And I’m not going to lie to you, I’m not feeling very Christmassy.
This Song has been stuck in my head for months.


There are 43,200 minutes in a month. ISH.
30 days hath September, blah blah blah. All the rest have 31.
Except February. February fucks up everything.
That’s a loose interpretation of how the song goes. You’re welcome.

It makes me sad.

five hundred twenty-five thousand
six hundred minutes
how do you measure- measure a year?

So many things can change in a year.
It’s not really a lot of time.
And it’s a lot of time.
Time enough to be created and born.
Time enough to die.

How about love? Measure in love

These people are mothers and fathers
Daughters and sons.
They are loved by someone.
Somebody feels blessed for having them in their lives.
They’re best friends, and husbands and wives, and cousins.

How do you measure the life of a woman or man?

Who gets to decide if I am worthy?
Will I be judged for what I’ve actually done?
Or just what I look like?

Two hundred and seventy minutes.
That’s how long they left Michael Brown lying in the street dead.

It’s time now, to sing out
Though the story never ends

Because the story never ends.
One thousand, six hundred and eighty minutes.
That’s 28 hours. For those who don’t want to do the math.
That’s how often a black person is killed by their local law enforcement.

I went to a protest in Hollywood two weeks ago.
A march.
Because the lives of my husband, children, sisters and brothers matter to me.
Their black lives matter.

There was a die-in on the corner of Hollywood and Vine.
Four minutes and 30 seconds.
For four minutes and some change I was laying on the ground.
While I thought about all of the black men and women who didn’t get to get up after time was up.
Dying. Or maybe dead for real.
Who didn’t go home to their families.
Who then had their characters assassinated by the media scrounging for reasons to prove their death was deserved without due process.

I’m not going to lie to you: I may have cried a little. Or maybe a lot.

Remember the Love

So I do. I try to remember the names of black lives taken too soon.
I say a prayer for families, their loved ones.

One hundred-ninety eight thousand, seven hundred and twenty minutes. And counting.
That’s 138 days for the mathematically impaired.
That’s how long these protests have been going on.
And I hope they continue. Until open season on black lives is over.

That’s how you remember the love.

Seasons of Love