Footed pajamas
Lullabies and funny tales
Hugs, tucks, and kisses.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Quickwrite: There's A Place...
Surrounded by 3&1/2 mauve, wall-like structures. I sit at the Dell keyboard and complete today's task. The screen at which I gaze is flat and stands upon a beige, speckled, desk-like surface attached to 2 of the "walls." Joining my virtual page on this surface are many different items I either need or should discard: mounds of papers from years of assigned tasks; organizers containing pencils, stickies, tape, scissors, markers, and more; outdated pictures of the two for whom I come to this desk each day; videotapes memorializing an initiative, reclaimed from someone's trash in hopes they'll be needed again; Mrs. Dash to flavor occasionally meals I bring; a mug for coffee rarely brewed; my purse, work bag, iPhone...
My thoughts begin the litany of reprimands I daily pile upon myself for continuing to exist this way in this space. Before I can go too far down the slippery slope to Why-Am-I-Still-Here-Ville, my internal conversation is interrupted by sound a couple cubicles behind me. Tuning in, I hear the secretary question my colleague to respond to a caller's request. Another colleague sneezes to my rear left, and 2 versions of blessings are called over other "walls."
As my brain, thirsty for some problem to delve into, begins looking for the files containing everything about the rituals surrounding sneezing, a message interrupts it's effortless flow. The vent diagonally above me is blowing a little more than my bare forearms appreciate. The hands at each end are growing cold; but, a glance down confirms thoughts that the nails aren't blue...yet. I wonder if the extra effort of lifting my nails higher than normal creates enough energy to prevent my fingers from growing too cold; my fingertips barely touch the keys due to my nail-length.
While I ponder the naked growths and edge close to a mild verbal pop for not taking the time to polish any of my exposed nails, I feel the beginning pangs of hunger. No odors have instigated this physical response. I haven't eaten since yesterday and need to refill. Not too much, though. Why take in more energy than I'll expend sitting here, entombed in this office-like structure?
My thoughts begin the litany of reprimands I daily pile upon myself for continuing to exist this way in this space. Before I can go too far down the slippery slope to Why-Am-I-Still-Here-Ville, my internal conversation is interrupted by sound a couple cubicles behind me. Tuning in, I hear the secretary question my colleague to respond to a caller's request. Another colleague sneezes to my rear left, and 2 versions of blessings are called over other "walls."
As my brain, thirsty for some problem to delve into, begins looking for the files containing everything about the rituals surrounding sneezing, a message interrupts it's effortless flow. The vent diagonally above me is blowing a little more than my bare forearms appreciate. The hands at each end are growing cold; but, a glance down confirms thoughts that the nails aren't blue...yet. I wonder if the extra effort of lifting my nails higher than normal creates enough energy to prevent my fingers from growing too cold; my fingertips barely touch the keys due to my nail-length.
While I ponder the naked growths and edge close to a mild verbal pop for not taking the time to polish any of my exposed nails, I feel the beginning pangs of hunger. No odors have instigated this physical response. I haven't eaten since yesterday and need to refill. Not too much, though. Why take in more energy than I'll expend sitting here, entombed in this office-like structure?
Monday, June 4, 2012
Ma Weeze's Kitchen
Picture it, Jersey City, 1976. (Yeah, I'm a typical product of the tele-sthized generation.) Looking back it couldn't have been more than 8'X10'. Even as a preschooler, I knew it was small. Ironically, I can't recall feeling hugely special anywhere other than that room - Ma Weeze's kitchen, where love was poured into me like sweet, rich hot chocolate on a bitterly cold winter day. Ceramic and metal pots and pans were tools used there to create edible tokens of love for me.
Ma Weeze, or my great-grandmother Louise, was my caregiver before I entered formal schooling. Under her skillful manipulation, dough would form into perfect texture, becoming clean circles with the aid of her deftly wielded drinking glass. Cooked to a golden brown and plated with syrup made by someone's aunt, the biscuits yielded every ounce of their buttery goodness to my waiting taste buds and warmed my belly in a manner only done at home.
Concomitant to the filling of my belly was the filling of my heart. Under Ma Weeze's adept execution of her love recipe, my world-worn tank would reach capacity, becoming symmetric and whole with the aid of her soft caresses and honey-coated words. Satiated to capacity and edified with wisdom made by decades of nurturing, my heart thrived under her care and elevated me from peon to princess in a manner only accomplished when the sole recipient of concentrated love.
Ma Weeze, or my great-grandmother Louise, was my caregiver before I entered formal schooling. Under her skillful manipulation, dough would form into perfect texture, becoming clean circles with the aid of her deftly wielded drinking glass. Cooked to a golden brown and plated with syrup made by someone's aunt, the biscuits yielded every ounce of their buttery goodness to my waiting taste buds and warmed my belly in a manner only done at home.
Concomitant to the filling of my belly was the filling of my heart. Under Ma Weeze's adept execution of her love recipe, my world-worn tank would reach capacity, becoming symmetric and whole with the aid of her soft caresses and honey-coated words. Satiated to capacity and edified with wisdom made by decades of nurturing, my heart thrived under her care and elevated me from peon to princess in a manner only accomplished when the sole recipient of concentrated love.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Full Circle
Tomorrow became a week. A week became a month. A month became two. Two months became tonight.
Tonight, I type and realize the end is about to connect with the beginning. Again, as I've done too many nights before, I resolve...tomorrow.
Tonight, I type and realize the end is about to connect with the beginning. Again, as I've done too many nights before, I resolve...tomorrow.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Thoughts on What's Trending Now
There are some quotes, statements, links or photos posted that just give me cause to pause. The Coretta Scott King funeral photo posted alongside the photo of Michelle Obama - one of those. Note the former pic memorializes a grieving WIDOW; although I understand the desire to view the Kings as the Black community's 1st family and thereby pair the two wives, each with her daughter laying on her lap, there is a message that is disturbing. With scriptures being ignorantly shared that wished curses upon the president a true Christian should never wish on her/his enemy...we've got to be more critical about the messages we relay. Find another pose. I'm sure there's one. Post that.
My more recent cause to pause...the photo of Emmett Till paired with that of Trayvon Martin. (DISCLAIMOR: BOTH OF THEIR MURDERS WERE SENSELESS SO PLEASE DON'T INTERPRET WHAT FOLLOWS AS A JUSTIFICATION OF EITHER.)
The posting of this sends a message of acceptance of the idea that wearing a hoodie in today's south (or wherever if you listen to the commentary) equates with whistling at a White woman in the south of the '50s. T'ain't necessarily so, folks. The latter was a violation of a widely known societal more. Whether or not a young visitor from the north knew that unwritten rule both existed and could cost him his life, Black men and women from the south were too aware and ensured their sons understood the behavioral expectations to prevent their being lynched.
To date, although Geraldo's media-seeking tweets and others justifications have implied wearing a hoodie while Black is a no-no, there has been NO unwritten rule about so doing that the masses of any community have communicated to their children. That being the case, Trayvon was not a naive young man in a foreign land unaware that he was violating a social norm by wearing a hoodie. There was nothing other than the perceived disparity between his race and location that made him a target.
To conclude this hastily written missive, a wife doesn't equal a widow and a teen murdered for unknowingly violating a more doesn't equate to a teen murdered just for being thought the wrong human in a given place. We just can't post messages that can be used to support agendas that are diametrically opposed to our intent and need to be a little more critical.
My more recent cause to pause...the photo of Emmett Till paired with that of Trayvon Martin. (DISCLAIMOR: BOTH OF THEIR MURDERS WERE SENSELESS SO PLEASE DON'T INTERPRET WHAT FOLLOWS AS A JUSTIFICATION OF EITHER.)
The posting of this sends a message of acceptance of the idea that wearing a hoodie in today's south (or wherever if you listen to the commentary) equates with whistling at a White woman in the south of the '50s. T'ain't necessarily so, folks. The latter was a violation of a widely known societal more. Whether or not a young visitor from the north knew that unwritten rule both existed and could cost him his life, Black men and women from the south were too aware and ensured their sons understood the behavioral expectations to prevent their being lynched.
To date, although Geraldo's media-seeking tweets and others justifications have implied wearing a hoodie while Black is a no-no, there has been NO unwritten rule about so doing that the masses of any community have communicated to their children. That being the case, Trayvon was not a naive young man in a foreign land unaware that he was violating a social norm by wearing a hoodie. There was nothing other than the perceived disparity between his race and location that made him a target.
To conclude this hastily written missive, a wife doesn't equal a widow and a teen murdered for unknowingly violating a more doesn't equate to a teen murdered just for being thought the wrong human in a given place. We just can't post messages that can be used to support agendas that are diametrically opposed to our intent and need to be a little more critical.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
The Definition of Insanity
Staring at the screen, thinking of you;
Wondering if I'm on your mind, too;
Pondering whether your eyes scroll my page;
Remembering us at a different age;
Imagining words too afraid to say...then.
Wishing opportunities came my way...now.
Dreaming realities seen only staring at the screen.
Wondering if I'm on your mind, too;
Pondering whether your eyes scroll my page;
Remembering us at a different age;
Imagining words too afraid to say...then.
Wishing opportunities came my way...now.
Dreaming realities seen only staring at the screen.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
My Red Pen
Idea after idea popped into my head during my commute this morning. Some of them strung together so fluidly I'd find myself cruising down paths of text. On each avenue, I'd lean back in my seat, relaxing into the ride. Without fail, each time, I'd be jolted upright by the sudden appearance of a big, red wall. Braking quickly to avoid impending collision, I'd begin looking for another road paved with thoughts from whatever ideas surfaced next.
As my ability to find new paths grew more and more futile, I surrendered to the need to confront the source of those walls, My Superego. This culprit is HUGE, walks loudly, and carries a red-ink stick. I tend to give in to it most of the time thereby leading a pretty cloistered life. This may be an asset for a single mom seeking to set a good example for daughters; however, for a novice writer attempting to develop prose, it's a major deficit.
The super-constructor of walls tells me: I can't write about that idea. Nope, can't write about that one, either. And, if I wrote about THAT one... After all, what are the moral/relational/emotional/legal/whatever-al implications!?
Enough! I've allowed my red pen to edit a lot of my life. This year, in this space, my written life will be free. I know the transition won't be easy; but, I'm looking forward to enjoying the ride!
As my ability to find new paths grew more and more futile, I surrendered to the need to confront the source of those walls, My Superego. This culprit is HUGE, walks loudly, and carries a red-ink stick. I tend to give in to it most of the time thereby leading a pretty cloistered life. This may be an asset for a single mom seeking to set a good example for daughters; however, for a novice writer attempting to develop prose, it's a major deficit.
The super-constructor of walls tells me: I can't write about that idea. Nope, can't write about that one, either. And, if I wrote about THAT one... After all, what are the moral/relational/emotional/legal/whatever-al implications!?
Enough! I've allowed my red pen to edit a lot of my life. This year, in this space, my written life will be free. I know the transition won't be easy; but, I'm looking forward to enjoying the ride!
Monday, January 2, 2012
A New Year, A New Venture...
I have no idea what the theme of this blog will be. All I know is I've been meaning to write, have purchased several books on writing over the past 2 years, and just have to start somewhere.
Some days this may just be a space for me to vent or question or share what I've learned. Other days it may be the spot on which a lyric or story idea or poem appears.
Whatever the case, I hope you come and pray you leave feedback in a respectful, edifying way. Who knows? Having YOU in my process may be just what I've needed.
So, hold me accountable to write; respond to what I write; and, we may be pleasantly surprised at what the next 363 days may bring.
Some days this may just be a space for me to vent or question or share what I've learned. Other days it may be the spot on which a lyric or story idea or poem appears.
Whatever the case, I hope you come and pray you leave feedback in a respectful, edifying way. Who knows? Having YOU in my process may be just what I've needed.
So, hold me accountable to write; respond to what I write; and, we may be pleasantly surprised at what the next 363 days may bring.
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