Simeon Good

I'm an idealist, a dreamer, a writer, a poet, a man of faith still trying to figure out what that faith is, a not so funny comedian...and a huge underachiever.

[simeongood-blog]

Dear you, It seems these last few months have touched us all personally, and in ways that has moved some to tears, others to anger and eventually violence. My heart goes out to Dylan Noble's family and to the Fresno community. I know very well that he could easily have been your brother or nephew or friend--- and that we are all seeing with our own eyes, a police culture that has no respect for life and who often imagine danger where there is none. A few months ago, I was out to eat with a few friends and some acquaintances, when one of the acquaintances, a white guy, said "niggas don't have feelings, hahaha!" Now, let's forget the fact that he felt comfortable enough around anyone, let alone some black people, to use that word! That wasn't what bothered me really--- what broke my heart most was that I knew larger society often believes as he does. That blacks are somehow immune to the very things that make us all human: love, empathy, hope. Instead of getting angry though, I decided to educate him in front of the entire restaurant. This underlying belief though, is what I think makes it easier for police officers to kill us...and for jurys and presecutors to not indict and convict...and the public to constantly try to find ways to why we deserved to die. I don't think they really see us as human, and that's what hurts most. My heart goes out to the police officers killed in Dallas over the last month! I sensed something break in me this time around. ..more than with the deaths of Freddie Gray and Eric Garner and I sensed it in others as well. I could feel that this was perhaps the straw that broke the camel's back..and I also knew somehow, that this would touch some police officers. It breaks my heart,---all of it! I hardly know what to make of it. I find myself trying to go back to some grounding principal, some belief that holds me steady. In my youth it would have been God and religion, an understanding that "this world is not [my] home". This idea that one day we'll go to a better place. But that belief, I've learned, all too often prevents people from trying to make this earth better for ourselves and for generations to come. It sadly becomes an excuse for inaction. What holds me steady now? I'm still trying to understand! What I do understand though, is that I am appreciative of you and the other humans who I can connect with and feel grounded against! Thank you! James Baldwin told me that I must "strive to become--tough and philosophical concerning destruction and death"  and so I leave you with an excerpt from a poem by Khalil Gibran that I no longer find comfort in! On Death "For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered? Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance." Sincerely with all the love in the universe,  Me

[simeongood-blog]

Dear No-one, Dear Everyone, Dear You... When I was living in Idaho, I remember being awed at how quickly the landscape changed. From snaking rivers and folding mountains , to deep, dense forests, it always felt as if I was passing through other countries, other parts of the world. Sometimes, life changes just as quickly, doesn't it? It's as if we're passing through landscapes both familiar and foreign. And we find ourselves both excited and afraid of the changing faces---- of the Noels and Sonyas and Jarrets and Alexes. We're excited about the possibilities, that tingling in our stomachs and that pounding, that flutter deep at the center. And we're fearful too, aren't we? Fearful of leaving the familiar, because once we've traced the lines of that face and embraced the gently curving ways of that body, once we've inhaled her scent or tasted the moisture on his lips, we find ourselves hitched to that feeling, both empowered and vulnerable. And sometimes, the beauty and silence of one place breaks the balance in us......and the ground opens up, swallows us and then buries us right there, in that moment. And after a while, we begin to understand what those people and places meant to us. ,"......the first glimpse of a space-bridge, and wormhole, a galactic portal off of this bound and blind planet." A few years ago, I listed to a geologist give a talk about sediment shifts, the ways in which land from one part of the world travels to other parts of the world through oceans and rivers...so that you have pieces of New York in Paris.... and pieces of Paris in West Africa. I thought about this often in the months after we met and it is only now that a coherent whole has taken shape. The people we meet are like those sediment shifts, carrying within them pieces of the places they've traveled and the people they've known. That's what you've been to me. In you are pieces of California and Chicago and a spirituality borne out of struggle. You carry within you the music of another time, from some dark place made bright. You carry both the good and the bad, the pain and the triumph of the people you've known and the places you've traveled. And you've shared the all of it with me. And like a wave, it cascades over me still, whether you know it or not. Since I've known you, I have been searching for the right question by which I might fully understand the gulf that exists between us. And over time, I've come to see that the answer to that question, or rather the pursuit of that question, is just as important, if not more, than than the answer itself. Sincerely, Simeon Noel Good

[simeongood-blog]

                                        "Tents and Fires"

I built a fire last night and cooked beans just as the sun fell beneath the treeline.

For about a month, I've been living in a tent on the coast of northern California. There have been foxes and Coyotes and a bear I saw deep in the woods while hiking one morning (Scary). I've had my sad days, but most of them have been filled with dips in the lake, jogs in the woods and the feeling that God, through nature, has been teaching me.

I've met a few hippies, eaten wild deer with a crazy medicine man and shed a few tears beneath a black sky.

The people I've met, the stories we have shared, offers me a place from which to think and reflect.......About life and God and love....

Sincerely,

from the forests of California,

Simeon Noel Good

[simeongood-blog]

"Change" People change, and sometimes that change is really painful, especially for the people around you. I've often wondered about my own change; the change in ideals, ambition, character, that helped shape the man I am today, at this moment. I've often wondered how that change has affected the people closest to me. My mother, friends, co-workers, ex-girlfriend. For my mother, I know she loves me more than anything in this world, but I also know that I've disappointed her, that somewhere along the way, she's woven her failed dreams into the fabric of my own future....and the more I stumble, the more I become a person at once foreign and distant, the more her dreams for me and for herself, fade into the shadows. My friends have responded to the change with less phone calls and text messages, and in the end, I understand them. I understand how painful it is to watch someone you once knew morph into something different, something alien. I think for them, connection they once felt seems distant and more than distant; maybe even an ocean away. For my ex-girlfriend, I can see the sadness in her eyes, the slight lilt of pain in her voice, the questions and riddles unanswered. I know she loved me, and loved me well. I imagine what it's like for her to experience the man who once held her become an island. Existing on his own, refusing the outstretched hands of others, remaining silent in his pain. I know that for her, she often dreamt of a life spent in each-others arms, a dream akin to my own. She once told me that in relationships people change and it's up to them to change with that person. I wish I could do things all over again, but all I can do is make sure the man I'm becoming is better than the man that was. Sincerely, Simeon Noel Good

[simeongood-blog]

                                  Kiss Like Real People Do

The other day my 14 year old niece told me that love was like the rings around Saturn and like a warm blanket in December. And then I said it was like broccoli and peas for breakfast… and like dirty gym socks and the first day of autumn. And we both laughed and our hearts danced in the basement as I told her about my best love.

And I think we’re both right. Love is beautiful and smelly. It’s warm and it’s messy and it’s like igniting a fireplace at the beginning of winter, when snow falls on rooftops and on the grassy patches between houses.

But my best love is no longer my love. No longer mine to hold or ignore. No longer mine to bring coffee to on the dawn of the morning.

And today…today is a very sad day…..

https://soundcloud.com/hozier/like-real-people-do

Sincerely,

Simeon Noel Good

[simeongood-blog]

"Growing Pains" A few years ago, I watched one of my best friends get baptized. He went down into the water and came up in a fury. The heavens seemingly opening up. For a moment, I could hear Angles singing from above, the voices and melodies from heaven. I quickly realzed though, that it was the old man next to me singing waaaaay out of tune. But in that moment, his song, his prayer, was music to our ears. I watched as tears fell down his face and my heart began to pound. Somehow I felt vindicated. Reassured. It reminded me of what so many throughout history had experienced before. Jesus Christ himself making our hearts his home. For me, the greatest evidence for God isn't strewn across the pages intellectual magazines and books; it's found in the lives of those within whom Jesus is living. Having the God of the universe abiding in you is a powerful thing, but it doesn't mean you'll be perfect. It's a dilemma that spans the history of humankind. One only needs to look at my life and see. Since God settled down in my heart more than 10 years ago I've fucked up plenty. I've lied and stolen and treated those who I love, those with whom God has entrusted me, those who have given me opportunities with distrust and bitterness. And yet, I am reminded that the story of the Gospel is a story of grace and forgiveness and redemption. It's a story wrought with failure. It's a God determined on trudging through the mud to save us. It's the story of a sheep being lost, a coin missing and a God, a savior, a friend searching. There is a song I learned when I was a kid, a song that brings comfort to me at such a time as this. "He's still working on me To make me what I need to be It took him just a week to make the moon and stars The sun and the earth and Jupiter and Mars How loving and patient He must be 'Cause He's still workin' on me" Inspired by Belovedpippa.tumblr.com Sincerely with tears, Simeon Good

[simeongood-blog]

                                   60 Years of "The Blues"

Last night, my father called me sobbing; the muffled sounds of snot and tears dancing through the phone and into my ears. I sat there and listened in silence as my dad mentioned Trayvon Martin.

“I’m afraid of the world I left you to inhabit.” He said.

“I should have done more, son. I should have done more to combat the insistent perception that black boys are a threat.  Instead of attending more marches, I should have talked to that young man hanging on the corner, pants sagging, and hat turned backwards. I should have told him he had better options and that I was willing to help him succeed. I should have sung a song of praise to those young men who came out of prison and remained undefeated. I should have taught those young men in gangs how to build a house, or pour cement or fix a car. I should have been a better role model and offered an alternative to the gun wielding, tattoo covered rappers on TV.”

My dad sounded tired and spent; exhausted from years of regret.

I don’t disagree with my father. I think in some ways, black men are culpable in how larger America perceives us. Too many of us are content representing the crack selling, misogynistic, violent images that find frequent expression in our songs and music videos. And too many fathers are absent; either locked up or posted up on the stoop. Such images help contribute that lingering notion that all young black men are dangerous and need to be feared.

Even still, I also recognize that just because a young man wears his hat backwards or sags his pants, doesn’t mean he’s violent and is up to no good. Such thinking fails to consider the impact institutional and systemic discrimination has had on the African American community. Historically, young black boys were prohibited from joining clubs like “The Boy Scouts of America”.  And so, they started their own clubs. It was a way to feel accepted and included. That these clubs eventually turned into violent gangs shouldn’t surprise anyone. With many of the role models of the civil rights era either assassinated or the subjects of relentless FBI investigations, young black men turned to the drug dealers and pimps for guidance. Outdated books in inner-city schools and discriminatory questions on college applications and fathers not being able to find well-paying jobs to provide for their families all helped to shape the economic and educational predicament in many African American communities.

All of this helps explain the cycle of poverty and violence that persists in the neighborhoods across America. To make a judgment about blacks, without understanding the history is both ignorant and lazy.

“I need a smoke” my father said. He only smoked when he was stressed. I could hear him take a drag from the cigarette, his breathing steady, his nerves seemingly at ease.

He told me about the time he found my grandfather weeping on the bathroom floor. The radio was on and he could hear a deep baritone voice announce that Malcolm X had been shot. He was dead. “I was 4 years old and it was the first time I’d seen my dad cry.” He said.  And a few years later he watched tears fall again from his dad’s eyes when Martin Luther King Jr. was killed. My grandfather pulled him to the side and explained that it was ok for a man to cry.

“I saw my dad cry” my grandfather chimed. “It was 13 years ago, when Emmett Till was killed.” “I watched him lament how little value a young black life had.”

My great grandfather told my grandfather the same thing that my own father told me. That he was afraid for the world he had left him to inhabit and that he wished he would have done more.

I think that all black men want to leave a better world for their sons. They hope the next generation has less discrimination and more tolerance. No father wants his son to be followed in a store like he was, or have a woman clutch her purse a little tighter when they get onto an elevator.

As evidenced by three generations of men in my family, in hindsight, a lot of dads wish they would have done more for racial relations. They wish they would have done more to offer a better world for their kids.

I want to learn from their regret. If I can, I want to help change perceptions. Fifty years from now, I don’t want to call my son sobbing about another tragedy. 

[simeongood-blog]

                                          "Just A Sip"

Sometimes, I wish that I could drink the universe. I wonder then, if my thirst for the unknown, for contradictions, for beauty and darkness would be quenched and satisfied. 

Just a sip.....

Sincerely, 

Simeon Good

[simeongood-blog]

                                             "Letting Go"

When I was little, my great grandfather told me about a fire that happened to him when he was a kid. In 1926 his mother passed away. She left him a wonderful letter and a beautiful picture of herself. A few years later, during the great depression, their farm house caught fire and my great granddad needed to jump from the window to survive. He climbed out of the window and hung from the ledge debating if he should make the 30 foot jump. And then, he realized that the letter and picture were inside. I remember him telling me that was the hardest decision he's ever had to make. Let go and survive, or hold on and die trying to retrieve that thing he held so dear. 

I think that in life and in our relationships we face similar choices. let go and move on,despite the pain and anguish that letting go will bring, or go back to that person we love but who will ultimately be our destruction. 

My friend faces  this very proposition. She's in love, the kind of love that will go anywhere and do anything, but in the end, holding on to the person she loves will destroy her inside. 

I've faced such a choice as well. I once loved a woman so hard that I thought the world would fall a part if I ever lost her. But now that I'm older, I realize that letting go made me a better man.

Letting go is hard, but just like my great grandfather and the fire, it's worth jumping off of the ledge. 

Sincerely with horrible prose, 

Simeon Good

(The Resilient)

[simeongood-blog]

(Excerpt from a novel i'm working on. Extremely rough draft)

                                 "A Tilt Toward The Sun"

I had a dream I sat beneath an Orange Sky staring up at the hilt of Mount Carrigan and all of my people were there with me. Thousands of us, all watching the same setting sun and feeling the same breeze sweep across our faces.  We sang the songs of our ancestors and danced along to the sounds of the winds against the rocks.

(To Be Continued)

[simeongood-blog]

                                 Villains and Superheroes

Sometimes the Villains are easier to hold onto than the Superheroes. This maybe helps to explain why so many of our young men are languishing in our prisons, and on our street corners, or in our schools.

I think that the Drug Dealers and Pimps hold more sway than the Dr. Kings and Malcolm X's, because they are present. They can be touched and heard. They dance and laugh and spend time investing in them. Even if it is to the kids peril.

I'm convinced that we cannot be satisfied with offering our youth role models of the past. Dr. King was a great man, but he can't reach beyond the grave and pluck your son from a life in the streets. It's only when we as a community go in and inhabit their world that things happen.

Sincerely,

Simeon Good

[simeongood-blog]

                                   "The Elusive Superhero"

This is a small excerpt from a larger piece I'm working on.

Even though I’ve always admired my father, he was never a mystical figure to me. He always seemed very human. His beauty and his flaws always coupled together.  There was no magic behind his strength, no mythology or legend behind who he was. To me, he’s always been a man of the earth; a man of the dust and woods, a man absolutely made up of both the good and bad of humanity. I saw this even as a six year old kid, and now that I’m trudging through the second half of my twenties, I wish that I could have imagined him as more than human; as other worldly….something out of a comic book.

The truth is that there were no illusions when it came to my father. I was able to see him for who he was. A view for such a window though was complicated for my six year old self. While other boys my age were looking up to their own fathers, I imagined Batman sneaking into my room at night and whisking me away to help him defeat the various villains. In those daydreams Batman was more than a superhero, more than a man in a mask who took me on exciting adventures. He would sit me on his knee, tell me stories about the good and bad of the world and say to me that I was an important piece in helping to repair the world.

I think that somewhere inside me, I was searching for affirmation that I was indeed the son of a superhero and that I was needed in the world, that I could make a difference, that I had what it took.

[simeongood-blog]

The truth is, never in my life have these words been more relevant. From today until forever I'm resolved to use the negatives as stepping stones! Who's coming along for the ride?

[simeongood-blog]

                   Mourning Our Youth: Ohio Rape Case

The idea that some lives matter less is the root of all that is wrong in this world.

- p. farmer

A teenage girl gets pissy drunk, two teenage boys perform sex acts on her while she’s unconsciousness. They text, email and share photos of themselves performing these acts on her. There is a Trial. Witnesses are called to testify. A verdict is read. The two teenage boys are found guilty and sentenced to time in prison.

Over the past few days I've read a number of comments and articles bashing news organizations like CNN for airing footage of the defendants crying and for focusing on the impact the verdict will have on the boys and not on the young teenage victim. Evidence of misogynist residue they exclaim.

While I understand the logic behind such outrage, and while I believe it's important to recognize the emotional and psychological damage this young girl will have to deal with; the giggles and stares at school, the loss and violation of something sacred..... I think it's equally important to mourn the plight of these two teenage boys. Shouldn't we mourn the fact that two boys thought it was ok to treat a woman like this? Let alone another human being? Do I think these boys deserve jail time? Absolutely! But shouldn't we mourn a system and a society that offers little role models a rehabilitation for young men? Is it wrong for us to mourn the lives of two young men who had such promising futures? Mourning, doesn't mean you excuse them, it means that you recognize that kids make mistakes, sometimes huge ones. And while you enforce justice you it's also ok to feel sorry for the mistakes our kids make!

As such, I take issue with articles from yahoo and the sheer number of tweets from people who would rather seemingly leave comments instead of helping to chance the culture! 

The idea that some lives matter less is the root of all that is wrong in this world.

- p. farmer

Sincerely With Incorrect Grammar and Daytime Ponderings,

Simeon Good

[simeongood-blog]

                                                       Jesus in LA

I recently spent two weeks in Los Angeles. In reflection, the smell of Marijuana and freshly baked bread, the feel of the sun kissing the back of my neck, and the wistful indifferent stares of the upper-class was both exhilarating and heart-breaking. 

In the midst of the lights and the grittiness. Amongst the graffiti and the botox, I wondered if this was right where Jesus strives to be. 

I'm learning that in a way, Jesus sometimes desires to clothe himself in the darkness and muddiness. In the smells and tastes of the city-----just so that he can be with us where we are!

And as he reclined at table in his house, many tax collectors and sinners were reclining with Jesus and his disciples, for there were many who followed him. (Mark 2:15)

[simeongood-blog]

"Glory In The Flower"

What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.

William Wordsworth

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                                               "First Kiss"

On a night like this, I'm not sure why I'm thinking about my first kiss. She was tall and lean with chocolate mahogany skin. Her eyes warm, her skin soft and her dance elegant. She wore wirery rimmed glasses and spoke with a deep milk and honey southern accent. 

Years later, I realize that I was 10 years old at the time and that she was my babysitter. The AMAZING kiss was really just a prolonged peck on the cheek, the kind of peck that has the power to make a black kid blush red. 

At that age, I thought I was in love. She had become a frequent visitor of my dreams: both the day ones and the night ones...... and maybe even one or two wet ones. Yikes! 

But the older I get, The more I realize that love isn't a little boy's day dream, neither is it bottled up in a wet dream or two, but rather, something real and tangible. 

Now that I'm 24 I'm pretty sure I've found love. She has long wavy hair and a killer smile, the kind of smile that gives you butterflies and makes you feel both afraid and safe all at the same time. She's Bright and quick witted, the kind of woman that helps you make sense out of a chaotic world. 

And so, if I had to make sense out of this thing we call love, I wouldn't peg it as a soft and gentle kiss from my babysitter, nor would I tag it as a 10 year old boys occasional wet dream. I'd simply call it what it is... Sonya Cruz

Sincerely,

~The Resilient