i have learned that there is no distinction between the creation of art and freedom ... both are journeys closer to the divine, both require an awareness that is often met with human imperfection, a bumbling about for lost keys just found beneath a stack of boxes. and sometimes, you gotta craft keys with teeth and fingernails. there are bags coming undone and ugly. loose change at the toll booth. maybe all pennies. but you get there ... with no shortage of fierce courage and stubborn will.
each time i set out to write my way out of a cluttered landscape ripe with possible stories, i also find myself inside a thick quest toward some intimately crucial and inherently spiritual process of becoming more liberated, more giving, more open ... i write my way out of the hard spaces, the bitter juice life squeezed out of me, the often oppressive and less than truthful ways of knowing. i write myself into a transformation and healing with the knowledge that i am always and only getting closer to god. i surrender.
i have learned that there is no distinction between the creation of art and the sensual awareness of my body, it's hunger and full expression. this too is a walk closer inside god. when i get free inside the touch of my lover, we are creating a boundless space of divinity. i come with intensity and often. i receive what my lover gives back to me with gratitude. and i take that energetic exchange as seriously as i take the pen inside my hands, and the words that strive to reflect light born from the depth of our universal womb and its flow. there is god there. and there. it is all one.
when i am considering the culture of violence and the many lives we have bartered at the expense of global freedom, i am also writing myself closer to sanity and god-love. i am creating the antidote for the deathly blows against my body ... this body, which is inextricably linked to the world. and i am loving m(w)e out of silence, transforming hurts into awareness, because violence imposes silence. it depends on our consent. and we give that consent, submitting to murder and becoming murderers of self, soul, and world, whenever we do not speak, whenever we do not dance, paint, sing, whether the song/story/dance be one of sorrow or glory. it is all one.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
how to write a play in 3 or more years ...
writing a play is tough. you have to create an entire world. sometimes a universe. and let me tell you, it takes longer than 7 days, unless you're susan lori parks. and i'm not. clearly. i can't imagine how she did that ... a play a day? what? anyway, i know some playwrights who seem to write really fast (not at ms. parks' speed, but still ...). i mean, they just churn them out. a particular type of genius. i am not that type. and i'm not claiming genius either. i just love writing plays. i need to see the words come to life on stage. i crave a director's vision ... not my own. i get enough of that living inside the play as a writer. and actors ... really brilliant actors are invaluable to me. i hunger for production. there's nothing like table work and rehearsal. for now, i am one of those playwrights who actually wants to be present for all of that when i can be. i've been lucky enough to get one play on stage. or maybe lucky isn't the word. i mean, i actually incorporated a non profit to get it up. and i know that had it not been for that choice, the folks who would eventually put my work up would never have known about it. so ... i won't credit luck. more like sweat, tears, near-fist fights, a run-in with cops in an alley, a broke down rental truck to transport props and set. you know ... the usual guerilla tactics for seeing the baby live.
and i've survived the new york debut ... the applause; the mean-spirited, does this woman know that my life is on the front line while she sits there doubled over 'cause my work makes her body too conscious and her mind too awake, preferring elevator music to the raw and funky we living, didn't even stay 'til the end, critically limited and less than astute "review" by linda armstrong of amsterdam news (thank you amiri baraka for telling me that if everybody loves your work, something's wrong. but i still gotta call it out, sir.); the unflinching support of woodie king jr and his new federal theatre company (many thanks for the lessons); the actor, who shall remain nameless, who walked off the stage mid scene; the production team and cast who became a journey inside love and the thin lines that cross over to elsewhere; the pure joy of seeing it through ... and i survived the hives and swollen limbs that came after it was all said and done, too.
i emerged from all of that still in love with writing plays. not blogs. and so, i am going to record my process here, because i have nothing else to blog about. let's consider this a walk inside the mind of a playwright who exists to the left of center, radically left of center, and determined to keep writing BIG plays with many characters, even though the damn economy tells me that i should write like a black woman, which means write a one woman show inside a kitchen (i have written scenes in a kitchen. even had a character give birth on a stove, but you know what i mean.) yeah, write like a black woman. write from the knowledge that few people will fund what you do, because you are black and a woman, and what's worse, you don't write pretty. you write raw and funky. so, write more easily digestable one woman shows. and then you might be making a good choice. maybe. but no ... i take the hard way. i'd rather write the truth as it comes to me, and it is rare that my truth is one voice, one body, one story, or one song. i'd rather write what my imagination dictates onto the page, despite budget constraints. i figure doing anything less is a walk through my own personal hell. and as far as i'm concerned, there's enough hell to walk through that i didn't create. why be a sick puppy and create my own?
so, i was talking to one of my colleagues at work. what? oh, yes, i do have a job right now. i teach college students. and that has to be attributed to luck, considering the economic crisis. but less of that ... back to the point. i was talking to a colleague, and she asked me about my process. not many people ask that. in fact, not many people ask how you write a play at all, unless they're trying to write one. and then, i usually look at that person side-ways, and say, "just write," or "read some plays. go see some plays." none of these responses make any sense, by the way. but that's what you say. that's what we say. because how do you explain what must be magic? but this colleague, she asked about process, and she was asking because she has one of her own. and when i told her, she said, "wow. you are really a playwright. i wonder how many playwrights do all that?" now, i have no idea how many playwrights "do all that." i just know what makes it work for me.
first off, i write SLOW. for some reason, my gestation period can be 3 years. and that's before i actually realize that a play is being written. i have to live, journey, go through some spiritually death-defying experience that leaves me ripe with discoveries. and all of that generally takes me about 3 years to digest and recognize as material worthy of the stage.
but i am always writing. currently, i am writing inside the second draft of a 2 act play i call, "gypsy in the bronx." but before that, the title was "renegade centro," and then it was "there is no river on girard street." i wrote the first scene in 2006. i started the first draft in 2009. it is now 2010. and i am officially in love. so, that's four years. not three. damn.
here's what i must do to write the sucka:
1. go insane ... and then decide to write your way out of it, or further in. either way, you must go a little crazy, or more than a little. much more. that's my preference.
2. create drawings of characters, maps, and themes (yes, i draw these myself)
3. create collages, pastels, and micro pen drawings of spiritual realities i'm going though (obsessive? maybe. so what? what artist isn't obsessive about her work?)
4. figure out what music informs the life of the play and listen to it while writing, working, playing.
5. journal constantly ... about every single aspect of my life. i even record all dreams.
6. write whatever comes out and save it on the computer. this is before i am officially writing the play. so, these are usually scenes which seem to be random. i write them anyway. sometimes they sit for years ... like 4 years!
7. tell a friend. you've got to tell someone that you are at least TRYING to write. not just your landlord, or your boss, or your lover (unless your lover happens to be a writer/artist, too. and then, you're damn lucky. i guess i am. hmmmm). anyway, you have to tell someone who will hold you somewhat accountable. i have a director who loves me. he must be nuts! i also have one playwright friend who likes to listen to me talk. i think she finds me absurdly comical. but if you don't have any folks like these i've mentioned, join a good writing group. i have no idea where you find those. but they do exist ... i've heard. and if there's still no one to tell, tell your imaginary friends. they'll listen. maybe that will help. not so sure.
8. once you're ready, and you'll know when you're ready, commit to writing at least one scene a day. give yourself a deadline to have the first draft done. and if you've got at least one of those dope people to hold you accountable, have them give you a deadline. you have to find ways around the excuses, distractions, and real life dramas that can often get in the way.
9. read. i don't know about you, but sometimes i feel like i am losing words. so, i have to read to get inspired by language. i don't really read plays. i mean, i have my demi gods: kushner, pinter, mamet, kennedy, wilson, shange, shepard. but i don't spend most of my time reading them. i take them in small doses. very small. i'd rather read fiction, and a little poetry. but you're not me. and i definitely aint you. just read what suits your tea kettle.
10. listen to EVERYTHING and EVERYBODY. plays need dialogue. so, you need to pay attention to how people speak to one another. i even listen to the life passing by my window (i live on a first floor apartment on a busy street in the bronx. perfect. sometimes. and sometimes, i wish i could just get some sleep!)
11. drink (rum)
12. live precariously (often)
13. have courage
14. don't listen to the haters. hell, what's a hater? just a lover completely outdone with your courageous walk.
15. have fun! or struggle really hard, and have fun later.
and i've survived the new york debut ... the applause; the mean-spirited, does this woman know that my life is on the front line while she sits there doubled over 'cause my work makes her body too conscious and her mind too awake, preferring elevator music to the raw and funky we living, didn't even stay 'til the end, critically limited and less than astute "review" by linda armstrong of amsterdam news (thank you amiri baraka for telling me that if everybody loves your work, something's wrong. but i still gotta call it out, sir.); the unflinching support of woodie king jr and his new federal theatre company (many thanks for the lessons); the actor, who shall remain nameless, who walked off the stage mid scene; the production team and cast who became a journey inside love and the thin lines that cross over to elsewhere; the pure joy of seeing it through ... and i survived the hives and swollen limbs that came after it was all said and done, too.
i emerged from all of that still in love with writing plays. not blogs. and so, i am going to record my process here, because i have nothing else to blog about. let's consider this a walk inside the mind of a playwright who exists to the left of center, radically left of center, and determined to keep writing BIG plays with many characters, even though the damn economy tells me that i should write like a black woman, which means write a one woman show inside a kitchen (i have written scenes in a kitchen. even had a character give birth on a stove, but you know what i mean.) yeah, write like a black woman. write from the knowledge that few people will fund what you do, because you are black and a woman, and what's worse, you don't write pretty. you write raw and funky. so, write more easily digestable one woman shows. and then you might be making a good choice. maybe. but no ... i take the hard way. i'd rather write the truth as it comes to me, and it is rare that my truth is one voice, one body, one story, or one song. i'd rather write what my imagination dictates onto the page, despite budget constraints. i figure doing anything less is a walk through my own personal hell. and as far as i'm concerned, there's enough hell to walk through that i didn't create. why be a sick puppy and create my own?
so, i was talking to one of my colleagues at work. what? oh, yes, i do have a job right now. i teach college students. and that has to be attributed to luck, considering the economic crisis. but less of that ... back to the point. i was talking to a colleague, and she asked me about my process. not many people ask that. in fact, not many people ask how you write a play at all, unless they're trying to write one. and then, i usually look at that person side-ways, and say, "just write," or "read some plays. go see some plays." none of these responses make any sense, by the way. but that's what you say. that's what we say. because how do you explain what must be magic? but this colleague, she asked about process, and she was asking because she has one of her own. and when i told her, she said, "wow. you are really a playwright. i wonder how many playwrights do all that?" now, i have no idea how many playwrights "do all that." i just know what makes it work for me.
first off, i write SLOW. for some reason, my gestation period can be 3 years. and that's before i actually realize that a play is being written. i have to live, journey, go through some spiritually death-defying experience that leaves me ripe with discoveries. and all of that generally takes me about 3 years to digest and recognize as material worthy of the stage.
but i am always writing. currently, i am writing inside the second draft of a 2 act play i call, "gypsy in the bronx." but before that, the title was "renegade centro," and then it was "there is no river on girard street." i wrote the first scene in 2006. i started the first draft in 2009. it is now 2010. and i am officially in love. so, that's four years. not three. damn.
here's what i must do to write the sucka:
1. go insane ... and then decide to write your way out of it, or further in. either way, you must go a little crazy, or more than a little. much more. that's my preference.
2. create drawings of characters, maps, and themes (yes, i draw these myself)
3. create collages, pastels, and micro pen drawings of spiritual realities i'm going though (obsessive? maybe. so what? what artist isn't obsessive about her work?)
4. figure out what music informs the life of the play and listen to it while writing, working, playing.
5. journal constantly ... about every single aspect of my life. i even record all dreams.
6. write whatever comes out and save it on the computer. this is before i am officially writing the play. so, these are usually scenes which seem to be random. i write them anyway. sometimes they sit for years ... like 4 years!
7. tell a friend. you've got to tell someone that you are at least TRYING to write. not just your landlord, or your boss, or your lover (unless your lover happens to be a writer/artist, too. and then, you're damn lucky. i guess i am. hmmmm). anyway, you have to tell someone who will hold you somewhat accountable. i have a director who loves me. he must be nuts! i also have one playwright friend who likes to listen to me talk. i think she finds me absurdly comical. but if you don't have any folks like these i've mentioned, join a good writing group. i have no idea where you find those. but they do exist ... i've heard. and if there's still no one to tell, tell your imaginary friends. they'll listen. maybe that will help. not so sure.
8. once you're ready, and you'll know when you're ready, commit to writing at least one scene a day. give yourself a deadline to have the first draft done. and if you've got at least one of those dope people to hold you accountable, have them give you a deadline. you have to find ways around the excuses, distractions, and real life dramas that can often get in the way.
9. read. i don't know about you, but sometimes i feel like i am losing words. so, i have to read to get inspired by language. i don't really read plays. i mean, i have my demi gods: kushner, pinter, mamet, kennedy, wilson, shange, shepard. but i don't spend most of my time reading them. i take them in small doses. very small. i'd rather read fiction, and a little poetry. but you're not me. and i definitely aint you. just read what suits your tea kettle.
10. listen to EVERYTHING and EVERYBODY. plays need dialogue. so, you need to pay attention to how people speak to one another. i even listen to the life passing by my window (i live on a first floor apartment on a busy street in the bronx. perfect. sometimes. and sometimes, i wish i could just get some sleep!)
11. drink (rum)
12. live precariously (often)
13. have courage
14. don't listen to the haters. hell, what's a hater? just a lover completely outdone with your courageous walk.
15. have fun! or struggle really hard, and have fun later.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
other versions of stuck i consider noteworthy
i am hungry - a ravenous beast clamoring, rocking my soul self into an oblivion that i call, "stuck." i want this hunger, this ravenous clamor and soul-rocking in your absence. it reminds me of what i become beneath you ... stuck: the most awesome submission inside my heart.
i've been warned of loving too strong. the evidence: a retreating parade of people i once knew, a memoried crescendo of lonesome wails most kindred to a haunting, a ritual of bags and boxes stacked at the threshhold of an abandoned memoir, my flurry of fingers strumming my woman's heat good-bye,please ... damn. good-bye. a circus of debt playing my ass ... the drum; i dance its rhythm in spite of calloused feet, working for what big business collects in monthly cycles.
i've been warned of loving too strong. but i am hungry for this awesome submission inside my heart. you dictate, i note, every rebellion with the most deliberate kisses. sweet. i consider the meaning of each my name. thank you. i was beginning to unlearn it 'til you spoke the two syllables between our lips' touching ... nina ... it's better inside your mouth.
i've been warned of loving too strong. the evidence: a retreating parade of people i once knew, a memoried crescendo of lonesome wails most kindred to a haunting, a ritual of bags and boxes stacked at the threshhold of an abandoned memoir, my flurry of fingers strumming my woman's heat good-bye,please ... damn. good-bye. a circus of debt playing my ass ... the drum; i dance its rhythm in spite of calloused feet, working for what big business collects in monthly cycles.
i've been warned of loving too strong. but i am hungry for this awesome submission inside my heart. you dictate, i note, every rebellion with the most deliberate kisses. sweet. i consider the meaning of each my name. thank you. i was beginning to unlearn it 'til you spoke the two syllables between our lips' touching ... nina ... it's better inside your mouth.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
she spirit (from Gutta Beautiful's time warp)
She spirit lives strong in the river, bathing atop blue rock, whispering through the limbs of strong bamboo, resting between the light rays of a sun descending orange behind the tree tops of Assin Manso. She spirit strong and waiting along a shaded trail, where bird-song tickles the ears, laughs pouting lips, gives dance to tired feet. She spirit. A blink of an eye and lashes long so. She spirit. Hands on hip, back bone dips, and strong so … sugar cane sweet and ackee yellow. Nana Pra. Nsmanfo. Egun. She is me. Her language? Soul speak and mountains dressed in clouds hung low, green tree leaves juicy, and roots deep in red earth, holding on. She spirit live strong in that river, bathing atop blue rock, whispering stories of courage between the gathering place – a prison made of boulders way north in Paga – and the journey of many shuffling feet, a chain of bodies sold down the dusty path south to Elmina.
It is in this place that I lost my love. I thought that maybe I would see him in a day or two. I thought that maybe I would hear his voice from somewhere behind the wall. I would put my face on the floor and listen for him to call my name. And this is what we lived for. We were children together. And he was my love. How could I go to the white man when he called me? A nasty thing. I wanted to spit in his face, gauge out his eyes, fight him … to get to my love. I would stay chained forever, waiting. I sit in silence for two months. I do not speak. I stare out, eyes locked somewhere in space. Don’t leave me. We wait for what we do not know.
And across big waters, flying water vultures with teeth that rip some apart, bodies packed one on top the other, wailing, screaming, dying and birthing us new over raging waters, angry waters. And the names of the ships crossing them over? Jesus. Holy Mary.
She spirit live strong, still bathing atop blue rock, whispering through the limbs of poplars and resting between the light rays of a sun descending orange behind tree tops in Louisiana. She spirit strong and waiting along a shaded trail, where bird-song tickles the ears, laughs pouting lips, gives dance to tired feet. She spirit. A blink of an eye and lashes long so. She spirit. Hands on hip, back bone dips, and strong so … sugar cane still sweet, though cotton pricks the fingers to bleed so. Corn in husk for roasting over hot fire on a dusty path beyond the Delta. Nsmanfo. Egun. She is me. Her language? Soul speak and swamps thick with crocodiles, tree stumps burn, still – roots deep in red earth, holding on She spirit live strong in these rivers, bathing atop blue rock, whispering stories of courage at the gathering place in Congo Square, where rhythms memory home and the journey of many feet, a chain of bodies sold …
It is in this place that I lost my love: My eyes on the machete, my palms sweating. I watch you and wait for a sign. Life. I wait for yes. And I do it. I take the machete and life in my hands and stand next to you. I take the machete in my hands to get back to you. Freedom. Blood on my hands. In my womb. I scream. Freedom! And it hurts. I had to do it. Blood on my hands. In my heart. And it hurts, ‘cause I still lost you.
gypsy in the bronx 1
I am gypsy. I know, right? That's obvious. Been shuttling up and down the east coast, trying to find my way into somebody's American dream. I wonder sometimes if my children will remember me as a crazy mama with little sense for all the movements I've caused inspired by my whim and desire, trying desperately to make their lives a little better. It's a stupid feeling, being a woman like myself, caught inside some genius idea that words will make my living profitable and get my babies to the summer vacations over-seas they dream about aloud. I can't stand that I can hear them. They don't even have passports, and someone stole mine. Guess this one woman with visas for Ghana and Brazil amounting to only one and half months of my thirty four years was too much for the thief, had to steal my just got to blossoming new self in one second and snatched all my rights to leave this place. Got damn.
But I'm still claiming I'm a gypsy. A gypsy in the Bronx. I wear my scarf everyday. Tie it tight around my head and let the tail of it swing in the cold wind. I tighten my lips against the grit. I step over the dog shit. I used to tell my daughters to walk with their eyes straight ahead. Something black girls got a right to do - - keep their heads to the sky and be proud of they skin and what they got from the generations before. Now I insist that they look down at the concrete, beware the feces, and please don't trip over that broken glass glistening in the sun light so pretty.
My horizon is beneath my feet. I swear to god I might have to jump over it, and miss my golden ticket out of this daily hustle. This is where my jones has got me. I live for the sound of the elevated train rumbling past while I'm on my cell phone, and I must be finally fitting in 'cause now the shorties on the block say 'wassup' as I pass by, like I know them, when they only used to stare before. I'm proud of this small thing …. acceptance, despite my southern drawl sneaking through the pseudo hybrid accent I've cultivated to pass. My gypsy scarf confuses them. I swear. Be a gypsy, and no one will know how to place you. You just kind of belong everywhere and nowhere.
And I'm cool with that. Aint never had a problem with being a little bit of this and that, one foot in the water, a toe on land, the rest of me kind of hovering in the air somewhere. Moving. It's how I know myself, how I sense the next beat of my heart. Stillness is a place I house on the inside. The rest of it is all about journey. So, I'm cool. I'll gypsy the Bronx for a spell ... and when this juju's done, it's all wing span and free style. I don't covet places. Home is my being. I am teaching my children that ...and going to the post office to apply for a new passport ... actually three. My crystal ball is showing me a new movement reaching crescendo in yet another place in time. Soon come.
But for now, I ponder telling fortunes out front the Laundromat while I do my weekly wash. I will sell my special gris gris in once used honey jars saved for this purpose. Yeah. I will sell two special gris gris. One for love and one for hate, since those are the two extremes we humans tend to live torn between. I will keep them in a small cooler next to my bottle of sangria, and I will drink that sangria out a real pretty wine glass, too.
But I'm still claiming I'm a gypsy. A gypsy in the Bronx. I wear my scarf everyday. Tie it tight around my head and let the tail of it swing in the cold wind. I tighten my lips against the grit. I step over the dog shit. I used to tell my daughters to walk with their eyes straight ahead. Something black girls got a right to do - - keep their heads to the sky and be proud of they skin and what they got from the generations before. Now I insist that they look down at the concrete, beware the feces, and please don't trip over that broken glass glistening in the sun light so pretty.
My horizon is beneath my feet. I swear to god I might have to jump over it, and miss my golden ticket out of this daily hustle. This is where my jones has got me. I live for the sound of the elevated train rumbling past while I'm on my cell phone, and I must be finally fitting in 'cause now the shorties on the block say 'wassup' as I pass by, like I know them, when they only used to stare before. I'm proud of this small thing …. acceptance, despite my southern drawl sneaking through the pseudo hybrid accent I've cultivated to pass. My gypsy scarf confuses them. I swear. Be a gypsy, and no one will know how to place you. You just kind of belong everywhere and nowhere.
And I'm cool with that. Aint never had a problem with being a little bit of this and that, one foot in the water, a toe on land, the rest of me kind of hovering in the air somewhere. Moving. It's how I know myself, how I sense the next beat of my heart. Stillness is a place I house on the inside. The rest of it is all about journey. So, I'm cool. I'll gypsy the Bronx for a spell ... and when this juju's done, it's all wing span and free style. I don't covet places. Home is my being. I am teaching my children that ...and going to the post office to apply for a new passport ... actually three. My crystal ball is showing me a new movement reaching crescendo in yet another place in time. Soon come.
But for now, I ponder telling fortunes out front the Laundromat while I do my weekly wash. I will sell my special gris gris in once used honey jars saved for this purpose. Yeah. I will sell two special gris gris. One for love and one for hate, since those are the two extremes we humans tend to live torn between. I will keep them in a small cooler next to my bottle of sangria, and I will drink that sangria out a real pretty wine glass, too.
adventures, tarot cards, and crystals aka one rare bird in the borough
gypsy commits herself to the insane asylum aka mind riddles and m.i.a. escape routes:
the neon pizza sign hums beneath the rumble of the elevated train. outside the laundromat, rain puddles are fishing holes for the grime of an urban life outside the pocket. the pocket: boom bap and head nod, a flow without fight or fuss. this aint it. can't be. glitter stars fall here.
the washer is on spin. gypsy's eyes glaze over with disbelief and boredom. another day in the boogie down. aint nothing but a predictable refrain. sometimes nostalgia forces the chorus of some house song, some club remix. usually it's just one foot over dog shit the other guiding a body forward. to the bodega: dusty 7 day candles, cheap incense with absurd names like butta ball nekid and black love. dreams. silly wishes.
this corner is run by the shorties wearing blue. young and dumb, performing threats, looking harmless, lazy eyes and pimple skin. not gangstas. same dudes sit outside talking the same shit. hellafied ordinariness. everybody gets high. falls to rise again ... backwood sweets, white owls, some chemically altered green leaf get by. america is a joke. gun powder won't change that.
gypsy waits for the right card, the right moment ... the ten of cups reversed indicates delayed bliss. a walk down grand concourse, where a frantic woman chases a thief, screaming, "he took my cell phone!" gypsy laughs, cringes, pushes her own phone down inside a different kinda pocket, checks it every five minutes to make certain it is still there. this is dumb.
cash rules everything around me. a brand new electronic device will pay for one rock. maybe. and no one calls. no one answers. perhaps charity is an eight ball.
grand concourse to jerome ave and back to the laundromat. spin cycle is done. clothes damp and fresh smelling wait for those two hands, lifting cheap fabric into the dryer. gypsy watches them dance. she does not. the five of pentacles: one sorry fool walking on crutches helps another pitiful soul walk in the snow beneath a window. they need a ladder. climb through the window and steal sunlight and gold coins. pirate ectasy. how long will it take for the two idiots to figure it out? or will they continue soldiering through the relentlessly dreary weather, bound and determined to walk this path? stupid. necessary. at least they got each other.
gypsy walks alone confused by other human lives. she foretells misery, moments of laughter like crumbs. we scatter to crawl on the ground, sniffing the scattered bits like clean coke, precious and hiding out between cracks in asphalt.
gypsy waits for spring. an illusion of hope, fertile with mortality. it comes back. keeps us committed. how long before the space ship arrives to lift us beyond this material mind fuck? too long. perhaps the tower is better. a fall from tepid grace and mercy, a shift in understanding, a revolutionary change. is life the devil, chaining us?
the crystal ball tells nothing. simply the distorted reflection of the apartment in miniature. prism. prison. home.
the neon pizza sign hums beneath the rumble of the elevated train. outside the laundromat, rain puddles are fishing holes for the grime of an urban life outside the pocket. the pocket: boom bap and head nod, a flow without fight or fuss. this aint it. can't be. glitter stars fall here.
the washer is on spin. gypsy's eyes glaze over with disbelief and boredom. another day in the boogie down. aint nothing but a predictable refrain. sometimes nostalgia forces the chorus of some house song, some club remix. usually it's just one foot over dog shit the other guiding a body forward. to the bodega: dusty 7 day candles, cheap incense with absurd names like butta ball nekid and black love. dreams. silly wishes.
this corner is run by the shorties wearing blue. young and dumb, performing threats, looking harmless, lazy eyes and pimple skin. not gangstas. same dudes sit outside talking the same shit. hellafied ordinariness. everybody gets high. falls to rise again ... backwood sweets, white owls, some chemically altered green leaf get by. america is a joke. gun powder won't change that.
gypsy waits for the right card, the right moment ... the ten of cups reversed indicates delayed bliss. a walk down grand concourse, where a frantic woman chases a thief, screaming, "he took my cell phone!" gypsy laughs, cringes, pushes her own phone down inside a different kinda pocket, checks it every five minutes to make certain it is still there. this is dumb.
cash rules everything around me. a brand new electronic device will pay for one rock. maybe. and no one calls. no one answers. perhaps charity is an eight ball.
grand concourse to jerome ave and back to the laundromat. spin cycle is done. clothes damp and fresh smelling wait for those two hands, lifting cheap fabric into the dryer. gypsy watches them dance. she does not. the five of pentacles: one sorry fool walking on crutches helps another pitiful soul walk in the snow beneath a window. they need a ladder. climb through the window and steal sunlight and gold coins. pirate ectasy. how long will it take for the two idiots to figure it out? or will they continue soldiering through the relentlessly dreary weather, bound and determined to walk this path? stupid. necessary. at least they got each other.
gypsy walks alone confused by other human lives. she foretells misery, moments of laughter like crumbs. we scatter to crawl on the ground, sniffing the scattered bits like clean coke, precious and hiding out between cracks in asphalt.
gypsy waits for spring. an illusion of hope, fertile with mortality. it comes back. keeps us committed. how long before the space ship arrives to lift us beyond this material mind fuck? too long. perhaps the tower is better. a fall from tepid grace and mercy, a shift in understanding, a revolutionary change. is life the devil, chaining us?
the crystal ball tells nothing. simply the distorted reflection of the apartment in miniature. prism. prison. home.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
An Open Letter to My Father
Dear Dad,
You named me for a woman whose voice tells the story of women daring as pirates, women whose sensual footsteps marked paths unbecoming of any era’s definition of a “lady” but crucial to the heart and soul’s beat of the black Americas; you named me for a woman who calls forth generations of ripe genius, demanding an answer affirming the resilience of a people more beautiful for our collective denial of what popular national policies and practices would craft as our inevitable demise. And though I’ve never known her to belt out the word “feminist” over any melody, her presence, whether live or recorded, fills that politicized identity with the fiery blood, the fearless pout, and the demand for respect which have all merged to birth black women as the foremothers of any rendition of feminism and humanism since our ancestral feet touched soil this side of the Atlantic.
I cannot claim her life and legacy as singly my own. She has many daughters, of which I am only one. But I can find myself, in moments, upon the story-sounds brought into the world by way of her heart, her lungs, and lips. And in finding myself there on more occasions than I could ever recount in this space, and in acknowledging the role you played in guiding me to where I should look for a strong and worthy affirmation, I am certain that you had a pivotal role in designing my life as a rebellious and empowered black woman determined to break free of any and all oppressive forces hell bent on silencing me, or any of the folks I lovingly consider familiar to my own heart. And I love you for it.
We have not had an easy walk together. And this, I think, should never be a surprise for you. There should be some comfort in our tensions, because, even in those difficult times, I was testing the variegations of your initial intent. The name, the path, the promise and prayer you must have carried within when you helped to give me life, demands that of me. So when I railed back at you for setting before me what I recognized as a limitation (whether curfew or expectation of what your experience dictated I should do), I was only living what you passed on to me.
What did you pass on to me, beyond the name, and possibly, somehow, within it as well? There are many gifts I can recall, but I will begin with words – the most simple and obvious treasure for a young woman writer. It was you who taught me how to read at the early age of two, and it was you who traveled with me to countless bookstores come Saturday with the most precious freedom imaginable: you gave me free reign in bookstores with shelves dedicated to the lives of black and brown people so that by age twelve I discovered Alice Walker and Zora Neale Hurston. And on our Sunday drives through the city, you asked me to read Langston Hughes’s Jesse B. Semple stories until we doubled over laughing at the mirror reflection found in small black print. Beyond that, and also converging within that miracle, were the countless meetings and business trips I was so lucky to experience with you, because you lived your words, “If there’s somewhere I can’t take my daughter, what business do I have there myself?” And you were educating me through that choice. I learned the courage and tenacity it takes to be an entrepreneur and a thinker, the joy found in speaking back against the odds, and the importance of living my politics, despite potential personal discomfort. It was you who took me to my first protest in front of the South African Embassy in Washington, D.C. on a cold January day. And you would not let me stop walking and chanting, regardless of how cold the temperature or how my shivering lips eventually produced unintelligible words nearing a whisper instead of a shout so that what may have become a whisper there certainly could never stay that way. You affirmed my voice, demanding my input in every family debate and requesting my services on projects that would have typically gone to someone with more experience. You dared me to reach beyond the comfortable place of my youth, and to create a path informed by my ability to think and act from a space of confidence. Thank you.
When I became a single and divorced mother of two daughters, it would have been easy for me to become embittered toward black men, had it not been for your presence in my life. And I have to be honest, Dad, when I was transforming through that painful time, our relationship became a frustration for me in ways I am only recently beginning to understand. In mining my most intimate knowledge of self, I had to look at my relationship with you, the first “man” in life, because I believed that in unpacking all that I had experienced with and through you, I would come to some epiphany about how I, a black woman raised in a two parent household of some privilege, could find herself among the epidemically ruptured, and perhaps irrevocably damaged, contemporary black and broken families. I wanted to hold you accountable for every human mistake, every disappointed frown in my memory of life as a young girl in your home, because in so doing, I could forgive myself, forget the true collapse of sacred vows, deny the sting of this nation’s constant trial against those of us young colored genius’s who often turn a blind eye and deaf ear to the perpetual need to be consciously responsible in our community’s evolution, trading a history of politicized progressive movement forward for a near dupie’s sleep through it all. I wanted to blame you in much the same way that many in my generation blame our parents’ generation for failures we feel too small to clean up. But I could not hold that line. Your life’s work, and the many struggles and victories of those who walked with you, refused me that easy way out at every turn.
You did not coddle me into understanding this. Instead you challenged me to step up my game in ways that seemed ridiculous to me sometimes. You demanded that I find a way to speak my story of addiction, abuse, and spiritual deficit by helping me to write and eventually see my words live through the performances and interpretations of a special family of risk-taking artists. You also told me something which helped me to understand that, even when your version of black manhood did not measure up to what I thought it should be in relation to my experience as a black woman, it is only possible for us to choose, if spirit finds us strong enough, to become better versions of self; and no politicized identity, no moralized idea of right or wrong, can change that very human aspect of our being. You said, “Every man is [at best] a recovering sexist,” and that one can only work diligently at unlearning what he has been conditioned to practice. Through that admission, I came to understand that we are all always unpacking the debris of a remaining cultural tendency to oppress and deny that which is both our most honest and most troubling inherent trait – LOVE. Thank you.
It is my respect and admiration for you and your determined walk in this life which has kept me wanting the stories and lives of black and brown men, in spite and because of the “failure” of my marriage (not to mention all the other break ups and break downs in relationship with my brothers). What I once shamefully defined as a failure in loving a black man has finally become a lesson in how love can often tear folks down simply to create an opportunity to know a more revolutionary way of loving, one transcending life’s inevitably real and down right ugly ways of testing faith, strength, and awareness. Thank you.
Your choice to push me further away by forcing me to walk alone with a sense of dignity and a certain independence of spirit at times when I was whining and crying out of a sense of apologetic victim-hood has kept me from hiding under your protective wing, even though you risked losing the closeness cultivated during my early years by taking such a stance.
You are always with me, whether we agree with laughter and conspiratorially pleasant smiles or disagree with arms folded across chests and angry words straining but never breaking the simple truth – I will always be your daughter, and you will always be my Dad. There are no replacements, no imitations, no doubts or dismissals. And if I often seem brazenly rambunctious in how I choose to be your daughter, simply remember . . . you helped to design me this feminist black woman, and you chose my name.
Love,
Nina
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