a story about a kid, a lot like himself, who sat at his desk in his parent’s house, and after leaving behind him destruction and chaos, picked up his copy of Second Volume of the North Anthology of American Literature, opened it up to Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave, Written by Himself, and, after sitting, wrote an essay, a crappy, shitty shitty essay, but wrote an essay.


Violent Revolution

Sometimes when reading I encounter passages like this one, from Nicholas Kristof's most recent column, and I wonder if I was around 30 years ago I'd be as willing to tackle the society's problems through government:
Some Americans used to argue that it was impossible to rape an unwilling woman. Few people say that today, or say publicly that a woman “asked for it” if she wore a short skirt. But the refusal to test rape kits seems a throwback to the same antediluvian skepticism about rape as a traumatic crime.
I feel like I'd be more predisposed to to violence. But that always makes me think: "What am I dismissing today?"


My phone's broke, but you can reach me at _________

Sorry if confused you, my phone's actually in good shape. But I've seen twice in the last two days Fbook statuses like that.

It seems to me that there is a unique pleasure in having someone so close that you can be reached through them. Seems nice.

Do y'all agree?


7 cups of coffee and blue, blue sky

Boxed in boxed in.

Boxed in by this glass this glass wall its got me trapped its got me trapped.
Its got me trapped this glass wall but its glass so it failed a little I guess ‘cause my eyes they aren’t trapped no my eyes they can still wander as they please, they look out into the world that surrounds me this world that I can’t touch or really even here but I can see yes I can see.

Whats this whats this?

Where am I going, where is this taking me? I can still see I can see all around but I can’t see where I’m headed or why I’m headed there. Why can’t I see? Why can’t I see?
Wait a second, wait a second. This glass, it isn’t so glassy actually, its more like something else. Not quite sure though, but it seems to me that I might be able to put my hand through it. Yeah, I think that I might.

Though I s’pose I could put my hand through glass too, huh. But I’d have to be ready for some pain, am I ready for some pain?


Our eternal Messiah complex

H.G. Wells on FDR:

[For] some months at least before and after his election as American President and the holding of the London Conference there was again a whispering hope in the world that a real “Man” had arisen, who would see simply and clearly, who would speak plainly to all mankind and liberate the world from the dire obsessions and ineptitudes under which it suffered and to which it seemed magically enslaved. ...

[...] Everywhere as the Conference drew near men were enquiring about this possible new leader for them. “Is this at last the Messiah we seek, or shall we look for another?”

Every bookshop in Europe proffered his newly published book of utterances, Looking Forward, to gauge what manner of mind they had to deal with. It proved rather disconcerting reading for their anxious minds. Plainly the man was firm, honest and amiable, as the frontispiece portrait with its clear frank eyes and large resolute face showed, but the text of the book was a politician’s text, saturated indeed with good will, seasoned with much vague modernity, but vague and wanting in intellectual grip. “He’s good,” they said, “but is this good enough?”

(Courtesy Andrew Sullivan)

We just really, really, really want Messiah's, huh. Or is it because we wish that we were Messiahs?



Excerpt from Politico's "Ten Ways to Recoup the Bonuses":

4) Rescind the contracts: If the bonus recipients won’t renegotiate, simply withdraw the contracts under which they received the bonuses. “Every first-year law student learns that a court can invalidate a contract’s ‘unconscionable’ terms, rescind it or reform it,” James P. Tutill, a lecturer at the University of California-Berkeley law school blogged over the weekend. “If these bonus contracts benefiting the very people who have destroyed incalculable amounts of wealth in the pursuit of their own personal greed don’t warrant revision, rescission or reformation, then our legal system is seriously deficient."

(emphasis mine)