Monthly Archives: June 2006

Poem: The Dance Bipolar

the dance bipolar
By Emma Rosenthal
(dedicated to one i love so much i cannot bear it.)
he’s not sick_he’s an artist_don’t call it an illness_call it a transformation_she tells me
if it were any other disease_cancer  ms  tay-sachs_yes it would call forth a transformation_but it would also be a disease_and we could name it_we could speak of it in polite society_without fear of stigma_there would be fundraisers_and society banquets
he isn’t sick he is an artist_don’t call it an illness_call it a transformation
i contemplate the difference_between matisse and van gogh
hands withered from arthritis_matisse picks up children’s scissors_the only implement his swollen joints could maneuver_and cuts_paper cut magnificent_new blue green splashes of color_cut paper_innovative_majestic splashes of color_paper cuts that sing a zzzjazz symphony_dance tap swing hips paper cuts_swaying in concert halls_accompanying the masters_zzzjazz symphony
van gogh_tortured racked and ravaged with the savage mind_chemicals imbalanced _his mind a soup of bitter thoughts _swirling images_pictures dancing on naked walls_stars spinning out of orbit hurtling to earth_irises a kaleidoscope of color_he is a beethoven symphony_or modern cacophony_turbulent disturbed
his final painting avant guard_pure  performance art
he walks into a field after the harvest_golden stalks sway naked in the wind_desolate and lifeless
one shot to the head_splaying blood on the golden canvas_brilliant composition_innovative use of color_contrast to the naked steel gun_the color of midnight_the acrid smell of gunpowder
the french countryside the sounds of birds_the desolate fields after harvest_the grazing goats in the next meadow_the sky vast and promising_the blood the gun the violence _unimaginable one second before _two minutes after_the final scene_brilliantly  juxtaposed
early surrealism_pre post modern decadence_performance art
he is an artist_he isn’t sick_don’t call it an illness_call it a transformation

Diary Post: The destruction of the farm

Today bulldozers and swat teams are destroying the South Central Farm.
I am heartbroken.
The land belongs to those who seize it.
We have much work to do to reverse the perverse order.
We must beat their bulldozers into plowshares.
WE MUST BEAT THEIR BULLDOZERS INTO PLOWSHARES!
I spent the morning emailing, blogging and phoning.
There is much I cannot do.
I wish there were more I could do.
I am stuck, frozen.
I am just a sick woman in a bed.
It is a perfect day; cool, comfortable.
The dishonest California sun pretending that everything is fine in the world.
They are destroying the farm today.
What can I do?
What can I do?
Sitting alone in my grief will not bring us the farm.
Prayer will not bring us the farm.
Holding a space will  not bring us the farm.
Lighting a candle will not bring us the farm.
I do all these, all these.
I cry.  I water my meager seedlings and bid them grow.
What can I do today that might make a difference in the world?
What can I do today that might make a difference in this world?
How can I stand down the hubris of bulldozers.
I have come to hate bulldozers.
I have come to hate bulldozers.
What can I do today to make a difference in the world?
How do we begin to dismantle the monuments to death and theft?
How do we wage the resistance of ordinary seeds?

©2006 All rights reserved Emma Rosenthal    South Central Farm and the L.A. Skyline

Counting the omer: the end of the journey

The last day of the omer_day 49

text:_the journey is over I have just begun
my life is not what it might appear to be _behind the beauty of my random strokes lies an inner agony _evil images invade my deepest sleep _brutal thugs wage war against my deepest hopes _what is the color of fear? how bitter is it? _the next few months demand transformation_the current realities cannot support me_each stroke of pen is indulgence _i cannot afford food or medicine_this city costs too much.
something must give
my skin explodes. i am a bomb
capitalism is the fuse
i implode
i want a quiet simple life _i am tired of the fight for bread and home
my contradictions with capitalism are not theoretical
today is day 49 of the omer
marking seven weeks of the omer
grounding in grounding I am waiting to land
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_my broken pieces_falling_falling_falling_i am the broken one they threw away so long ago_they journey is dark and i am so alone_shadows dance on walls and scream my name
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I hope you find some hope to be hoped for…… dissillusionment is a deadly virus…. it could make way even inyo your tomato seeds….. please, smile. _Posted by clown on 06/02/2006 03:58:33 AM

Counting the Omer: Day 48


i _now _know_i can break tablets_on_mountain tops
defy the law_the hegemony
the rule of kings
if one is not counted to rise with us to the top of the mountain, just one excluded from the law or sacrificed for it_It cannot be the work of the creator spirit wonder of all
i pray to the ancestors  frida khalo  emma goldman leon trotsky (I confess) diego rivera  virginia woolf , miriam the prophet  moses (on a good day)  Judith the warrior  rosa luxemburg paolo freire harriet tubman lilith those who show the way
i cannot climb out of bed some days but even then i know i can break tablets on mountain tops and defy those who clam the words of gods.
i am the first born sacrificed on the mountain top.  nothing else will ever do me harm.
yesod shebe malchut
48 days of the omer_six weeks six days of the omer.