PODCAST CONVERSATION
where you been?
living.studying.reading.laughing.crying.building.destroying.
I honestly hadn’t realized it had been almost a year since I posted on my blog. Life… mercy.
Well, I picked up a Master’s in Africana Women’s Studies and now I am absolutely stupid happy that I am studying theatre again. Last semester I dipped my toe in an acting class to sharpen my chops and immediately fell in love with theatre again. why did I ever leave you? So I am aiming for a PhD in Theatre and Performance Studies. It’s necessary. It’s necessary to continue my interdisciplinary approach as well. It’s also necessary to stay creative. While getting my MA it was all work… no play. That’s not healthy for me. I know me.
It’s midterms so I actually need to finish up on some papers due by the end of the week. I promise to be back in touch in less than two weeks.
Fires Around Us
We should be choking on the flames. Skin stained from the soot.
Fields of fire / symbolizing fertility and future. Great blazes / competing with the sun.
We must re-direct their anger. Re-ignite and re-name their passion.
It’s not too late for mothering and macaroni and cheese. It’s not too late for an afternoon of fathering and fishing.
Parenting not partnering.
A Week Late, Dollars Saved
I am re-posting this for those who have goals of leaving their full time going into the New Year.
Just like in the movie, “Donnie Brasco”, Al Pacino’s character knew what “get sent for” meant. He had dinner with his wife, put his jewelry and money in a box and told her not to wait up for him tonight. I knew my last day of employment was coming. I could feel it. I could sense the detached nature from the next level of management. The comments of “I’ll call you right back” turned into “I’ll contact you in a few days.”
It had happened. Just like the laws of nature said it would! “All that we are is the result of what we have thought.” Six months earlier I had lunch with two of my colleagues and showed them copies of my poetry and short story book. They were floored! I went on to tell them that prior to me moving to Atlanta to take on my sisters children, I lived my life as an artist. I felt relief as I confessed to them that I am a writer of many facets. Now caring for a family, a ‘sure bet’ check is what I needed to settle into my new role as a parent. During our lunch together I shared with them that I would be leaving our employer before the hectic holiday season arrived to once again pursue my life as an artist. I showed them a countdown widget I downloaded on my cellphone that festively displayed how many more days I had left. They were shocked but very happy for me. I now had support from two women whom I admired and trusted.
I owed this same conversation with one of my managers who I’ve worked with since my first day with the company. A brilliant talent and inspiring leader, she worked her way through several positions in the company and excelled at them all. I brought her copies of my book and shared with her that was the “real me”. She was not surprised! She told me she could tell I had something else to me because of my colorful emails I would send out to the team about contests, etc. Since she had been with me from day one I wanted to let her know of my plans of leaving so she wouldn’t be blind sighted. To my surprise, she had plans of leaving too! As a matter of fact, I had to almost beg her not to leave before me and ask if we could agree to leave the same month. Wheesh! She agreed.
Poetry Video Post: “Like a Woman” by Annabelle Fern
“Pretty little baby, I have raised you like a woman… when you see the crocodiles you will come to your mother and we will laugh at them.”
Study shows women are happier without children or a spouse — Conversations Of A Sistah
The U.S. marriage rate has hit a record low, according to the Good Men Project. About 57% of adults got married 10 years ago, but only 51% are getting married now. Researchers think they know why. A new study shows women are happier when they don’t have children or a husband to go home to. That […]
via Study shows women are happier without children or a spouse — Conversations Of A Sistah
Hey Love — Daughter of the Urban Mind
I don’t want to keep talking about being in my feelings, writing about the things that hurt me the most. Physically and internally not being able to love and respect me enough is becoming a real burden. I mean like I do, but I don’t know how to sit with my sadness, issues, and shortcomings without talking a cloud […]
Remembering Medgar Evers Today – “A Prose for Medgar and Myrlie” by Nikki Skies
It landed on the kitchen table next to the watermelon. Like a Sunday newspaper on Thursday. Set aside for recycling. Or an abandoned spoon after dessert. It sat there foreign but familiar. Like an African American in America.
The carousel sang loudly. Drowned out the relief of parental duties. Playful screams resonated the atmosphere. Cotton candy decorated white faces pink and blue. Mustard stains on white t-shirts. Scraped knees caused by unattended shoelaces. The day was glee and the night carefree, as flying gravel spun under running feet.
Her bladder was full of miles like her mother’s. She watered the ground with chocolate auburn. The spices enticed the clouds to cry and capture the streets. She met him where the sun sat in the fire pit. He kissed her hand to summons a feather so she wouldn’t doubt his words. His eyes were complete like the turn of an owl’s head. The preacher announced their commitment where roads met corners with mirrors. He hung their picture in a birdcage to catch time. He told them not to be afraid.
The first season spread the hours like a bridge. He supplied water to dry, fallen branches daily. Believers of the unseen. She carried unicorns in her pockets. They wore audacious yellows and greens in a black and white world. Demanded freedom like 8 a.m. school bells. Unbalanced as thick as unjust. At night she placed sweet onions on his eyelids. He remained rooted. His tongue poignant from the aroma.
Dog’s were death’s best friend. Hydrants absent from fires. Hoses present at protests. Tilted buses full of spiritual songs. Northern boys with fresh fists. Southern boys with patched will. Northern girls with golden intuition. Southern girls with ancient maps. Laughter extinct. Spit like rain. Freedom rides. Spirits flew. Red summer. Blue years. Freedom wide. Hatred tall. Black bodies hung/ burned/ mutilated. Daylight tardy.
Soprano saxophone accompanied her screams. Vibrato in her hands. His head in her lap. His eyes meeting her’s was the prize. “Sit me up, turn me loose.” Abandoned from forever. She sat him up. Erect as pillars. Baroque rocked. Down. She sipped tea in China.
Scores for his name. His verses rhymed her forward. Her passion sweet as fruit. Seasoned. Made days wet cement. For imprints. Slops. Hills. Concrete with purpose. His remembrances sleep at our feet.
a prose from the book,
Dear Artists,
What My Mama Told Me — Black Feminist Collective
What my mama told me My mama told me to grow up And be beautiful like our sunset, But what she forgot to tell me Was to pack a gun for the world I was growing into had men with no scruples And no respect for women So before the sunset I had packed my […]
