Reader Comment on the Wisdom of Plato Negro
The Wisdom of Plato Negro is for the forty something up. No persons who haven't lived a few years can appreciate the things Marvin X says in The Wisdom of Plato Negro. You need to be at least forty to understand, and even then, this is not a book to read in one setting, even if it is easy reading. It is a book to read in a relaxed situation, and then only read one or two of the parables at a time. They must be carefully digested, each one.
Think about them, what was the real meaning? Again, if you haven't lived a few years, there's no way you can appreciate some of the things he says. For example, the Parable of the Real Woman. A young man who hasn't had many experiences with women cannot possibly understand this parable. If a woman comes to his house and cleans it out of love, a young man cannot appreciate this. He will tell her thanks, then go get a flashy woman who is never going to clean his house, mainly because she doesn't know how. But the dude will go for her because she is cute, but the real woman he rejects, the one with common sense and dignity, who may not be a beauty queen.
--Anon
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Parable of a Real Woman
Parable of A Real Woman
The Sharecropper by Elizabeth Cattlett Mora
There was a man who had many women in his life. They had come and gone, with himself at fault most of the time. But he wouldn't give up, he continued his self improvement and search for that special woman. He talked with elder women about what he should do. One told him he'd never had a real woman! If so, she would still be with him, no matter what, through thick and thin, up times and down times. Well, he asked, how would he know when such a woman was in his presence. First, clean up your own act, she said. Scoop your own poop. Rid yourself of defects of character. Make amendments to all those you have harmed in life. It takes humility to do this.
Still, how will I know the real woman? The older woman answered, you will know because when she comes over your house and sees something amiss, she will take authority to correct the situation. If your house is dirty, she will immediately ask if she can clean it as a favor to you, as an act of love. She will not want any money for her services. And she will clean your house as it has never been cleaned before because she knows what she is doing. Yes, she is a pro, not only with house cleaning but with every thing she does, including her love making. She will make sure you are satisfied and herself as well.
She will demand respect and will respect you. She will demand freedom and give you freedom. She will speak in the language of love so smooth that it will be like a razor cutting to the heart. You will be bleeding to death but not know you are cut.
You will do what she suggests and do it willingly because it will not be a demand but a request said so subtle you won't recognize it for what it actually is: a demand. And you will love doing what she requests.
When you need space and time to yourself you won't need to explain, she will pick up the vibe.
And you will do the same for her.
She will not be jealous and envious of your talent and skills or how handsome you are to other women. She knows she has you in her pocket because she is confident of herself, and not worried about some other woman taking her man.
If you are taken by another woman, it must be the will of God that you go. She knows God will replace her emptiness with someone even better than you. But she will give you time to get a grip on yourself and find your way back home. Just don't take too long and when you come home don't be asking about what she was doing while you were gone.
A real woman will put her resources at your disposal if you are worthy of them, as the prophet Muhammad was treated by the wealthy trade woman Khadijah. There is no selfishness in love. All is for the beloved, but a wise woman ain't no fool. As the song says, the greatest thing you will ever do is love and be loved in return.
The man thanked the elder woman for her wisdom and departed on his search.
--Marvin X
3/11/10
Parable of the Haters Club
There was a club for haters. All the haters from all around had membership in the haters club. And the haters all had an evil vibe or no vibe at all and they also had a bad smell that went along with their vibe or no vibe at all. They had no vibe at all because they were dead inside. AB said where the soul's print should be there was only a cellulose pouch of disgusting habits.
Their hatred was usually based on jealousy and envy. The haters never hated their enemies but their friends. The haters were so sick they loved their enemy but hated their friends. No matter how often their enemies crushed them into dust, the haters preferred to be with them rather than with their friends who loved them.
Yes, the haters were sick puppies and beyond redemption. They would never grow into dogs because hatred stunted their growth. The worst part of the haters was not jealousy and envy but their behavior as busters. Yes, their hatred made them want to bust up their friends good fortune. The haters could have good fortune too but consumed their time hating. When told it takes the same energy to hate as to love, they laughed, because their addiction to hatred was so deep they had no desire to jump out of the box into the land of love. They preferred to remain in the box of bitterness and wickedness, plotting and planning to bust their friends at every turn, making sure their friends would not obtain the good fortune due them as righteous people.
Membership in the haters club grew because times were so bad the people started hating themselves and loved to be around other members at the club house where hated came to socialize, to drink, wink and blink at each other and plot the downfall of those with good fortune. In the end the haters were like pigs who got drunk on their own slop. The haters drank their own vomit until they were consumed and overcome with their evil that developed into cancers of the worst kind.
--Marvin X
11/9/14
Parable of the Madpoet
And I'm the great would-be poet. Yes. That's right! Poet. Some kind of bastard literature...all it needs is a simple knife thrust. Just let me bleed you, you loud whore, and one poem vanished. A whole people of neurotics, struggling to keep from being sane. And the only thing that would cure the neurosis would be your murder...
--Amiri Baraka, The Dutchman
He was a man who lived on the razor's edge, like a tight walker about to fall into the chasm, a false step, a slight loss of balance and he would surely fly headlong into the precipice.
He wrote to keep from killing, from slaughtering the guilty and innocent. In his warped mind, the choice was society's, not his. For in his selfishness, either let his pen flow or blood shall flow upon the land because he felt wronged, the constant victim of theft, even by his friends or so called friends.
He had taught at the greatest universities in the land, but was often escorted off campus by police for violating the law of political correctness. He was deported from countries for the same reason, marched onto the plane at gunpoint, the hatch door slammed behind him. If madpoet returned, the prime minister said he would leave.
His writings were so outrageous people threw them on the ground in the north and dirty south. He told a man who threw his writings on the ground that he was dumber than the dumbest mule in Georgia. The man went away but came back to ask him if that was a line from a movie. Madpoet told him, "You the movie, nigguh!"
Even though he hadn't sought employment in decades, he believed he was banned from employment for life because of his deranged thoughts, that he was not invited to events to celebrate life or art, even events his peers organized, though he invited them to his productions without fail.
People wanted him to be rich by saying the right things so the public could accept his writings. But his doctor told him to remain poor so he could be truthful and free. Another friend told him not to worry about money because on the day he died he would surely be rich and famous. He was praised by word of mouth because nobody was going to talk about his writings out loud, but they hush hushed about it. It was very straight and plain. Youth told him he was very blunt!
Some people thought he liked to whine, snibble and was ungrateful because whenever he put on events they were unique and classical extravaganzas, though sometimes long, drawn out affairs without thought of intermission or length of time. Another mad friend named Sun Ra had taught him about infinity.
He had been confined to the mental hospital four times, but each time he had taken himself. He enjoyed the mental ward, especially since it was full of artists like himself who had crossed the line from creativity to insanity. Other than drugs, the doctors found nothing wrong with him so when he refused to leave, they threw him out onto the street. The police jabbed him in the ribs with their night sticks as they escorted him off the grounds of the mental hospital.
So please let his pen flow and do not disturb him for any reason, especially some menial chore, a mundane exercise, just leave him alone in the silence of his room. Let him ponder thoughts beyond the box, beyond the pale of tradition. Let him consider the finer things of life, what words to configure, what metaphors, psycholinguistic turns of the mind, the sociology and historiography of a people, or else there shall be chaos in the land and blood shall flow like a river, for his spirit shall be suppressed and shall seek an outlet in blood from the misery of his mind.
Yes, he is a killer in disguise, who appears in the persona of a poet for the good of society, but continue to oppress him, suppress him, and he shall strike out in a moment of black madness and those who have wronged him shall see your guts spilled, your head smashed against the concrete sidewalk.
Believe it, it is only a matter of time before the madpoet shall seek revenge and come upon those who have wronged him. He shall strike like a panther in the night, and you shall cry in horror as his knife enters your throat and from thence to the spilling of your guts upon the ground.
He shall walk away with a laughter and joy only the devil himself shall understand and appreciate.
--Marvin X
4/17/09
Gullahland, South Carolina
Revised 4/3/10
