Legacy is a stick fallen from a deeply rooted tree and dressed with nine ribbons, all different colors, and bells, a mask, a cup of coffee, a glass of water, because where the sun rises for the ancestors, it also rises for me.
I can remember the day I made the conscious commitment to nurture legacy in my home and heart. I was thirty years old and a recently separated single mother to two daughters. But truth be told, the journey began long before that. My first breath outside my mother’s womb marked an affirmative moment in time, a choice, a resilient truth, though new-born and fresh-skinned. In that moment, as a baby girl child, I claimed a legacy simply by getting here to the other side, willfully making my way into this world. Growing into this place and space in time, however, has its memory lapses. There are love affairs with the dangers of life that can leave one numb to such grand notions as an inheritance, a charge, a tradition. There are bill collectors and baby daddies and mamas; there are fears and fallings that dull the senses ‘til one cannot hear the whispers of legacy. But somehow, I made the commitment. It was my own personal rebellion against society’s often deafening rally cry against black girls who become women determined to make love out of life, and it all began on a cold January day in 2004 at Rock Creek Park in the Chocolate City some know as this nation’s capitol, Washington, D.C.
On that day, I walked through heavily wooded land with my cousin, Ernesto, as my guide, and I found a stick among so many others just beyond the creek in a place that was once a plantation dependent upon the bodies and souls of enslaved people. I walked through cold rain without an umbrella that day and recovered what was already and always mine – a lineage of a people who had the strength of spirit to conjure healing and passion for life out of blood, bone, and the most intensely back breaking labor pains. And it is not my legacy. It belongs to all of us. And it is not deep and mysterious; it is as ordinary as block parties and sweet potato pie, as life-sustaining as the rhythmic boom bap blasting from the speakers, as necessary to our well-being as water. And yet, we must recover that lineage, re-member it, caring for this sacred and ever-present force so that our children and their children do not forget: There is great power in our history of blackness here in the Americas, and that history matters in the here and now.
On that cold and rainy afternoon in January, I chose to do my part by taking a small step, and that step moved me on the inside ‘til my daily troubles in the world as a single mama battling the broken family blues became less daunting, because that stick became my foundation for a space in my home dedicated to the lives and spiritual presence of my ancestors, their stories, and their strengths.
Where the sun rises for the ancestors, it also rises for me. I listen, and the elders tell me:
‘Ana was born on the Middle Passage. So, they called her Ocean Ana. That is how we remember her name. It was a whole people born on that water. They carried Africa with them, but they made America, too.’
Love . . . a love so strong that the fear of the unknown and the violent way it could come down on a body cease to matter, because life calls. That’s the kind of love I want to claim, because I have known some times where I could not call upon love, even for myself. At least I could not call upon it strong enough to pull myself out of anger. Separation and divorce left me determined to pout my way through the rest of my life, resigning to the failure of a dream. I almost left my sanity in some dusty corner of my mind all because the man I married chose another life rich with women and parties and the elusive feel good all of that could bring. I had the nerve to find that worthy of self pity and tried staring at walls, hoping to fall into one, finally releasing the responsibility of raising my girls alone. There were eviction notices, dangerous walks past midnight…alone and searching for what might kill me, unpaid phone bills, and children crying for someone I could never be. And I would not dare suggest that I was a pioneer in this. We all have our hurts – those places we can go to and close down to the world. Sure, you get up in the morning, throw some breakfast together, get dressed and breathe through another day on the job, but it’s more habitual than a testimony to strength. I craved meaning, a passion thick enough to make the seeming loss into a truth my daughters could remember in their own life journeys. And it was only acknowledging the stories and beating hearts of those who came before me that got me there. What is divorce but a parting of ways, a departure from the old and a new path beckoning when you still have breath, they told me. What was your choice to birth these children but a marker of your life in God’s hands and an opportunity for you to grow into that existence more fierce for the scars, they whispered. How could I not choose that kind of love?
A cup of coffee, a glass of water for their whispers from the other side, a mask for the spirit that got you here, and photographs if you got ‘em, ‘cause the living like to look upon a face. They tell me many love stories:
‘Daddy John and Mama Emily had a home for all the folks in the community down in Hunstville, Alabama. In the evenings, Daddy John would welcome the people into their small space ‘til it got late and he had to put them out. It’d be white folks and black folks. Everybody. Well, Daddy John had been teaching the black men in the community how to make bricks and build homes, bridges, anything. He was a master brick mason. And one day, he took it upon himself to make a union for the black brick masons down there in Hunstville so they could get the same pay as the white men. Well, don’t you know, those white folks threatened to kill them all so that Daddy John and Mama Emily had to move their family and all the other folks who were a part of that union clear across the country? They stayed in Canada for awhile, and then settled in Seatlle, Washington, where he kept on teaching his craft and caring for his people.’
On my block of Girard Street in Washington, D.C., the inevitable sting of gentrification came slow and looming like the shadow of a promise laced in the most bitter sweet premonition of a flavor not meant for our tastes. The block needed the change, but we also knew that the change would not be for us. Open air drug sales were rampant on the block; young black and Latino men were murdered, especially during the months of spring and summer. We found bullet casings at the front door of our apartment building, and neighbors suffering from addiction wandered the block as a constant reminder of a shared problem we could not solve. Brothers who had once helped me lift grocery bags from the concrete to the front door of my building were arrested and sent to jail as ordinarily as the pigeons flocking to what is always left for the alley. And women I knew as friends bore black eyes behind sunglasses or covered internal scars in whatever masks heart-break could afford. I lived inside of that world, struggling to define myself outside of it, only to find that my family, my heart, and my body existed as evidence of a communal ill, an open wound we chose not to see on the best of our good days.
Of course, my block was not Hunstville. And I was definitely not a brick mason, but in taking the time to collect the stories and strengths of my ancestors I recognized how I could find a space of love inside such difficult emotional and psychological terrain. And it came through my hands first. It came through my heart’s longing to create life in spite of the ever-present dangers at home. I wrote poems and crafted art out of beads and acrylics until my room was cluttered with all of it. These testimonies of the common struggle in urban America became a love story I wanted to share with others as a desire to engage my block, my community, in an intimate conversation. I also wanted to share the cathartic process of artistic expression with others with kindred experiences, especially women, because in my mind, public policy’s often dawdling steps to progress will inevitably witness the loss of many lives. For me, giving life to my voice through artistic expression alleviated a seeming political inertia in my community; I believed that this same healing could matter for others.
So, in January of 2005, I founded Ocean Ana Rising in honor of that small baby who took her first breath on the waters of the Atlantic, hoping to deepen the courageous and resilient love that got her here along with so many others.
Since Ocean Ana Rising’s incorporation, artists and art patrons have been able to facilitate mediation and mask making workshops for women housed in D.C. Crime Victims Compensation Unit, and writing resistance and meditation workshops for young women of Barrios Unidos (Virginia Chapter). We have also incubated art projects and theatrical productions, hiring emerging and seasoned artists of color, and sharing those works with many others.
This is our legacy. My daughters witness this. They live it with me. Whether they choose to make art or facilitate arts outreach or not, their presence on the journey will inform their sense of self and community. I will not censor the often negative myths perpetuated through popular culture but I will speak back against them so that a dialogue can take place. I have not righted the countless wrongs this nation has institutionalized in relation to people of color throughout this land, but I have offered an alternative institution rooted in love. And I accept that a utopian existence cannot be reached in a world governed by individual choice, but I can choose to stand on this particular side of our legacy, waking in the morning to tap my stick in remembrance and celebration of a tradition of abundant love, and sitting still long enough to hear the whispers encouraging me. Some of us will make art, some will teach school, and some will study medical conditions toward healing our physical bodies from rampant disease. It is all the same legacy- a love story passed down through the ages.
Legacy is a stick fallen from a tree and dressed with nine ribbons, all different colors, and bells, a mask, a cup of coffee, a glass of water for their whispers from the other side, a mask for the spirit that got you here, and photographs if you got ‘em, ‘cause the living like to look upon a face to remember.
Note: The ancestral shrine detailed here in the italicized sections of the essay is rooted in Yoruba traditions of ancestor veneration. One need not be a Yoruba practitioner to acknowledge your ancestors, however. Take your time to consider those who came before you, whether they are individuals who were part of your biological family or not, and decide how you think they would like to be remembered and celebrated in your life.
Toward healing,
Nina Angela Mercer
*Copyrighted February 2008
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
recent favorites
1. red snapper sashimi at lan in the village
2. elbows on the table
3. mutual admiration for luda's flow
4. a ten minute wait for a perfect parking space
5. st. marks and that shared space between four walls
6. "the girl from ipanema" as an exit
7. new york city bridges and the chorus of lights in the distance
2. elbows on the table
3. mutual admiration for luda's flow
4. a ten minute wait for a perfect parking space
5. st. marks and that shared space between four walls
6. "the girl from ipanema" as an exit
7. new york city bridges and the chorus of lights in the distance
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
musings on the loss of a loved one ...
my grandmother passed last saturday. and my ten year old daughter cried into the night because her grandmother "left this world." but gram lived to be 91 years old. she was born and raised in birmingham, alabama. she lived through jim crow, segregation, the Great Depression, countless lynchings, a church bombing where she lost a childhood friend, and more than a few wars. she lived long enough to hold both of her great grands in her arms and watch them grow into young girls just stepping close to womanhood. perhaps this is a small thing in this world.
gaza
afghanistan
iraq
sudan
the beloved congo
the world's hands are bloody.
i want to celebrate the life of my grandmother. i want to celebrate the remarkable in an ordinary life. i want to honor her transition with continued movement and truth-telling, 'cause she never bit her tongue or held back on setting folks straight, even when it was uncomfortable. but how do i do this when there is so much death around me? if it is a celebration, it is a humble one.
my daughter asks me why God could not save her great grandmother if God could give her life. i tell her that gram's pact with God had been fulfilled; i tell her that her body was tired and that her spirit had to move on, elevate, and guide the lives of those less evolved in this world. i told my daughter that she now has a special angel walking with her ... one who knows and loves her well.
but how do we move forward with the blood of the world on our hands? my grandmother died of her own will. there were no bombs or guns, no hands stopped her breaths. she crossed over graceful and eased, trusting that her family would gather together in her absence, creating a fortress for one another.
what of the world and this family we make? how do we hold one another accountable for the ego maniacal leaders of the world ... those who dare to judge lives as insignificant or necessary fall-out in the rush for money and power? how do we celebrate one man's rise to power by drinking til the wee morning hours while countless others hide in their homes, trying desparately to create some sense of calm and safety when that home is being ravaged?
if one people's loss begets another, how close must the violence touch the lives of those in this country before we act and demand meaningful change?
i have often said that the united states' financial crisis has been no stranger to my life for the past ten years. while others have only recently taken notice, strained wages and increasing costs of living have plagued my household for years. the feeling of accomplishment born of college and graduate degrees was quickly replaced with a sobering reality - all of that work won't prevent one's presence in the welfare lines. and the looming shadow of addiction and prison was no stranger, either.
the greed of the world breeds dysfunction and criminality, because there are always many who cannot withstand the glaring imbalances. though we can celebrate the victory of our first "black" president, we are living the truth of a massive absence in our daily lives ... absent men, women and children of color ... those locked behind prison bars, their bodies fueling an economy that does not fail but continues to be exported abroad for the construction of prisons world-wide. there will never be enough prisons, because our global hunger for violence and oppression can only breed a volatile resistance which must be caged or obliterated.
clearly, the united states has effectively silenced many of its own. it has taken generations, but the peculiar institution did not fail. we can only hope that in the universe's tendency to order chaos, the scales will become more balanced.
still, as i watch israel's actions in gaza, and the way the violence of that region has been normalized in our collective psyche, i am more than troubled. the majority of folks only choose to care and take action when said chaos stumbles onto the front yard. we wash the blood from our memories daily ... at the club, on our daily jobs, in our comfortable sleep, in the quick channel change on the flat screen ... but so long as lives are endangered abroad, lives are endangered here. the distance created by water becomes less meaningful everyday.
it is a spiritual war. not a jihad in the way that the word has been thrown around in the media and out of the mouths of those who would claim sacred justification for the desecration of bodies. it is not a "holy" war between organized religions. there is nothing holy or sacred in this, except the actual lives being lost for the gain of a few. and this has nothing to do with religion, although leaders of the world will continue to use that as an opiate to convince masses to support their selfish agendas. and if, for the sake of semantics, we want to place religion at the center of these conflicts, the religion is greed, violence, land, and oil, money and the unequal distribution of power ... the most profane motivations of this world.
it is a spiritual war. it is war between love and hate ... and while it may be said that this war will always exist in this world, because that is the burden of humanity - to constantly reflect and act upon these most basic and fundamental ways of being - i believe that if we could choose love more readily and comprehensively we could evolve and grow stronger as a whole. violence is only one way of living. why have we not tried to create another on a broad scale?
the beloved congo
afghanistan
iraq
sudan
new orleans
oakland
gaza
too much.
r.i.p. sadye gwendolyn harris james, one brilliant shining star of many crossing over ...
love.
gaza
afghanistan
iraq
sudan
the beloved congo
the world's hands are bloody.
i want to celebrate the life of my grandmother. i want to celebrate the remarkable in an ordinary life. i want to honor her transition with continued movement and truth-telling, 'cause she never bit her tongue or held back on setting folks straight, even when it was uncomfortable. but how do i do this when there is so much death around me? if it is a celebration, it is a humble one.
my daughter asks me why God could not save her great grandmother if God could give her life. i tell her that gram's pact with God had been fulfilled; i tell her that her body was tired and that her spirit had to move on, elevate, and guide the lives of those less evolved in this world. i told my daughter that she now has a special angel walking with her ... one who knows and loves her well.
but how do we move forward with the blood of the world on our hands? my grandmother died of her own will. there were no bombs or guns, no hands stopped her breaths. she crossed over graceful and eased, trusting that her family would gather together in her absence, creating a fortress for one another.
what of the world and this family we make? how do we hold one another accountable for the ego maniacal leaders of the world ... those who dare to judge lives as insignificant or necessary fall-out in the rush for money and power? how do we celebrate one man's rise to power by drinking til the wee morning hours while countless others hide in their homes, trying desparately to create some sense of calm and safety when that home is being ravaged?
if one people's loss begets another, how close must the violence touch the lives of those in this country before we act and demand meaningful change?
i have often said that the united states' financial crisis has been no stranger to my life for the past ten years. while others have only recently taken notice, strained wages and increasing costs of living have plagued my household for years. the feeling of accomplishment born of college and graduate degrees was quickly replaced with a sobering reality - all of that work won't prevent one's presence in the welfare lines. and the looming shadow of addiction and prison was no stranger, either.
the greed of the world breeds dysfunction and criminality, because there are always many who cannot withstand the glaring imbalances. though we can celebrate the victory of our first "black" president, we are living the truth of a massive absence in our daily lives ... absent men, women and children of color ... those locked behind prison bars, their bodies fueling an economy that does not fail but continues to be exported abroad for the construction of prisons world-wide. there will never be enough prisons, because our global hunger for violence and oppression can only breed a volatile resistance which must be caged or obliterated.
clearly, the united states has effectively silenced many of its own. it has taken generations, but the peculiar institution did not fail. we can only hope that in the universe's tendency to order chaos, the scales will become more balanced.
still, as i watch israel's actions in gaza, and the way the violence of that region has been normalized in our collective psyche, i am more than troubled. the majority of folks only choose to care and take action when said chaos stumbles onto the front yard. we wash the blood from our memories daily ... at the club, on our daily jobs, in our comfortable sleep, in the quick channel change on the flat screen ... but so long as lives are endangered abroad, lives are endangered here. the distance created by water becomes less meaningful everyday.
it is a spiritual war. not a jihad in the way that the word has been thrown around in the media and out of the mouths of those who would claim sacred justification for the desecration of bodies. it is not a "holy" war between organized religions. there is nothing holy or sacred in this, except the actual lives being lost for the gain of a few. and this has nothing to do with religion, although leaders of the world will continue to use that as an opiate to convince masses to support their selfish agendas. and if, for the sake of semantics, we want to place religion at the center of these conflicts, the religion is greed, violence, land, and oil, money and the unequal distribution of power ... the most profane motivations of this world.
it is a spiritual war. it is war between love and hate ... and while it may be said that this war will always exist in this world, because that is the burden of humanity - to constantly reflect and act upon these most basic and fundamental ways of being - i believe that if we could choose love more readily and comprehensively we could evolve and grow stronger as a whole. violence is only one way of living. why have we not tried to create another on a broad scale?
the beloved congo
afghanistan
iraq
sudan
new orleans
oakland
gaza
too much.
r.i.p. sadye gwendolyn harris james, one brilliant shining star of many crossing over ...
love.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
she enters down stage left ...
freedom is not what you do but how you do it: 35 years old, two daughters born from my womb, five years teaching college students, and five years into my career as a public playwright with a jones for the absurd, ironic, and brazen, i have learned that responsibilities do not necessarily equal prison bars or thought police. i've more freedom for the choices. and time works with the passions of my heart 'cause the heart propels the way i experience the shifting hands of the clock. shape shifter and river walker, i am happiest inside the most liberating boots ... kick ass or kick rocks. i love me freely ...
note: after 7 months on a blog break, i have returned. prodigal? nah ... just balancing ... not to mention i've gotten back to some version of a private self for sanity's sake. trouble comes when one writes so close to heart strings that crafting of words in open spaces means revealing the less than perfect walk in ways that could possibly make me blush ... i am no longer emotionally removed from the beautiful mess, and there are more lives at stake ... lover/homie/friend. and yet, i've got to be here. not sure why. not even sure that anyone checks in. but i am back.
check-list or current interests (a prelude to our soon come kiss):
1. home (the real and imagined)
2. political fire-storms and inconsistency
3. the making of a mythological presidency and the actual bodies at stake
4. art making/revolutionary choices and how to get all that distributed widely
5. manifestos ... practicing the theory and walking the talk/words
6. sex
7. random musings, prophetic dreams, jazz riffs in print
note: after 7 months on a blog break, i have returned. prodigal? nah ... just balancing ... not to mention i've gotten back to some version of a private self for sanity's sake. trouble comes when one writes so close to heart strings that crafting of words in open spaces means revealing the less than perfect walk in ways that could possibly make me blush ... i am no longer emotionally removed from the beautiful mess, and there are more lives at stake ... lover/homie/friend. and yet, i've got to be here. not sure why. not even sure that anyone checks in. but i am back.
check-list or current interests (a prelude to our soon come kiss):
1. home (the real and imagined)
2. political fire-storms and inconsistency
3. the making of a mythological presidency and the actual bodies at stake
4. art making/revolutionary choices and how to get all that distributed widely
5. manifestos ... practicing the theory and walking the talk/words
6. sex
7. random musings, prophetic dreams, jazz riffs in print
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
the same enemy, a different mask
last weekend, i participated in a workshop addressing gender violence as a point of departure for theatrical inquiries rooted in the body's memory. the group was populated largely by women. there was one male present. by the end of the introductory discussion regarding how best to move forward through the work of the day, we decided that we would open the creative circle to a more broadly defined topic - the culture of violence and its impact on the lives of women and men, transcending gender roles, assumptions, and sexual preference. i think this was an important turning point in the workshop, because in broadening the scope of our creative focus, the potential healing and learning became more inclusive. it became less about pointing fingers at men who have waged wars of violent aggression against women, and more about unpacking the lethally complex culture of violence which socializes all individuals living within its seemingly boundless cage.
if it can be proven that men are more often the agressors in acts of violence, it should also be considered that men have, at some point, been victims of this same tyranny, and that, because of the expectations and definitions born of their gendered roles in society, they have had little to no recourse against this training. they are effectively jumped into the violent culture and victimized by it. and whether they exist as victims or perpetrators, the circle of healing must include them as well.
i also believe that it is important to understand that the often secret and intimate reality of domestic violence is directly linked to violence against the stranger ... the stranger on the block, the 'other'/enemy of our minds, and the oppositional nation or cultural group ... so that there is no separation between violent aggression against a loved one and violence against a political or economic body marked as threatening.
whether mass genocide is connected to a tribal war, a fight for land or oil, an ideological difference over religion or cultural shifts, or the seemingly hidden and sanctioned violence against a lover or loved one, it is mass genocide all the same. these sustained eruptions are all violations of human rights and should be treated as such.
in order to educate people regarding our global need to shift the paradigm of our accepted use of violence as a means to order human relations, we must address this problem from every venue imaginable - from the schools to the united nations, from the theatre to the forums of our national legislative bodies.
our lives depend on it.
if it can be proven that men are more often the agressors in acts of violence, it should also be considered that men have, at some point, been victims of this same tyranny, and that, because of the expectations and definitions born of their gendered roles in society, they have had little to no recourse against this training. they are effectively jumped into the violent culture and victimized by it. and whether they exist as victims or perpetrators, the circle of healing must include them as well.
i also believe that it is important to understand that the often secret and intimate reality of domestic violence is directly linked to violence against the stranger ... the stranger on the block, the 'other'/enemy of our minds, and the oppositional nation or cultural group ... so that there is no separation between violent aggression against a loved one and violence against a political or economic body marked as threatening.
whether mass genocide is connected to a tribal war, a fight for land or oil, an ideological difference over religion or cultural shifts, or the seemingly hidden and sanctioned violence against a lover or loved one, it is mass genocide all the same. these sustained eruptions are all violations of human rights and should be treated as such.
in order to educate people regarding our global need to shift the paradigm of our accepted use of violence as a means to order human relations, we must address this problem from every venue imaginable - from the schools to the united nations, from the theatre to the forums of our national legislative bodies.
our lives depend on it.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
god's in the poetry
i wanna share this sonnet by Gwendolyn Brooks, 'cause it's been a favorite of mine for years. funny thing is that i didn't really understand it 'til now. i didn't really know why it was a favorite, why the heart of the poem spoke to me, you know? there's god in poetry ... my heart could feel god speaking to me, warning me, teaching me between the lines, though my head had no clue of what journey i would embark upon. now, i stand at the final line of the sonnet, getting it, you know? feeling it with intimate connection. and it's good to have gone there and made it out to the final line ... with a resolute truth ... hell's done, 'cause i say so.
anyway, i wanna share this wit ya' in an attempt to share my heart and where it's come back from. plus, it's just dope. and before i type the lines, i also wanna let you know that on the day Ms. Brooks died, I held a shoe in my hand at the front door of my house while bacon fried slow in a pan and my children giggled through some episode of sesame street. i was waiting for my man to place his foot inside the house. i was sober. i was clear. the shoe was meant for his dome-piece.
here it goes ...
my dream, my works, must wait till after hell
I hold my honey and I store my bread
In little jars and cabinets of my will.
I label clearly, and each latch and lid
I bid, Be firm till I return from hell.
I am very hungry. I am incomplete.
And none can tell when I may dine again.
No man can give me any word but Wait,
The puny light. I keep my eyes pointed in;
Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt
Drag out to their last dregs and I resume
On such legs as are left me, in such heart
As I can manage, remember to go home,
My taste will not have turned insensitive
To home and bread old purity could love.
-Gwendolyn Brooks
anyway, i wanna share this wit ya' in an attempt to share my heart and where it's come back from. plus, it's just dope. and before i type the lines, i also wanna let you know that on the day Ms. Brooks died, I held a shoe in my hand at the front door of my house while bacon fried slow in a pan and my children giggled through some episode of sesame street. i was waiting for my man to place his foot inside the house. i was sober. i was clear. the shoe was meant for his dome-piece.
here it goes ...
my dream, my works, must wait till after hell
I hold my honey and I store my bread
In little jars and cabinets of my will.
I label clearly, and each latch and lid
I bid, Be firm till I return from hell.
I am very hungry. I am incomplete.
And none can tell when I may dine again.
No man can give me any word but Wait,
The puny light. I keep my eyes pointed in;
Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt
Drag out to their last dregs and I resume
On such legs as are left me, in such heart
As I can manage, remember to go home,
My taste will not have turned insensitive
To home and bread old purity could love.
-Gwendolyn Brooks
Monday, March 10, 2008
why my blog left the building (of my heart)/why it walked back in
i've been stingy with my writing lately. that's why i haven't been blogging. after months of a seeming fruitless hunt for new inspiration, beyond the usual blog rant, i've stumbled upon what was already there ... the scattered notes between journal entries and lists, the random gems found through internet searches, the writing on the wall (literally ... i riff on my wall space in washable marker. proof of my youth's transgressions: nina aka sweet nee in black marker on the bus) ... and i have finally discovered the pieces of my puzzled heart, a beautiful mess, of course, and still ... the beginnings of a world meant for the stage. and to make matters worse (or better), it's coming out in that wild experimental aesthetic i've come to love ... jazz riffs and blues songs, some ill boom bap in time straddling a praise song in a sticky southern drawl... and so, i've little to blog about. none of this love affair is meant for this space. it's too fresh ... too brazenly virginal and raunchy as a tongue licking a lover's favorite secret 'yes' spot. it's personal ... making its way to public consumption. in time.
but i will blog this ... yesterday, i waited at the crossway on 12 avenue at pier 94. i was going to see my cousin's interior design work at a showcase. and when the traffic light went red, and it was my turn to walk, i looked in my periphery as i took a step off the concrete, and some crazed, tunnel vision white chic was zooming my way ... there was this one breath between me falling through the natural step of my feet and into her death trap. less than minute's worth of breathing. and somehow, i managed to pause, and watched her fly through the red light past me. i said to no one, "that could have been my ass right there." and this chic who witnessed it but stood further back from the traffic lane agreed, "yep. it could've been. clearly someone is watching over you." and i responded, laughing, "clearly. someone more than human."
we crossed the street. and i made it to the interior design showcase ... i really loved the chandeliers constructed out of what looked like deer antlers with crystal tear drop-shaped prisms hanging from them.
and i really love this gift. life.
but i will blog this ... yesterday, i waited at the crossway on 12 avenue at pier 94. i was going to see my cousin's interior design work at a showcase. and when the traffic light went red, and it was my turn to walk, i looked in my periphery as i took a step off the concrete, and some crazed, tunnel vision white chic was zooming my way ... there was this one breath between me falling through the natural step of my feet and into her death trap. less than minute's worth of breathing. and somehow, i managed to pause, and watched her fly through the red light past me. i said to no one, "that could have been my ass right there." and this chic who witnessed it but stood further back from the traffic lane agreed, "yep. it could've been. clearly someone is watching over you." and i responded, laughing, "clearly. someone more than human."
we crossed the street. and i made it to the interior design showcase ... i really loved the chandeliers constructed out of what looked like deer antlers with crystal tear drop-shaped prisms hanging from them.
and i really love this gift. life.
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