I'm Still Standing

Dear Mr. Stipe,

Some may take you for a self-important, whiney voice of the entitlement generation, but not me. Your lyrics have changed my life and for that alone, I'm compelled to write. There I was, at the Jamba Juice on Merchant Street, desperate for a sign of direction re: my wayward life. Usually, I'm waiting years for signs.   Then again, maybe I've missed most because of attention deficit issues. In fact, I'm sure of it.   Anyhow, I wasn't banking on the drive-thru miracle this time, either. Fortunately, He delivered said miracle in the form of you, Mr. Stipe. Now, because of you and only you, I've placed my order for a large Super Berry Surprise (with fiber supplement) and huge chewy pretzel using my newfound voice of confidence.

Just as I was succumbing to shame and self-loathing, your song "Stand" came across the shop. As I was "standing" in line!

Stand? Standing in line?

Surely you see the significance.

"Stand in the place where you work", you sang. "Now

face north". And how ironic is that I was facing north at that very moment? I was thinking about direction and yes, wondering why I haven't before. And good thing, too. If I hadn't been facing north, I would have missed the shopgirl waving my pretzel at me. Hmm.   Why haven't I embraced this north-facing bit earlier?

I submit to you that I've been facing "south": tinkering with a plot-deficient, dead horse of a screenplay and trying in vain to master the Electric Slide. Not all black people have rhythm, by the way.   Some of us have to work at it.

Let me see if I've got this right. "Your feet are going to be on the ground/ your head is there to move you around". With feet firmly planted in reality, my imagination has been given permission to peer over treetops and condo developments. I can feel my head looking, swiveling on a magical axis of nimble tendons and unbridled expression. That is, swiveling in an office chair kind of way. Not pea soup spitting, "you're mother's in here" swiveling. At any rate, I wish you could have seen me. I was Moses in Jamba Juice, wielding the mighty staff of your lyrics (and a refreshing beverage) to part the waters of a heretofore stale existential crisis.   Admittedly, the remaining fragments of my spirituality have been cohabitating with the garbage in my head for some time now. My therapist says my mind needs a cleaning. In fact, forget my mind. It's my bathroom that could use the scrubbing. Really. My toilet has more rings than a California Redwood and my sink is growing mold. It's going to take Comet, an evangelist and a pint of calfling blood to right the wrong that is that. Tons of work. Good thing I got that fiber boost.

Please don't misunderstand, Mr. Stipe. I'm not going home to play your record backwards or look for clues in the album art. This is simply a message of thanks.   And thanks to you, Mike (Can I call you Mike?), the clouds of confusion have slid apart, beaming light at my forehead. It was in the Jamba Juice, surrounded by angelic singing and a fat lady in stirrup pants, that enlightenment washed over me. After driving in circles and running on empty for the past twelve years, I've made up my mind. I'm going to stand, damn it! Stand and finish that screenplay. Stand and scrub my toilet.   And after I'm done with that, who knows? Famine and disease continue to ravage sub-Saharan Africa. Surely the relevance of your wisdom transcends the confines of geographical boundaries.

Michael Stipe, you're a genius. A true visionary.   Never has a more insightful human being graced God's green earth (Get it? "Green"? Your 1988 pop masterpiece? The nuggets just keep a-coming). Your powerful lyrics have salvaged a dying faith and recharged my spirit. Because of you, I'm going to scrub my lav and save Zimbabwe. Just as soon as I finish my bendy pretzel thing and Super Berry Boost what's-it.

Still Standing,

Keisha

by
Keisha Poiro
2nd February 2006