spoken

some may have an urge to do something; and there are those who possess a talent for doing it well…then, there are the people walking among us who are able to grab a mic and channel ‘amazing’, using the loudest of subtleties of words & play, putting their very essence out there so tangibly and so clearly that everyone within earshot of their work truly feels every word they’ve chosen to stoke us with…and the imprint they leave shows in the goose bumps we’re all covered in when they’re done.
they make you feel like you’re a privy to something that only you and the select few present are trusted with and frankly, it’s one that you couldn’t find the words to justly convey anyway…so i’ll stop trying now…but at the very least, i owe them this attempt.

life is a given, living is not

when someone you know loses their life unexpectedly, it rattles you.  and it only makes the situation harder when they’re young, and all you’ve ever seen or heard about this person was good…when you can see how deeply their death affects others in your life…when every memory you have of this person involves genuine smiles between the two of you.

death is a horrible thing…but it’s inevitable. living (not to be confused with life), is not, no matter how much time we’re each allotted here in this world. being conscious…being present is taken for granted by many of us, everyday. i pride myself on the fact that i hold on with both hands, no matter how hard it is sometimes…to the lessons i learn, to the people who care to teach me, to my truths. i’ve done that for most of my life, but sometimes it takes an unexpected loss that hits close to home, to remind me to be truly grateful for the responsibility…because there’s no way to know how long i’ll be blessed with it. for me personally, loving is living…so i take comfort in knowing that so far, i’ve lived a pretty full life…and each friend and family member i have can attest to that.

i get

angry sometimes

frustrated

heavy with grief over what could be

sad about things i can’t help

upset with the skeptics who refuse to except the good or pure, even when there’s no doubt that it’s all they should be interested in, during a particular situation

that even after all the rest in the world, because of how much i feel, all the time, i’m still gonna be tired…worn, but

that the end of every day starts the beginning of the next

that my goal isn’t to focus so much on making it to the end of each day, but upon getting thru it, continue looking forward to the opportunity  to begin the next.

i’m getting it.

my space

there are quiet times…

when i’m thankful for the opportunity to hear and think what i will with no more influence over those thoughts than the birds chirping, or the rain falling, or the sun peeking.  no sounds of other thinkers interrupting the melodies of my choosing.  no sights to yank me clear of the fog of my creation where dreams and wishes are spread before me…all within reach…all inside my calm, where i do or say nothing to disturb anyone else.  today, there’s a hint of anticipation crackling within this bubble of mine, alongside the relishing of doing nothing…but this.  it comes from knowing this time is limited–because of my own doing.  i’ve made plans for a little while from now so…soon, i’ll run back out to join the ranks of those carrying on life within sight and sound of each other…noticing and being noticed…maybe.  my sounds or the scenes i create while making my own way will meld into others’ to be acknowledged or dismissed as deemed fit…or not.  and i’ll be ok…knowing i always have my quiet…my calm.

7 days to go…and i’m scared.

i think i’m scared that he won’t win.
or maybe, i’m scared that he will win, but he–and by extension, his race, rather than his political party–will then be ripped to shreds for every decision he makes as president.
i’m afraid for his family.
i’m angry about the fact that no matter who wins, everyone can’t anyway…because not everyone has the interests of the entire country as a whole at heart…because we’re all not the same, despite having the same basic needs, and entitlement to the same basic rights.
i’m bothered by the fact that no matter who wins, some of the most basic of my  rights will still not be determined by my actions towards others. they will instead, continue to be decided in courts by strangers who are allowed to tiptoe around applicable commandments at any given time, while standing on the foundation of a verse that says i’m an abomination, as they continue to ignore the verses that explain why (if interpreted with the same fervor) they’re in just as much trouble as i’m in, if only because of their own love lives, the foods that they consume, or their judgment of me as they’re gulping it all down.
i’m scared about the lengths to which the angriest of us will go in order to create fear and division…all in the name of their religion…when it’s clear that they lost sight of theirs the second they began their tirade.
but i’m proud too…
i’m proud of the fact that those of us who seem to be judged the most harshly in these instances appear to show the most grace. i still shake my head in wonder at the fact that some still use the label ‘the angry left’ for one political party…while the blatant extremists from theirs are the ones you’ll find yelling and screaming hateful things at rallies about a man who is simply exercising the rights that he and those before him have earned…when we all know those rights should’ve been extended to them in the first place, and then not questioned after the fact.  how dare he and his wife work hard for a decent life for their family…and then have the audacity to reach further politically than anyone else of their race ever has…who gave them the right?  the point is: they have that right along with plenty of other upstanding (and not so upstanding–term used loosely to reflect various past and present members of congress) citizens.
i’m proud of all the people who are voting for ideals and beliefs, rather than a skin color…but even those who are voting for a color get their props for voting at all…i’m proud of them for caring enough.
i’m proud to be a witness to these extraordinary times, regardless of the outcome of this particular presidential election.
and i’m proud that someone somewhere, who’s nothing at all like me, can read this and (whether they agree or disagree) can respect me…as well as any other decent, self-respecting person who gives a damn about anyone outside their own family, their race, or their religion without judging them because of their differences. if more people could have that same respect for others, i wouldn’t be nearly as scared as i am today…and i’d have more to be proud of.
compassion for others…seriously, it’s easier than you think…and cheaper than food or gas, no matter who’s president.

…because i have to.

so, i’m reading this book: The African-American Book of Values…Classic Moral Stories.
it’s sooo interesting…here’s a link with a review or 2: 
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/product-description/0385482590/ref=dp_proddesc_0?ie=UTF8&n=283155&s=books

one of the stories inside is called ‘New Black Scribe” by Terry McMillan (b. 1951). it grabbed me, in some way…like, every now & then, i come across something that reminds me i am…supposed…to write. even if you’re the last person who ever reads another line i put down…it’s just what i’m meant to do–not because i was taught how, picked it up quickly and did ok–but because i felt an overwhelming need to…capture and translate my tears on paper one day years ago…and when i did, it made sense, it made me lighter…it freed me forever.
i think this excerpt, describing her path to publishing, by an author i will forever admire, echoes my heart about what keeps me falling in love with words…and the memories/stories/history they weave…

NEW BLACK SCRIBE
Terry McMillan
…It wasn’t until after Malcolm X had been assassinated that I found out who he was.  I know I should be embarrassed about this, but I’m not.  I read Alex Haley’s biography of him and it literally changed my life.  First and foremost, I realized that there was no reason to be ashamed of being black, that it was ridiculous.  That we had a history, and much to be proud of.  I began to notice how we had actually been treated as less than human; began to see our strength as a people whereas I’d only been made aware of our inferiorities.  I started thinking about my role in the world and not just on my street.  I started thinking.  Thinking about things I’d never thought about before, and the thinking turned into questions.  But I had more questions than answers.
So I went to college. When I looked through the catalog and saw a class called Afro-American Literature, I signed up and couldn’t wait for the first day of class. Did we really have enough writers to warrant an entire class? I remember the textbook was called Dark Symphony: Negro Literature in America because I still have it. I couldn’t believe the rush I felt over and over once I discovered Countee Cullen, Langston Hughes, Ann Petry, Zora Neale Hurston, Ralph Ellison, Jean Toomer, Richard Wright, and rediscovered and read James Baldwin, to name just a few. I’m surprised I didn’t need glasses by the end of the semester. My world opened up. I accumulated and gained a totally new insight about, and perception of, our lives as “black” people, as if I had been an outsider and was finally let in. To discover that our lives held as much significance and importance as our white counterparts was more than gratifying, it was exhilarating. Not only had we lived diverse, interesting, provocative, and relentless lives, but during, through, and as a result of all these painful experiences, some folks had taken the time to write it down.
Not once, throughout my entire four years as an undergraduate did it occur to me that I might one day be a writer. I mean, these folks had genuine knowledge and insight. They also had a fascination with the truth. They had something to write about. Their work was bold, not flamboyant. They learned how to exploit the language so that readers would be affected by what they said and how they said it. And they had talent.
I never considered myself to be in possession of many of the above, and yet when I was twenty years old, the first man I fell in love with broke my heart. I was so devastated and felt so helpless that my reaction manifested itself in a poem. I did not sit down and say, “I’m going to write a poem about this.” It was more like magic. I didn’t even know I was writing a poem until I had written it. Afterward, I felt lighter, as if something had happened to lessen the pain. And when I read this “thing” I was so shocked because I didn’t know where the words came from. I was scared, to say the least, about what I had just experienced, because I didn’t understand what had happened.
For the next few days, I read that poem over and over in disbelief because I had written it. One day, a colleague saw it lying on the kitchen table and read it. I was embarrassed and shocked when he said he liked it, then went on to tell me that he had just started a black literary magazine at the college and he wanted to publish it (the poem). Publish it? He was serious and it found its way onto a typeset page.
Seeing my name in print excited me. And from that point on, if a leaf moved on a tree, I wrote about it. If a crack in the sidewalk glistened, surely there was a poem in that. Some of these verbose things actually got published in various campus newspapers that were obviously desperate to fill up space. I did not call myself a poet; I told people I wrote poems.
Years passed.
Those poems started turning into sentences and I started getting nervous. What the hell did I think I was doing? Writing these little go-nowhere vignettes. All these beginnings. And who did I think I was, trying to tell a story? And who cared? Even though I had no idea what I was doing, all I knew was that I was beginning to realize that a lot of things mattered to me, things disturbed me, things that I couldn’t change. Writing became an outlet for my dissatisfactions, distaste, and my way of trying to make sense of what I thought was broken. It later became the only way to explore personally what I didn’t understand. The problem, however, was that I was writing more about ideas than people. Everything was so “large,” and eventually I had to find a common denominator. I ended up asking myself what I really cared about: it was people, and particularly African-American people.
The whole idea of taking myself seriously as a writer was terrifying. I didn’t know any writers. Didn’t know how you knew if you “had” it or not. Didn’t know if I was or would ever be good enough. I didn’t know how you went about the business of writing, and besides, I sincerely wanted to make a decent living. (I had read the horror stories of how so few writers were able to live off of their writing alone, many having lived like bohemians.) At first, I thought being a social worker was the right thing to do, since I was bent on saving the world (I was an idealistic twenty-two years old), but when I found I couldn’t do it that way, I had to figure out another way to make an impact on folks. A positive impact. I ended up majoring in journalism because writing was “easy” for me, but it didn’t take long for me to learn that I did not like answering the “who, what, when, where, and why” of anything. I then–upon the urging of my mother and friends who had graduated and gotten “normal” jobs–decided to try something that would still allow me to “express myself” but was relatively safer, though still risky: I went to film school. Of course what was inherent in my quest to find my “spot” in the world was this whole notion of affecting people on some grand scale. Malcolm and Martin caused me to think like this. Writing for me, as it’s turned out, is philanthropy. It didn’t take years for me to realize the impact that other writers’ work had had on me, and if I was going to write, I did not want to write inconsequential, mediocre stories that didn’t conjure up or arouse much in a reader. So I had to start by exciting myself and paying special attention to what I cared about, what mattered to me.
Film school didn’t work out. Besides, I never could stop writing, which ultimately forced me to stop fighting it. It took even longer to realize that writing was not something you aspired to be, it was something you did because you had to.

olympians

here’s what i’d like to try:
an ounce of their strength, a surge of their power,
an hour of their flight, a third of their beauty,
a pint of their appeal, an iota of their confidence,
a pound of their discipline, a bit of their talent,
an inkling of their spirit, a touch of their soul,
an inch of their genius, a taste of their hunger,
a bite of their pride, a drop of their urgency,
a second of their drive, a sliver of their foresight,
a pinch of their heart, a glint of their amazing,
a blast of their speed, an ounce of their strength,
a flash of their glory.

let it out (not THAT)

i was talking to a friend of mine about blogging yesterday.  she says there’s too much going on in her head to be able to really focus her thoughts or slow them down long enough to put words together anywhere.  it made so much sense, her reason for…not. i’d bet there are sooo many people who feel exactly the same.
for me though, it’s when i’m feeling ‘all over the place’, and heavy and unfocused that i seem to want to scribble more. i was telling her, it doesn’t have to be a long, drawn out thing. it can be one sentence…just a few key words to sum up your day. like any given day, i could write something like, “i should’ve checked in with my family today.” then, as sure as i put down those few words, my heart speaks up and my brain takes down notes. suddenly, there’s an explanation there on the page that i couldn’t have come up with before i started. by the time i’ve finished, i’ve worked out in my head that i most likely haven’t called because my great-grandmother’s back in the hospital & calling would mean i would hear that she hasn’t improved…and about how sad my mom is.   and where last week, she fought tooth & nail against being put into a rest home…this week, she’s given up, begun telling the family she’s tired & ready to go, & probably won’t see the inside of her house ever again.
not releasing these thoughts from my head in some way would leave me a ball of emotions for all to see & carry.
by the same token, i never explained to my friend that a blog doesn’t necessarily have to be heavy…and that she could get just as much satisfaction & release by writing about how one of her friends (a bad one) farted (a really bad one) on her other friend (the sweet one) in a public place for no good reason whatsoever. she could write about that. and while EYE don’t find it terribly funny (i’m the sweet one)…she might.