What Fresh Hell Is This?: The Lisa Bolekaja Chronicles

Best Love Song For Me Right Now: Love Conversation (Jose James)

2012-01-13T19:43:00.000-08:00

Jose James makes me want to be in love again.

I was thrown under a bus last year for trying too hard with someone I've been in love with since my early 20's. The best gift he ever gave me was the blessing of being present with someone and digging their spirit in the now. It may sound easy, but it isn't. I've been bending time to get back to that feeling ever since.

But this song right here, man, if I can catch love again like the way Jose & Jordana sings these words, I'll go supernova. They sing what I've always wanted to say.

Go slow, move fast. I can't let you go. Duly noted.

"No, I didn't go to Crawford, So Please Stop Asking Me.": The Artemis Clique Bonfire 2011

2011-11-14T20:05:00.000-08:00

So I really did mean to take a lot more pictures at the bonfire party I hosted with my girls D.J. Kat, and Sabotaj. I really did. But at one point there were too many different people coming though.

I was so busy meeting, greeting, catching up with old friends, throwing wood on the fire, and changing movies I was showing against the side of the house with an LCD projector. (A heady mix of "The Mack", "Superfly", "Watts Stax", "Besouro" & "The Spook Who Sat By The Door".) I finally had to give up.

Caught a few shots in the beginning when people first started arriving, and then I was done. I cooked all the main food with help from the "Fruit Whisperer" Umoja who created this outrageous fruit plate that got gobbled up, and Sabotaj's mom who made a huge pot of Texas baked beans. We set up several chill out stations throughout the yard. The bonfire for folks who wanted to sit. Movies for those who needed visuals along with the music, and a cigar/smokers lounge. It really didn't matter if you didn't know anyone because there was enough stimuli to keep everyone entertained. A real grown folks party. We cut loose.

The best part of the night for me was seeing my cousin Michelle, and my sister Kim hang out. We did a fire ceremony at one point, and my sister pleaded with me not to "do any of your Voudoun/Choctaw stuff in front of people." She knows I'm out there at home, but I think she gets worried that people may think negative of things they don't understand. So I was good, until I threw sugar in the fire and made the flames jump out big in front of everyone. She just rolled her eyes at me.

The most annoying thing was this I guy I didn't know kept asking me if I went to Crawford and played B-Ball there. I said no several times throughout the evening. My cousin Michelle went to Crawford, so I assumed he was confusing me with her. But all night he was convinced I was a Crawford graduate. I tried not to make eye contact with him. But the more he drank, the more he was convinced I was lying to him. There just came a point in time where he would look over at me and I would just shake my head, or say "Nope!" real loud whenever he came my way.

The two funniest moments of the night for me was showing "Besouro", and a group of Sabotaj's male friends (who were checking out the flicks periodically in a huddle) noticed the lead character of that movie flying through some trees doing Capoeira. One asked aloud, "Is that negro flying in the air?" To which I said "Yes, yes he is." And as if on cue they all stare at the screen and say "Damn" at the same time. The other moment was showing "Superfly" and the famous bathtub scene comes on. And Ron O'Neal with his Lord Jesus hair is tearing it up. Sabotaj's mother was hanging out with us for a minute, and as soon as some big 'ol black T & A showed onscreen, she gave a yelp, and I called out to her "Look over here, I'll tap dance for you until it goes off." And then I literally tap danced until the scene ended. We cracked up. A fine ass naked black woman can really stop the show.

It was a fun night, and I'm looking forward to having another bonfire soon.

And no dang it. I never went to Crawford!

Medgar Evers & The Interrupters

2011-11-13T12:28:00.000-08:00

I ventured out in the rain with my mother to see the christianing of the new naval supply ship, the USS Medgar Evers at General Dynamics NAASCO yesterday. I wasn't about to miss the event, especially with his widow and children there. It was a very moving ceremony. The day before that I sat sipping white wine and enjoying a bowl of lobster bisque while President Obama watched a basketball game on another naval ship right across from me on Harbor Island.

As I was driving on Harbor drive, the President's plane flew over my car, and my friend Taj and I both laughed. "Here comes the President."

Right after the Medgar Evers ceremony I took my mother to brunch, then I headed downtown to catch a screening of the documentary "The Interrupters". It was filmed by the same guy who made "Hoop Dreams". I went from this high of, "Wow, history is awesome," to this fear that I was going to watch a film that would depress me. But in actuality, I came out of "The Interuppters" feeling ok. It's a disheartening flick, but I laughed a lot watching it and actually felt hopeful. It's two hours long and could use some editing (my same criticism I had for "Hoop Dreams" years ago). It's a fishbowl film. Basically you're a tourist to this deadly and dangerous side of Chicago.

What I really liked about the project was that every day people were taking the situation in their own hands and trying to mediate problems before they escalate. On one level it's an ass backwards way to deal with stuff, but the main feeling I took away from the film was that people, especially young people just want to be heard. They really just need adults to sit there and listen to them vent. On their level. Often, adults forget how serious things are to younger people that we consider petty.

I was lucky growing up because I was comfortable being a loner, and was not influenced by other kids. So it was easy for me to dodge bullshit with gangs, thugged out chicks ready to fight for no reason, and pot heads wanting to stay high or drink. My mom let me know there was a world OUT THERE that was bigger than just my block. And she took me out of my neighborhood every chance she could. And that is the key. There are kids who only see what is in one square block, and nothing else. And they get caught up in grimy shit, catch cases, beat downs, get knocked up young (even though protection is easily available, even to poor folks), and just lose out on life. Easily. Looking back, I am still amazed how easy it is for people to fuck up and never get back on track.

So I was very happy not to walk out of that film feeling down. I was disappointed that someone like Medgar Evers could put it down for us back in harder times and give up his own life. And yet today, with a black President, we still have people living foul. And the foulness at times is self-perpetuated. And grown people walk away from it. The mentality being, as long as my kids are doing okay, forget those other crumbsnatchers.

Sometimes it's hard to deal with children who are not your own. I have no children, but I tend to treat other people's kids as if they were mine. Even at my job where I am responsible for a lot of little people, every week I hear children from all backgrounds tell me that I act like I'm their mom. Ya damn skippy. If a child is in my space, (and I like for there to be peace in my space)regardless of their age, I feel responsible for what happens around them. Sometimes that may mean putting other adults in check if they are conducting themselves in a manor that is not for children to see.

I have a friend now who has neighbors that curse and talk crazy in front of their babies. The children are all under five years of age, and every time I swing by, I can hear them talk to these babies like they are sailors on leave. Verbal assaults that make me cringe. One time I came through and was about to go over and have a chat, but my friend asked me not to because she didn't want anything started. Clearly, my intention was not to walk over and start thumping in the street. But if the police are called to your house all the time, and you talk to children in such a course manner that they really think their first name is "Muthafucker!", another adult needs to say something. But I understand the fear. What if I walked over there and these chicks stabbed me? Or shot at my car? Called Pookie and 'nem to jump me? They obviously don't care what they do or say in front of their kids.

When my friend asked me not to approach them, I felt bad. I felt wrong at that moment for not standing up for little people who were really sweet and still had that innocent glow about them.

I had to remind my friend about the time I called the cops at my own apartment in Los Angeles where there were drug dealers across the street doing deals and making too much damn noise for my writer ears. The cops showed up and I walked right past them. The cops asked if I was the one who called. My friend stood there with me as I said loud and clear "Yep, I called, and that loud ass fool right there is called Big Mike." And we walked to my car, got in and went to rent some movies. When I came back, those jokers were gone, and no one on my block said shit to me cuz they knew that I would call 5-0. They didn't know me. Didn't know where I originated from. And they didn't say shit. Hell yeah I snitched, and named a name. And nothing happened.

Now I know it helped that one of he dudes who I called the po-po on was friends with an older roughneck who really liked me. A roughneck who used to roll up on me every week when I would be running with my dog and try to holla at me. For over twelve years! I could be walking in Leimert Park and this dude would be posted up with the other tricked out cars on Crenshaw. He'd see me and always spoke to me. I was cordial, but I kept my guard up. And other people would see me talking to him and wonder who I was. This guy was a hard brother. Had that formerly institutionalized feel about him. But he was funny, always polite, and always went out of his way to speak to me. Even though he knew I had a boyfriend, and saw me with him from time to time. So I suspect that even though I "snitched", nothing was going to happpen because I was this dude's "friend" somehow.

And that, in essence is what the "Interrupters" tries to show. Regular folks from the 'hood, stepping up and stalling shit out. I probably could've asked my admirer to ask those guys to move someplace else. But that wouldn't solve the problem. They would just be someplace else bothering someone else like me. Someone who wouldn't call the police.

Looking back on Saturday I think we've come a long way. Hearing Myrlie Evers, Medgar's widow, tell the audience that she could finally release her husband after all these years, and then seeing a film that would make Medgar sad. But hopeful. Like me.

And next time I go to my homegirl's house, and those hard chicks start calling their children out of their names. I'm going to say something. With a whole lot of love behind it.

Bonfire Music

2011-11-05T17:49:00.000-07:00

Sat around the bonfire with my Artemis clique last weekend. (D.J. Kat, Sabotaj, and my self NDN RED.)

We played music and tripped about how certain songs will take us back in time. Sipping on some Grand Marnier, this cut reminded me of how happy I was to see an old friend back home.

I may have to have that Ipod party after all because the whole night we kept screaming "Oh my God, ya'll remember this cut?...this one?....and this one!!!!"

I'm still getting text and email notes from folks who enjoyed the bonfire bash we had back in October. They are ready for a new one already.

Little Dragon

2011-11-05T17:47:00.000-07:00

Nice to find new music. Thanks Kathy!

All Saints Day and The Black Power Mixtape 1967-1975

2011-11-01T09:33:00.000-07:00

My grandmomma was raised on a reservation
My great-grandmomma was, from a plantation
They sang - songs for inspiration
They sang - songs for relaxation
They sang - songs, to take their minds up off that
fucked up situation
I am... yes I am... the descendant (yes yes)
of those folks whose, backs got broke
who, fell down inside the gunsmoke

From Mos Def's Rock N Roll (now known as Yassin Bey)

The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.

Lovers don't finally meet somewhere,
they're in each other all along.

From Essential Rumi
by Coleman Barks

Blackness is Rocket Fuel
From Gary Hardwicke's Speech to The Organization of Black Screenwriters

Woke up this All Saints morning tripping off my dreams. I kept thinking of Rumi and the Black Power Mixtape. Probably because I was telling a co-worker about the film yesterday, and at midnight I was reading my favorite Rumi poems to help me sleep.

In my lucidity, I dreamt of my blackness. How much it means to me to have dark matter inside my spirit. I spend so much time living day to day, figuring out how to live in the moment that I have to do a Sankofa trip every now and then to remember and to strengthen my resolve to be.

Driving to work yesterday, KPFK was playing snippets of the film I just saw last week, and they replayed Angela Davis speaking in prison, Kwame Toure talking to his mother, and Talib Kweli telling the story of how in 2001 he was stopped from getting on a Jet Blue plane by the Feds, the CIA and the airline simply because he was listening to the speeches of Stokely Carmichael (Kwame Toure) from forty years ago! And as Talib says, black rappers sing about killing each other, dogging out black women, and just reveling in corrupt behavior every day, but he gets escorted away for listening to a man talking about self-determination. WTF?

Listening again to the film just hit me hard. All those folks who stood up to bullshit. They are the real saints on this All Saints Day. I'm telling you right now, I don't think I would've made it back then, and I grew up on the tail end of the movemnet, and out in California which is a fantasy land. Like the Mos Def a.k.a. Yassin Bey song, I'd be the black folk who fell inside the gunsmoke. And what gets me is, black Americans are still here, still doing what they do after all that...shit. Amazing. There are people in the world today who kill each other over centuries of beef, and yet black Americans during and prior to the mixtape years, get along with everybody for the most part. We used to laugh about black American folks being the most forgiving folks and most accepting of crap on the planet. We take shit and turn it into shinola. We're a winner, as Curtis Mayfield sang.

So this morning I ordered a copy of the Black Power Mixtape 1967-1975 for myself. It's a keeper. It re-tells for me the first love story I ever heard and sought to protect. The love that black people really have for life when we grab a hold of it in ourselves. A talisman of sorts to remind me of what I have to be grateful for today. The skin I'm in. The amalgamation of the black, the red, and yes, the white. Which makes me a nice round brown. Heh heh.

All power to the people. Sho-nuff. Ya dig? Right on.

The Witching Hour: All Hallows Eve

2011-10-30T19:13:00.000-07:00

After reading scripts all day, and sneaking in a movie at a theater, I sit back to relax with some scary movies alone. Horror has been my first love in fiction and film, and as it nears the witching hour for Halloween, I await the allotted time when European tradition dictates that the dead, demons, et al. are allowed to roam free for the night. Technically tommorrow night, before the day of the dead, All saints day.

Despite it's scary origins, this is actually a powerful time of year, and so I will revel in my aloneness, give my dog intsructions to scare away the beasties that go bump in the night, and prepare for another work week. I just ordered the complete DVD collection of Boris Karloff's "Thriller" series, and slowly devour with my eyes more short story collections as I re-visit the feeling of being scared of monsters.

It has been a long time since I have been really scared, but I will pull out my copy of H.P. Lovecrafts's "The Color Out of Space", or perhaps my signed copy of Clive Barker's Books of Blood and re-read the short story that inspired the Candyman movie with Tony Todd. Maybe I'll watch the pilot episode of The Night Gallery with Ossie Davis and Roddy McDowall, or better still, Shirley Jackson's filmed version of "The Haunting".

Whatever I do, it will be in the spirit of the scary season. And I will be brave, and wide-eyed like I used to be as a child. Curled up with a blanket and my down-filled pillows.

In the dark.

Alone.

Heh, heh.

She Made It Reign On Them Hoes

2011-10-08T14:48:00.000-07:00

The title of this is actually the title of the short story that came to me in a dream the other night. It's a play on the words "rain" and "reign". I spent the day at Lestat's with Taj writing and actually told her about my dream.

At first she laughed when I told her that I dreamed I was in an outerspace strip club and what happens when a junkie uses his girlfriend to make money to get an interstellar fix. I love pitching my stories to Taj. She senses the humor and the pathos in a lot of my work, and always asks great questions to help me clarify my thoughts.

We have this private clique called the Artemis Society. They are all my female friends who don't have children, who grew up as tomboys, and love speculative fiction and films. I was happy to be able to take a picture inside the Vatican with one of their sculpters of Artemis, my favorite Goddess in Roman/Greek mythology. (She's also known as Diana). This particular statue reminds me of myself and my dog Ripley. It also serves as a symbolic metaphor for one of the characters.

I love writing in my coffee shop. I dig the noise, the aromas, and the odd ducks that wander in at any moment. And it's perfect that they are open 24 hours, so when I can't sleep or write in bed, I can get out and zone into my stories.

And in case you're wondering about the stripper in my dream strip club. Well, she doesn't strip per se. She sort of molts on stage. She's transhuman and she makes it rain in the club, but not the way the men expected.

The Fiction of Science: Afrofuturism & Cindi Mayweather

2011-07-09T19:59:00.000-07:00

See how the black rays of the black race
Have touched the immeasurable wisdom
And therefore the unknown quantity
See how they are not understood
Because as they are is not understood
And as what they know is what they are
See the unlimited freedom of the black rays.(Sun Ra)

If the Oankali from Octavia Butler's Xenogenesis trilogy came to earth with their Ooloi and took genetic material from Butler, Prince, James Brown, Sun Ra, Grace Jones, Jimi Hendrix and Betty Davis (Miles Davis' former wife), then you would probably get Janelle Monae, a.k.a. Cindi Mayweather.

After listening to her Archandroid album for the umteenth time, I realize that I need to make a decision if I want to go back to school and study world mythology with serious intensity, or continue to cut and paste my interest with my writing and screenwriting. I would love to create my own degree in Mythological Afrofuturism. I like school for purely intellectual reasons. I don't want to pay for it or waste time on academic bullshit that has nothing to do with my interests. (I should just audit classes and pretend to be a regular student) Or, I may just write my own manifesto and just share my work like some Platonic Griot. Some outlier blogging to an omniverse that may or may not be ready for some serious Afrofuturism.

As a writer of speculative fiction (everything from Sci-fi, horror, and dark fantasy)I get really frustrated with trying to create alternative ways of seeing the world, and having to deal with people in the slow lane who want the same vanilla films and TV and music. I have my peeps at The Black Science Fiction Society, and every year I flock to Michael Davis's Black Panel at the Comic Con to find my tribe of fringe dwellers. What kills me the most are black producers I meet who want to create the same silly "black" films, with the same dull black actors. They play it safe and small. No vision, no balls (or clits in some cases.) Silly comedies. Melodramas. Unoriginal thugnasty shit. Yawn.

Maybe I'll do like Janelle and create my own alter ego. Well, I actually did awhile back. Originally when I was going to do a blog, I was going to write under another name I created. I may still do it, but I won't share it here. There are some things I need to say, but I don't want folks to know it's me just yet.

I'm getting my portfolio together for the Clarion Science Fiction Workshop to apply for next year, and I'm in dire need of cosmic inspiration to help me muddle through bland ideas and concepts. My friends over at the Black Science Fiction Society have been great supporters and cheerleaders. So it's nice to know I have Fringe Fam in the world.

I'll just be like Sun Ra, do my thing for the thing's sake and nothing else. Which I do anyway.

Mi Familia Italia

2011-07-09T15:45:00.000-07:00

In two weeks I will be back in Italy with my family. Not only that, I am praying that my baby sister cooks me this dish again. I am so hungry just looking at this photo I took awhile back. Bow tie pasta with salmon, caviar, and a rich cream sauce. Yum. And a large glass of white wine. Lord I hope I run into that fine ass Italian I met in Florence.

Romancing Lisa (Part 1)

2011-06-15T12:44:00.000-07:00

Been gone for a minute. Enjoying my summer break doing nothing. Ok, well, not really nothing. Every morning/afternoon I go run/walking near the zoo. I meditate and listen to new music. Going through a new vegetarian cookbook that my boss loaned me. Finally got a green curry recipe that I actually like. Walk my dog when she isn't boring holes into my face when my nose is in a book and not staring at her.

I've been having more lucid dreams. This typically occurs when I'm birthing new stories and poems. I woke up this morning dreaming about my trip to Dallas some time back, and it inspired me to experiment with something.

Here goes:

So while in Texas with my friend Taj, she had me cracking up with her invisible boyfriend. When we would leave her house to go out she would yell into the house, "We'll be back later." Or when we returned, she'd say "Honey, I'm home." I'm like, "What are you doing?" At first I thought she had made peace with some duppies in her house. I do that when I am in a new space and I don't know the energy yet, so I often smack my hands together, wave them around the space and give a prayer. I have always done that for each apartment I've lived in, or any living space I occupy temporarily.

Taj explained, "I'm talking to my future boyfriend. I'm creating the space for him to manifest for real."

Now Taj and I are on that level. We met in college in a cinematography class, sharing notes on "The Blue Angel" and "Citizen Kane", while also cultivating our writing, poetry and all things blue black and "out there". I remember being 19 and so thrilled that there was another Black chick who made altars in her apartment too. We clicked as friends. Taj is like my twin. Nothing weirds us out. So her talking to a man that didn't exist yet was not strange.

She told me she had gone to a lecture and there was a woman there who had told people to talk to their home as if their future partner was actually there. The old, whatever your mind can conceive can be manifested in reality stuff. While I was in Texas, I wrote a short story based on Taj called "Bridgette Strawberry Conjurs Her Man". It's a light fantasy story. Not my usual dark, twisted shit. The character is named after a girl crush I had on this 9th grader I had in a cooking class when I was in the 7th grade. Bridgette was so awesome to me with her jheri curl afro, her laugh and her confidence. We both liked the same boy, Shannon Holiday (I can't believe I remember his name). It was the only time I remember never being jealous of another girl who was after the same boy I was. Bridgette was so cool, I was willing to concede defeat if Shannon dug her, and I wouldn't be mad. I decided to honor my memory of Bridgette by naming her in this instant story that popped outta my head in Texas.

When I got back to Diego, I started thinking about conjuring up my own man. I wanted to be very specific this time because I have a very bad habit of accepting guys who have glaring flaws that I overlook because I want to give brothers a chance. A huge flaw I have is that I don't go with my relationship intuition when I know I should. I know it's because I don't have any real faith in men. Which is a terrible thing to say. Not all men, but men that I tend to like.

So now I'm going to start dating myself, as if I were a guy going out with...me. I'm going to call this summer experiment to amuse myself, "Romancing Lisa". What I will do is write about activities I'm doing, pretending to be the guy, and look at myself from the outside. And I will write about myself in the third person, and track what it is that I'm trying to attract. I'm not looking for a permanent boyfriend, I want to give that shit a rest. (At least for the moment) Just someone to kick it with on occasion, because I do need to have those male pheromones around me. Specifically, this is what I want:

1.Someone who can make me laugh. A lot.
2.A vegetarian who is not judgemental of others who aren't.
3.Someone in shape.
4.Someone smart.
5.A reader.
6.A traveller.
7.A cinefile who enjoys foreign films. (who doesn't say shit like "I gotta read the movie?")
8.Someone politically astute.
9.Someone not afraid to salsa, even if they aren't good.
10.A foodie (a la Anthony Bourdain)
11.A swimmer.
12.Someone who can cook.
13. Masculine in that, "I know you can handle yourself, but I got your back, baby," way.
14.Someone who I can be in a room with and not speak to all day sometimes.
15.An animal lover.
16.A person who likes being outdoors.
17.Someone who can still be silly like a kid.
18.A guy who likes horror, sci-fi, and everything else.
19.Into world music. Open to any new sounds, no matter how strange.
20.Sexy in an understated way.
21.Someone who meditates.
22.Someone who just gets better with age.
23.Someone who knows what a sommelier is.
24.Great eyes.
25.Loves nature.
26.Spiritual in a way that suits them and complements me.
27.Someone that makes my face light up when I see them or hear their name. Making me feel like everyday is Christmas.
28.A great kisser and everything-elser.
29.Someone who will read me bedtime stories and poetry.
30.Someone who will make me soup when I am sick. And feed me.
31.Someone who can say my name and make it sound like music.
32.Someone not afraid to be corny on occasion.
33.Someone who will watch Twilight Zone marathons with me, even though we've seen every episode.
34.Someone who sees God in me.
35.Someone who is a friend of my mind.

Okay, looking at this list, I realize I really just want me with a dick.

So the challlenge is on. Romancing Lisa. Romancing myself. Lisa the conjur woman. Conjuring up magic.

I did go out on Monday, so I will write about that as my first "date". Taj was with me, so I'll count that as a group outing. I'll share that first date in Part 2. I'll call it "Romancing Lisa Part 2: Bingo at Urban Mo's"

She Love Like....

2011-05-21T21:49:00.000-07:00

Hmmm, meditate on this.

Happy Birthday to my Ego and My Soul. Song Dedications to Me

2011-04-10T08:40:00.000-07:00

Woke up feeling content this morning. I spent the day out and about yesterday with my artist James taking photos for "Skin" and discussing the tone and landscape of my project.

As I left James at the beach after four hours of creative work, I started thinking about what it means to be happy. I'm walking through Mission Beach and wondering when I have ever been happy. I've had fleeting moments of happiness, and there are distinct moments where I have felt in touch with the divine in myself, but those moments were far too rare.

I am a melancholy baby. But I did admit to myself that I experience happiness when I travel, or when I am near water on warm sunny days. I spent a moment sitting on the cement wall at the beach, listening to the waves and people watching. Thinking. Is happiness a destination, or just a feeling. Do I pursue it, or does it just happen? I know there are people who make me instantly happy when I am around them. But I don't see them much anymore. At least not lately. (One I will see in a few weeks)

I also know there are times when I make myself feel happy by being my creative self, or swimming, or driving around looking at scenery when I make road trips to anywhere.

Then it hit me. Just digging me, myself, makes me smile. How red my skin gets when I bake in the sun. The way my hair is wavy, curly, and straight in some places when it locks and does its own thing without me touching it. How I'm slightly bow-leggged. How my feet look big and oddly dainty at the same time. How soft my hands are. How laughter bubbles up out of me, loud, deep, and unapologetic. How I love beauty in the world and rejoice to be near it. That's when I get it. I forget how fly I really am. How the older I get, the better I get. I am my own best thing. There is no shame in occasionally feeling your own being. And to quote one of my own poems, I lay upon myself and I'm renewed. Again, and again, and again.

So I'm dedicating two songs to myself on this day of my birth. The first is a song from my childhood, that up until four years ago, I could not remember the name of it or the artist. I would be in Trader Joe's or Whole Foods and this song would come on, and I'd ask people, "Who sings this?" I'd hear this and think about my old red bike with the banana seat and streamers on the handle bars. Rolling down K street with the wind in my hair, pretending I was on Pegasus. It's "Right Down The Line". This song is from my Ego to my Soul. For having my back when there were times I didn't think anyone did.(How fitting Gerry Rafferty was an April baby too. He just passed away recently this year)

The second song is "She's Amazing". This is from my Soul to My Ego. Because yesterday I reminded myself that I am all that. And who feels it, knows it.

"Skin" & "Don't Dig Too Deep"

2011-03-31T22:59:00.000-07:00

My artist James Clark and I are putting my "Skin" graphic novel together. I'm going for a suburban black gothic horror slant. I'm using parts of my childhood neighborhoods to create this terrain of fear. And we are still working on a look for the characters, especially my Soucouyant and Duennes.

The cool thing about James is that this dude can draw anything in any style, which friggin' rocks. But then I had a dream last night, woke up at 3 a.m. to sketch out the plot points of the nightmare I had, and came up with a new short story I'm calling "Don't Dig Too Deep", based on an actual event that happened to me when I was eight or nine. The cool thing was that I asked my subconscious to bring me another story while I slept. Made sure I had a glass of water by my head to allow some spirits to get through to me, and viola, I wake up and scribble the images as fast as I could. Made sure I had the pen a paper near my pillow to transcribe it all.

"Don't Dig Too Deep" comes from when my cousin and I were digging a hole in my backyard to make a mini swimming pool for our feet. We dug this hole and were going to line it with plastic bags and fill it up with water. Stick our feet in and chill in the summer sun, eating tangerines from my tangerine tree. But then this neighbor kid I knew named Jerry came walking by the alley that was next to my house and says to me, a very impressionable girl, "Hey, don't dig too deep or the devil may pop out."

Now Jerry was known to tell me crazy stuff that I would somehow believe, even though I knew better. He used to walk by and say, "Y'know if you take chicken bones and bury them, you'll grow chickens." Shit like that.

So his cute dimpled ass walks off leaving me and my cousin gaping at this hole we dug up. We covered it back up, and all that night, I stood in my pajamas staring out my bedroom window into the backyard. Staring at that damn hole I tried to refill, and praying that the great Satan wasn't going to crawl out and drag me down to hell. Just cuz I had the brilliant idea of making my own mini-pool. Which ended up being a huge puddle of mud anyway. I watched for two nights straight until I convinced myself that Jerry was lying. Again. But I prayed extra hard at night to be sure.

So essentially "Don't Dig Too Deep" relives my little horror. But in my fictional story, something does come out of that hole. And something goes down into it too. I will finish it this weekend, and try for another dream induced story on Saturday night.

These are some sketches by James for my project. We plan to get crackeing full time in the next week.

Enjoy.

(And Jerry, wherever you are, I hope you don't sleep well tonight. And no, you can't grow a hot dog tree by burying Oscar Meyer weiners in the ground. Tried that shit and it didn't work. I knew it wouldn't but I did it anyway.)

“No, I’m Not Gay, But Thanks for Asking”: The Making of a Fuck You Woman Part 2

2011-03-27T00:13:00.000-07:00

How I Beat Up My Sister’s Father at Age 10 or What Had Happened Was…

My mother tells me all the time that I was the perfect baby, and a great little girl. I was quiet, self-sufficient, and obedient. Cute. Inquisitive. Funny. Smart. Sensitive. Soft-hearted. Full of energy and imagination. She says this to me every time we talk about the old days back in Logan Heights. She sighs sometimes and will say that she wished my sister was like me. Not so demanding and whiny. Sickly. Dependent.And inevitably she will say, “But then you hit puberty and turned moody and kinda mean sometimes. Surly.”

When I ponder this, I always come to the same conclusion. Puberty had nothing to do with the moodiness and “meaness”. It was a direct response to domestic violence. Children get sick and tired of being sick and tired. Just like adults. There was a tipping point when I turned ten. I was still all those great things my mother admired about me, her first born. However, there were too many nights when I lost sleep because of her battles with my sister’s father Lee. Two broken jaws (My mom’s jaw was so busted she’d had her mouth wired twice. I remember her sipping soup with a straw through a small opening in the wire. She looked like the bad guy Jaws from the James Bond movie). Bruises. Black eyes.

Sometimes I would tire myself out all day playing so I would be too exhausted to be awakened in the night. My mother was so fair-skinned that there were days I would wake up and discover her face was a different shade of the rainbow. Not all the time. The violence was random and had huge gaps of time between them. A lot of it stemmed from my sister’s father being an alcoholic. He had his demons. He was twelve years older than my mother, and had lived through some harsh times. Many people try to drink or smoke their pain away. Every day he woke up to a breakfast of sausage, eggs, and a vodka with orange juice. He was a functional alkie. And on the good days, he was a fun drunk. Affectionate and funny. But the bad days turned my mother’s face into a Picasso canvas.

And he would always apologize when he did wrong. Always. As if apologizing erased everything he’d done. And like a good girl, I would accept it. Kinda like playing with my etch-a-sketch. You make some crazy-assed squiggles, then you shake it up and everything’s gone. Back to normal.

But shit gets old after awhile.

This is how it went down.

My mother never lived with my sister’s father. He had his house and we had ours. (Thank God) I liked visiting him at his house sometimes because he owned his own auto garage, and had this huge lot that I would ride my bike in. I hated when he came to our house, because that sometimes precipitated a domestic squabble later. It created anxiety in me if he stayed over too long. I have always been deeply intuitive (Even though I am hard-headed and don’t always go with my gut when I should). I knew exactly when discord would pop off.

On this occasion, we had a barbecue at his house. Friends with their children came over. My cousin Michelle and her parents. Neighbors. Lee’s customers. And like most of our family cookouts, there was music, spades, good humor and tons of food. Especially my mother’s potato salad.

The potato salad becomes important in just a moment.

Instinctively I knew that the day would not end well. My mother didn’t drive our ’65 Chevy to his house. He picked us up. That meant that we could only leave when he was ready to take us home. Also, he was already nice and tight when he got us. (This was before M.A.D.D. and mandatory seat belts. How I am alive today is a veritable miracle. Everyone drank and drove. Of course, cars were made out of real metal back then, not plastic sheeting.) And the barbecue ran long. I was ten and could run all day, but if children get tired of playing with each other, wrap it up.

I was fraught with tension in my stomach. I kept praying that my mother would get us a ride home with my cousin Michelle or one of our neighbors who lived next door. Nope. If it got too late, we would have to spend the night and I hated that. I liked being in my own space at night. My books, my toys, my dog, my bed.

Lee started showing signs of his demons. Something Wicked this way comes for real. When my mother finally asked to leave, he still wasn’t ready. It got late. Dark. Maybe nine or ten at night. Everyone else had long gone. Finally, my Mom packs up some food and us. We are going to walk home. Picture me with my mouth open like a damn fish. Walk, at night, in this neighborhood?

We walk outside, my mother carrying a bag of food, her purse, and dragging my sister by the hand. I’m following and carrying her container of potato salad, and my copy of Stephen King’s “Carrie”. Lee gave me that book himself. He was the person who gave me my first adult book to read the year before. It was his well-worn copy of “Jaws”. My first book without pictures.

Lee came at my mother. Like he was going to grab her and do some damage. And the Fuck You Woman came outta me like Oya the Orisha of hurricanes. I took my mother’s container of potato salad and that Stephen King paperback and beat his ass. My hands were like gale force winds striking his skull, his chest and his groin. Potato salad flew everywhere. My book was ripped to shreds. This man made the mistake of showing me how to box like Muhammad Ali. All those years of play boxing turned me into the anti-Karate Kid. I whooped his black Mr. Miyagi ass. My mother finally pulled me away. I was standing over him like that famous Ali boxing photo. The one where he looks down on his opponent. One glove poised and ready. I was wishing he would stand up so I could knock him back down again. Yeah, Frankenstein, look at your creation. Look what you done did.

My heart was beating so fast. I remember how hot I felt, and how I could feel my blood throbbing in my veins. I was probably crying. I do know I was really mad that I messed up my favorite crème-colored pant suit with the salad.

And Lee just sat there. Looking up at me and panting, saying, “Ok, you’re ok.” He sat there while my mother moved me. And I kept looking back at him. My body was moving forward with my Mom, but my head and eyes were looking back. Scared, perhaps, that he would rebound and whoop me now that my energy was spent. I was so tired. So tired. Like I had lived an entire lifetime in ten years. How do you love someone and hate them at the same time?

The complexity of that is too much for a girl-child who has beat up a grown man. (So forgive me mother if I became a little salty after that.)

On that day, I learned not to trust anyone. I learned to hate confrontations. I learned to hate the raising of voices in anger. I learned that the people closest to you can hurt you the most. And I didn’t like that. That meant that I wasn’t free anymore. Free to be a little girl. Now I had to be champion, protector, and warrior for my mother and my sister. My mother was a grown woman, and I didn’t trust her judgment to protect me from monsters.

Growing up loving horror movies and scary stories taught me that sometimes boogeymen (and women) aren’t make believe. They were often real people that you knew. In my mind I had become the real-life version of the original Freaky Friday movie with Jodi Foster. I had traded places with my mother, but the exchange was permanent. I was forced to think like an adult in a child’s body. Every man my mother dated after that, I had to act like Wayne Brady on the Chappelle show, “Is Lisa B. gonna have to beat a hoe?”

Soon after that incident, I began having recurring dreams of putting my mom and sister someplace safe, leaving them, and flying off somewhere by myself. I was always flying alone. The two of them were like an albatross around my neck. But always, always, place them in a safe spot, and go away. Like I couldn’t be with them and be free. Those dreams were constant until I moved away from them.

How I Averted Another Beat Down at 16, But Not at 25 or What Had Happened This Time Was…

Being a Fuck You Woman was no joke. In high school I did have to put my mother’s other boyfriend in check. He actually told my mother he thought I was a little too rough around the edges for his tastes. Not quite stating aloud he thought I was gay, but inferring to her that I was a little too mannish. Not overtly girly like his nieces. Just because I ate as much food as he did and didn’t jump when he wanted. I hated him. I had this innate feeling that he was competing with me for my mother’s attention. He was a grown ass mama’s boy.

One day he got drunk at his family thanksgiving gathering and threatened to shoot everybody up with a gun. Well he said everybody. But he was looking at me because I had the nerve to want to go home. I told my mom that I’d rather eat spaghetti o’s and watch the Twilight Zone marathon than be around this fool’s dysfunctional non-family eating slave food. I must’ve had that look in my eyes because my mother allowed me to walk home to my Twilight Zone marathon. I was sixteen, tall, and more agile than when I was ten. Perhaps she didn’t want me to catch a case.

Before I left, I took the watch my mother gave him and smashed it with a hammer. I was channeling my anger for my mother’s sake. Shoot me muthafucker? Take that you stupid watch. Ok, not as dramatic as a beat down, but I swear, I stood outside vacillating between punching him, or the watch. Man or watch? Damn, decisions, decisions. Another beat down would make me miss the Twilight Zone marathon. Watch it is. Smash. I’m out bee-atches. When he found out about the watch, I had to tell the mama’s boy he was lucky it wasn’t his face.

My last poignant Fuck You Woman moment was my ex-husband. He had some issues that he couldn’t cope with, and he had no faith in himself. I had known him since I was eighteen. He was way older than me, and I couldn’t fathom why he couldn’t get his act together, especially with me rooting him on.

He was recently out of the service, and didn’t do any of the things I suggested he do to prepare himself for a competitive job market. And when you fail to plan, you plan to fail. He was unemployed and living off me. Which is a huge no-no. I will support you if you are making an effort to better yourself. He was not. And when you can’t evolve and have my back, I turn into rubber and bounce.

I also found out he was selling my music behind my back. (I had a great music library, both in vinyl and cassettes. I was just beginning to obtain a nice Jazz and World music catalogue. Then shit started disappearing. Where is my Sun Ra? Gilberto Gil? What happened to that “Bitches Brew” album I just picked up? WTF?) I confronted him about it. I still had empathy for him and his unemployment situation. Was trying to be the good and supportive wife. Acting against my own intuition and ignoring my Orishas and lucid dreams that told me that I was the only one I was waiting for. Stuck on stupid. But if a man steals from you to buy shit he ain’t got no business buying while you slaving all day…

I was walking away from him while he was shaving in the bathroom. And this cat says something that causes me to stop, turn around, and put him into his right mind via bitch slap. He didn’t say anything that was monumental. It was just the tone. The way he said it. Something to the effect that what I say won’t make a difference. We were married so my music was his too, blah, blah. Then he tried to push me out of the space. He wasn’t finished talking when I backhanded him into the medicine cabinet. With my eyes, I saw his mouth moving, and his arm shoving me. In my head I heard, “Release the Kracken!” I didn’t go Tasmanian on him. But he knew I was SERIOUS.

Later I felt ridiculous. Really? Yeah, he hurt my feelings by stealing from me and not being the man I needed him to be, but opening a can of whoop ass for another weak man? I’m bigger than that.

That night I did him like my female Choctaw ancestors did on this side of the big water. I put his stuff outside nicely and told him to go home to his people. No discussions. No working it out. Fool me once. Peace.

The Fuck You woman is a beast. She will not let you compromise. She will make you hurt people’s feelings if you are killing your own soul. So I’ve learned to say what I mean and mean what I say. And if it comes off butch. Test me.

However, don’t get it twisted. I am not in a constant state of being ready to jump people if they mess up. The incidents I went through were extreme cases. I am always very cautious about people, especially men. I try to read people quickly and diffuse potential trouble peacefully. I am the last person who wants to see public or private trouble escalate. It’s kinda like how people who practice martial arts master the fighting, but then learn not to use the fighting skill. The mastery of the skill is really the mastery of the ego.

I still get mad at people, or pissed off at times when someone is fucking up. But I channel negative thoughts from my ego and try to figure out what the real lesson is in the moment of discord and disharmony. I vent a lot. Use yoga a lot. Meditate a lot. Go to the beach to talk to Olokun and Yemanja a lot. Smoke acid blonde cigars and commune with Papa Legba and my Egungun a lot. When the Fuck You Woman comes out now, it’s my words that duke it out. I can eviscerate folks with my tongue. Or a look.

And this vibe is what I think people, especially men who have problems with me, pick up on if they think I’m gay. I may not ever be a lady, but I’m always hetero Woman.

My friend Sankofa says that I just dominate any situation that I find myself in. Assertive perhaps in a masculine way. I always think I sit back in the cut and warm up to people slowly, but she says it’s just a part of who I am. A force of nature I guess. My male friends are cool with it. None of them think I’m gay. Bold, maybe. A filthy Millie Jackson/Richard Pryor mouth when I’m letting loose and having fun. Occasionally dramatic to make a point.

Personally, I think I’m just gender neutral and have extra testosterone. Nothing wrong with that. (And I was sooooo happy when I met my tatted up paternal baby sister Liga, and found out she was a Fuck You Woman too.)

So, no I’m not gay, but thanks for asking.

No, I'm Not Gay But Thanks for Asking: The Making of a Fuck You Woman Part 1

2011-03-21T21:54:00.000-07:00

Recently a good friend of mine told me that another person was asking her if I was gay. We laughed about it because back in November, at her family’s thanksgiving dinner, her brother asked about me. “Is Lisa gay?” He’s known me for years, has seen me in two long-term hetero relationships, has witnessed me hound huntin’ in my single gaps in the crowds we both know, and yet he still felt the need to query his sister. Perhaps it was the fact that unlike my friends other homegirls who give out sisterly hugs when they greet him (and ask about what he’s into and other personal stuff), I gave him some dap, grabbed a glass of wine, and asked what was cooking on the stove.

This is not new to me. I have had two friends whose ex-husbands have both accused me of being gay and a bad influence on their wives. One was actually terrified when I got divorced eons ago because I guess in his mind, I would be out roaming the shadowy streets trying to swoop off with his wife. Who eventually left his monkey ass anyway because he was an asshole. A close friend of mine had a boyfriend tell her that he was not comfortable with her staying at my apartment when she was thrown out of a relative’s house over some bullshit. Mind you, her boyfriend did not offer to have her stay with him and his parents (who he was still living with), but he was upset and uncomfortable with me being a 20-year-old with my own apartment, a car, a job, and no man to answer to.

Now I have always been a tomboy. Proud of it. My mother dressed me girly and I rolled with it because I had to. (She was buying my clothes after all). I preferred pants, shorts, a comfy pair of chucks, or some trustworthy sandals. I loved boys. Tony Jackson and his brother James from around the corner. Blonde ass Fane Stevenson who I thought was a little white boy until I saw his brown-skinned daddy one day with his white mother. (He was a mean little fuck, but I adored him anyway.) Boy Tracy who had a red afro. (There was a girl Tracey, so we always said boy or girl before their names so there was no confusion). Derrick Turner and Roland Smith. The list can go on and on through jr. high and high school. No one had ever accused me or questioned my sexual preference until after I graduated high school and went to college. As far as I was concerned, I was a regular sistah. In love with Michael Jackson. And Boy George. (Maybe that was the problem)

And then a few grown ass men started getting slant-eyed when I hung out with their “women”.

I figured out what the problem was. Their spidey-senses had picked up that I was a Fuck You Woman. They misconstrued overt confidence with gayness.
A Fuck You Woman is a female who sees herself equal to men. She will not let a man talk crazy to her or any other woman, and will jump up and knock a nigga down if he gets out of line, or becomes a threat to herself or others. In essence a Fuck You Woman is an independent woman who speaks her mind, defends herself if necessary, and will literally say “Fuck You” to a man’s face if he tries to use his physicality to dominate the relationship. Fuck You Women have always been my heroes. Even in Mythology, movies, and history. Artemis/Diana. Daphne. Harriet Tubman (who kept the shotgun on your back cuz there was no turnin’ back), Nzinga. Auset. Pam Grier. Cleopatra Jones. The Black women in Toni Morrison novels. Sisters in the Caribbean who helped men start revolutions in Haiti, Jamaica and beyond. The African Queen (whose name escapes me, it might be Nzinga) who the English tried to disrespect by not offering her a seat. So she had one of her men get on his hands and knees and become a seat for her. That’s a Fuck You Woman. They love them some men, but if they do wrong, prepare to be corrected with a swiftness.

My stepfather Lee raised me to be a Fuck You Woman. He had no sons, so he raised all his daughters (me included) to be this way. Fierce. Independent. Assertive. Shit talkers and name takers. This was vital to him because a childhood friend of mine had been raped when she was five. And he couldn’t understand why her parents didn’t go after the person who did it. My friend Sandra was a beautiful little girl, but she was overly shy and meek. Qualities I shared with her. Lee was worried and used to get on me all the time about being shy and quiet. This was a weakness that opened little girls to predators in his mind. It was the beginning of my training. He liked me being around Fuck You Women in our neighborhood. My mother, who was friends with some of these women, found them crude and unlady-like. Uncouth. Mannish. I loved that about them. And that word. “Um, she so mannish.”

There were gay men and women around where I lived. And Lee used to talk about them at his auto-garage with his men friends hanging around while he fixed cars. I learned words like, dyke, bulldagger, faggot, sissy, punk, butch, honeyboy. Gay men to them were the stereotypical flaming queens. Gay women were never femme, or soft studs. They were always women who looked and acted overly mannish. Quite different from Fuck You Women who were seen as heterosexual women who were ballbusters. It always amazed me how quick these men were to call a woman gay if she wasn't interested in them, or if she didn't take crap from them. Or God forbid, she was single, child-free, and happy.

My favorite Fuck You Woman was Dale. She would come round Lee’s garage when she needed money or someone owed her money. If a man didn’t have her money, she would come off like Goldie in The Mack, “Ah, niggah, fuck you and get me my money.” The fact that she would come around to an all-male domain, big and bold as sin, and demand some shit was awesome. My mother would NEVER say anything like that to anyone. I have never heard my mother say a curse word. And if someone else said it and she was telling someone about it, she would spell the words out. There was power in a woman who could sling curse words like poison-tipped arrows. The funniest shit I ever heard Dale say was, “Fuck you, man, you can suck my dick.” Beautiful. I actually used that in a script I wrote.

My public Fuck You status was engaged when I was in first grade. I beat up this boy who touched me inappropriately on the playground at Stockton Elementary. This boy, whose name I can’t remember, used to harass all the girls in my class. He made my best friend at the time, a cool ass Navajo (Dine) named Rolita Nose cry by teasing her and trying to touch her chest. We were on the monkey bars and he grabbed her and she started crying. I told him to stop. And like most knuckleheads, he didn’t. So I stormed off to go tell. Because, according to my mother, that’s what young ladies do. They don’t kick up a fuss, they go after the authorities.

This little punk ran up to me, right up in my face and said “Bitch, I’ll do you the same way.” And he took his hand and touched me. Down there.

Ya’ll remember the Tasmanian Devil from the Bugs Bunny cartoons? That’s what happened.

I became this ball of hair, fists, teeth, and fury. And the hand he touched me with, I bit the shit out of it. In fact, my teeth were still embedded in his flesh when a teacher tried to pull me off of him. I was literally yanked off my feet, but I still had his hand between my teeth. I was dragged off to the Principal’s office. I can still hear that boy’s wailing. I didn’t get in trouble. But after that, if any of the girls on the playground had problems, they ran to me. Some of the younger boys too. I never had to fight anybody. Even the sixth graders who played on a separate playground heard about what happened. I was given a wide berth in grade school.

I became a certified Fuck You Woman when I was ten and had to beat up my stepfather Lee to protect my mother. Violence is never the best way to handle a situation. But Fuck You Women are never above using it as part of their arsenal when their mama is bloodied, bruised, and beat down in front of them. Like Sam Jackson’s crack head character says in Jungle Fever—“I hate to resort to knocking old people upside the head…..but I’ll do it…”
End of Part 1.

I Still Rock This-Joi

2011-03-18T23:53:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. Joi Gilliam again?

I LOVE HER MUSIC!

This was a single from her first album that I still rock heavily on my ipod. Shit, I rock all four albums that I own from her.

I was driving home from work today, on my way to a Reiki session and had this cut pumping my stereo. The bass line just vibrates the entire car. The song is really a mantra. Great for lifting weights.

Wanted to share the original video, and then a live performance.

I can't get enough of this woman. While some performers have stylists that create an image for the artist, Joi has always been self-made. Always evolving. Growing. Changing. Being. I love her being-ness.

I really do need a boost to catapult me high...

Jimi Hendrix-Voodoo Child (Slight Return)

2011-03-18T22:30:00.000-07:00

In the summer of 1975, I was playing in a neighbors yard. It was a tiny two-storey apartment complex with four units. One neighbor, Jesse, came out onto his upstairs landing, lit a joint and gazed down at me and some other kids. I was playing with some grasshoppers, and had a large neon green one in my hand. It jumped out of my hand onto some weeds. I yelled "Get back over here." The grasshopper jumped back into my hand.

Jesse saw this, and in a haze of mary-jane induced bliss, called down "What you is, a Vodoo Child? I got something for you little sister." (He was always calling girls lil sis, or sister, or Miss Lady) He starts playing this song on an 8-track. The huge Waa-waa sound from Jimi's guitar echoing out into the street. Jimi was loud. Really loud. Loud enough for Ouida from downstairs to come out and yell for him to "Turn that shit down, nigga, my stories are on." Meaning, her TV soaps were on.

Jesse did turn that shit down, because Ouida was a "Fuck You" Woman. She wasn't scared of men, and might cut you if you crossed her. She was known to whoop her husband's ass on occasion, and he right back at her with their many domestic squabbles that I was often a witness to.

I used to wish that my mother was a Fuck You woman. She wasn't. Ouida told me once I was going to grow up to be a Fuck You woman. I did.

After turning his music down, Jesse hollered, "This your song, lil sis." All because a grasshopper had the audacity to listen to what I commanded. (Sadly, I tied string around its leg, and whirled it around until the leg snapped off. The mofo shoulda just hopped away when he had the chance)

"This your song, lil sis."

He was right. This track I consider my personal theme song. I learned later in college that the album it was released from came out five months after I was born. Fate I guess. (Although now I consider myself a Vodoun Child)

When summer rolls around, I'm going to go outside, hold out my hands and say "Get back over here." See what shows up this time.

YOUNG DISCIPLES - FREEDOM SUITE part (i) (ii) (iii)

2011-02-18T20:00:00.000-08:00

This song saved my life years ago. A friend gave me the cassette when this album first came out, and I was hooked. Later. I bought all of Carleen Anderson's stuff.

So as "Black History Month" heads for a closing, I'm head bobbin' to this cut. So happy I actually have the CD of this album still. This always felt like a continuation of ideas that was on the Max Roach album "We Resist: Freedom Now!" with Queen Mother Abbey Lincoln. I can play them both back to back and be moved to tears.

I'm Not Complaining, Just Tired.....

2011-01-17T16:11:00.000-08:00

I had another "life" moment last week. A person sent me an email with some time constraints to handle some personal business. At first I got angry and was ready to simply react. I could've been told sooner about something. I could've taken care of it while I had two weeks off in December. But I took a deep breath, thought of someone else who soothes me, and the anger cooled. I still have to handle the business, however, I took note that my anger was simply that I had become what Me'shell Ndegeocello titled one of her albums. "The world has made me the man of my dreams." And what's sad is that I'm really trying to be a good and useful human. In female form. And I wasted some years on someone who helped turn me into the man he was supposed to be in my imagination. I finally got the lesson I had been in denial about for years.

You can love someone for their personality, and yet not be in love with them. You settle because it's easier than really becoming who you were meant to be. Sometimes you roll with things because it's what you think you should go along with, even when your spirit shows you that you're stepping out on fear. I know why I did it back then. I was running away from something I thought I had no chance with, instead of trusting myself. It was easier to hook up with someone who said all the right things in a low point, instead of holding out for myself. I let good get in the way of better. And I resented myself and the situation until I blew up.

I was just really proud that I breathed in love and breathed out peace in that moment of clarity. I made a pact with myself. Don't be afraid to live my truth fully. And don't let the mundane trip me up from the divine. I guess I'm finally growing up.

I still beat myself up mentally in moments of doubt. I suppose that's why I started getting teary-eyed big time in the middle of N'dambi's concert when she sang "Ode to Nina" last friday. Every time she sang "I'm not complaining, just tired", it kept hitting a spiritual cord. Me and my girl Taj were both spilling tears. I'm not complaining about my life. Just tired of my ego getting in the way sometimes. Regretting moments when I should've acted or made a different choice. The biggest mistake I made was in '99. On the same day. I lied to one person I really liked, and didn't speak the truth to someone I deeply loved. Simply because I was afraid of hurting both of them. And I paid a price for it. But I accept it now. Won't do it again. And I'm not complaining...

Quilombo

2011-01-11T12:23:00.000-08:00

One of my all time favorite flicks. I watch this shit at least five times a year. I first saw it when I was barely 20 and I bought the VHS tape. I had just started going through an initiation rite, and was really going through some heavy ancestral reconnections and getting fully wired into my writing life.

I had met Dennis Newsome and an old grade school friend Bobby who were trying to recruit me into learning Capoeira. They were teaching young people in San Diego, and I would run into them at damn near every African event happening in little ass Diego. They wanted some females to learn the martial art. I was pleasantly surprised to see Capoeira used in this film, so I knew I was on the right path. I have this thing for drums, and lord, don't let anyone hit a berimbau near me. That sound vibrates and hits me in my solar plexus...ooh wee! It's very sexy to me and makes me think of doing two things, going to physical battle like Dandara, or going at it with a warrior in a more intimate setting. Ain't nothing like that sound in the world.

If anyone out there has never seen this movie, jump on it quick. It's a classic.

Where are the African Gods? Abbey Lincoln & Nothing But a Man

2010-12-12T18:06:00.000-08:00

Abbey was dope. When she passed in August, I couldn't even write about it. I was losing too many icons. However I love this poem she says, and when she feels it and cries, I cry too.

I'm Missing You

2010-12-09T11:47:00.000-08:00

I was playing this song for myself this morning. I have a bad sore throat and was kinda moping around the house, paying bills, sipping warm cider. I happened to pass by a mirror and caught a glance of myself and thought, "Damn, girl, you look good, even if you are sick."

So I'm sending this to my healthy self, asking her to come back quick. And I'm sending it to Joi herself. Girl, I need some more of your music!

Me & My Mermaid Fetish

2010-10-23T10:25:00.001-07:00

Folks who are in "the know" understand that I am a child of Yemeja and Olokun. (I'm really a black mermaid masquerading as a human). Here I is in Norfolk after teaching screenwriting all day for the Mid-Atlantic Black Film Festival.

I Am That Black Magic Woman

2010-10-02T22:47:00.000-07:00

Another Free Verse I wrote today. I was feeling a little full of myself. It happens. I'm calling it "I Am That Black Magic Woman". I'm filing under a series of poems I'm writing called "I be Tryin' to Let a Brotha Know".

I Am That Black Magic Woman

I am that Black Magic Woman

The one who left Adam in the garden before Eve came to be

I am the Sphinx who had her nose blown off because Napoleon
couldn't fathom the power of me

I am that Femme Fatal that pushed Jack down the hill 'cause he couldn't
carry his weight in water

I am the Dog Star Sirius whose light is so serious that I shine down
a billion light years away stinging the corneas of my blue/black Dogon daughters

I am the sound and fury signifying sound and fury for all eternity

I am the rooted Olympus Mons that men dare to climb

I am the tapestry of all life from the spiritual to the sublime

I am the inventor of the beast with two backs using the caress of my hands
and the power of my thighs to slap around a man's waist creating thunderclaps

I be that bitch wounded men curse in the company of their kind
whose eyes weep loosely once they are alone within their own minds

I made the witches brew that weak men drink from

I am the reverent goddess they pray to when they come

I am the Destroyer
The Creator
The Alpha
Omega

The original Sojourner

I am the Black Magic Woman

Opening up moons in my mouth

Saying

"Welcome"