Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles

FACE POWDER

2011-02-28T17:53:00.000-08:00

Just a little bit of news!!!!! Dr. Ni has organized and mushroomed her Facebook pages. Check out the two new pages, Blowing Up Barriers Enterprises, emphasizing Dr. Ni's books (http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Blowing-Up-Barriers-Enterprises/294620820610) and Dr. Niama Williams, Intuitive Counselor, emphasizing Dr. Ni's new practice as an expert in guiding you down your spiritual path with her own deep and profound intuition and spiritual gifts (http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Dr-Niama-Williams-Intuitive-Counselor/192200067479964).

Also: check out Dr. Ni's rejuvenated Squidoo page, "Kicking Butt As Adults" (http://www.squidoo.com/kickingbuttasadults). Focusing on relationships when one is a survivor of childhood trauma, "Kicking Butt As Adults" promises weekly columns of poetry, prose, or essays on how to stay in love when both of you have a past of childhood trauma. Such relationships have special joys and special problems and Dr. Ni helps you navigate them all.

One special thing to notice: Dr. Ni has SUBSTANTIALLY lowered her book prices due to an error she did not realize she had made within the Lulu.com pricing wizard. So check out her book titles on the Blowing Up Barriers Enterprises Facebook page and then go to her storefront (http://stores.lulu.com/drni) and check out the new lower prices! You can get each book for a steal now with the new low prices!!!!!

And now for this week's essay .....

FACE POWDER

Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.

Copyright February 2011

1,443 words

for carolyn

She smelled of face powder, face powder a loving mother would wear, that would come off on you when she kissed your cheek and you couldn’t wait to dab that little bit that had rubbed off and see how it looked on your cheek. You couldn’t help the tears when you saw her, and yes, she did look less tall and less majestic, but your memory is not one bit faulty; she was the hero of your darkest hours; heroine who defended from afar what you could not ever begin to claim.

The damage had been deep and far and wide, and you had no idea she knew how deeply the knives had sunk. When you tried to explain your tears by saying that you never forgot how, during that terrible time, faculty fighting on the schoolyard like children and you trying to assemble a dissertation committee and get out of there, how you kept hearing of her, from someone now not quite a nemesis, how you kept hearing that she was Dean and handling it all with, what words did you use? Somehow you managed to pull “grace and aplomb” from your rolodex though your heart was filling and your eyes were spilling over.

You had not imagined fair crying on the woman, but see, you had kept hearing how she was handling these bickering school children with majesty, grace and a refusal to broker any bullshit, and just hearing about her and her ability to insist they act like grown-ups in the midst of the ugliest, dirtiest fight for department chair; well, she rose so high in your estimation because she was doing what you never imagined you could: insisting on right and proper behavior from dirty dealing spiritual ne’er do wells.

So she rose to hug you, never thinking not to hug you, and you remembered that when you called from the ground floor of Paley to see if she was in and had time to meet how enthusiastic she sounded upon learning it was you; you had not expected that; you thought perhaps she might struggle to remember who you were.

But no, she was thrilled that it was you and offered to have you come right over before her student at two o’clock. You did not expect her to hug you, but when you saw the warmth and joy in her face something in you, remembering it now, is almost afraid to believe that what you saw and felt was real. How could you have come to her attention when all of that was going on? How could she have known about your particular rungs of hell when she had been orchestrating the end of the ugliest, nastiest academic war the newspapers had seen in years? How could you have mattered to her, then?

And when you finally got out, no way to stop the tears falling, you apologized for them, but you got out that you kept hearing about her majestic work and that just hearing about her efforts gave you hope and the feeling that someone somewhere was doing something concrete and fair, unlike anything you were experiencing. And so you said to her that her words to you about your graduation speech, the speech that had the entire Graduate College of Liberal Arts faculty spellbound that afternoon, her stopping to tell you that as a Dean she had sat through many graduation speeches, but that was one of the best she’d ever heard, what other appropriate response these five years later than tears? Her Majesty, back then, she who never once thought herself a ruler, had seen some level of your grief and pain and angst and horror, registered it, and saw you reach past all of that to write about what at Temple University had made you grateful, happy, once, to be here. Somehow she had known it all.

And so you let the tears fall, mercifully they stopped soon, and you were able to sit back and enjoy that she cared about your life and what you’d been doing and was not at all plussed that you sought mentoring, a full-time teaching position, and a good literary agent. You told her, unashamedly now seeing her loving interest, and you do not exaggerate to call it loving, you know the level of restraint required but you also see that this person always cared about you and wondered about you and is happy to see that you are still here and thriving. She is astounded at 11 books and the length of them. She is perfectly willing to help, and you, you are still stuck at the hug and kiss on the cheek that says, “I always cared; I always wondered.”

You wonder who filled her in on your suffering because you never once had an audience with her; you would have remembered that; but when you mentioned that her words about your speech meant so much because you’d been through hell, she repeated your words with what could only be a Dean’s authority. That took you back because you had no idea she’d ever had any inkling.

That is the nature of true royalty. They keep track of any and all, small and weak, mighty and noble, loud and unruly. They know instinctively who matters, who needs attention when, and how to treat the most terrified with welcome and grace. You did not expect to feel at home in her presence; as you hurried down the hall to her office you thought to yourself, I feel as though I am going to meet Toni Morrison! And when you told her that she laughed in surprise and delight. The truly great never think themselves worthy of admiration.

And so now, the meeting over, you keep thinking about that final kiss on the cheek and you had no idea you’d been starved for exactly that total surprise. You never expected tenderness from one who ruled so well. She is smaller and thinner than you remember, but you knew on some level her height and size had been exaggerated by your estimation of the value of her actions.

But she is real and she is human and she’d been back at her teaching duties all of this time. Once she was no longer Dean, with your child’s understanding of authority figures you had wondered where she had gone, not realizing that true faculty love the classroom more than any administrative duty and she had simply gone back to teaching, where she was happiest. She’d tried being a Dean, had excelled at and enjoyed it, but, as she admitted, seven years was enough. And it was exactly as you had surmised deanship would be; exactly as you had pictured it: solving problems all day long. You listened to her use your words and were stunned that you got it so right using only your imagination.

Five years it has taken for you to realize that level of support was waiting for you, wondering how you were and what you had been up to. That level of support knew the exact rungs of hell you had clung to. You ask about the former advisor and her minute hesitancy lets you know all is not well in that camp. You walk back to the library thinking about that and deciding to redouble your prayers for her, not to heap ashes on her head, but to pray that she learns whatever it is she keeps missing so that she will have peace and true prosperity. If the real “mean Dean” reflects an iota of worry, you are right to redouble your prayers. Because you have always wanted the best for the advisor; the Christ in you does indeed love those who try hard to be your enemy.

You will email this to your few friends, shrinking in number, who you understand are to be implicitly trusted, and at the top of the list are your surrogate Dad, that wonderful teacher in California who has stood by your side since you were fourteen, and Michelle, that revolutionary who will hold rifles with you or Bibles with you, whatever she thinks need be held at the moment.

Yes, you turn 49 next month and indeed, these will be the five decades of your happiness because you are finally seeing clearly. You are learning whom you should have trusted all along, and God is opening the doors to their dens and you are walking through, lovingly escorted.

Now, quick—to the mirror to see if the dab of face powder is still there!

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COMING INTO ONE'S OWN

2011-02-20T15:03:00.000-08:00

Don't forget that we are donating to the Straw Beary family from now until February 28th, 2011. All purchases made from Dr. Ni's Storefront, http://stores.lulu.com/drni, will have $5 funneled to the Beary family so that they don't lose their den. Just make a purchase, and I will take care of the rest. If you'd like more info about the Bearys, go to: http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/event.php?eid=192463410771218

And now, this week's story ... uh, personal essay ...... :-)

COMING INTO ONE’S OWN
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright February 2011

Someone once said that those who are buried alive do not die. They smolder. They steep. They emit a lingering stench that invades the most secret parts of your life. They stimulate the pathology and ignite the patterns.
-----Iyanla Vanzant, Peace from Broken Pieces

I think what I heard as Dr. London talked on Friday was the crash of broken pieces. I think what I heard as Joseph prayed last night and my heart literally expanded, reached out, swelled up and then burst with expanding air as he spoke into being the freedom I would know because God was going to help me be whom He had intended for me to be … there was indeed a resounding crash: broken pieces of a former self demolishing in the face of God’s mercy.

Let me see if I can take you back to how this all began. It started with Dr. London listening so acutely and my awareness that I could learn something for my intuitive counseling practice from his listening style. It began with that drive away from our apartment in Norristown and my succumbing, my letting Joseph rip our home apart and separate us because deep inside we each knew that we had begun to put God last; that yet and still I want to help Joseph, the man who has rebuilt so much of who I am, am always ready to help end Joseph’s suffering moreso than do what God asks of me.

I see, I hear Joseph’s suffering and it is a demon eating huge chunks of my spirit. But today, today as I listened to a mass filled with the message of God’s mercy, a mass filled with a message begging me to be merciful to all who have pilloried me, begging me to be merciful to all of the forces that have had me bury my head and believe that I was nothing because of my situation …..

I sat in that mass today, and I heard the words from Leviticus and I heard the scripture from Matthew and I knew that yes, Joseph, God was freeing me to be whom He meant for me to be; that yes, God understood I couldn’t build His dream for me with nothing; that yes, God was pardoning me, that God finally saw that I didn’t know how to build this dream, this intuitive counseling practice on no book sales and no income and no job. God remembered that He was dealing with a human with frailties and loves, and He saw that I could not keep pushing for a dream when one of the men I loved had no coin in his pocket, no coin at all, and no gas for his car.

As Joseph prayed last night I felt God stroking my back and saying yes Child; I understand now. You want to be obedient, but you see so much pain, and you want to alleviate that pain …. When you turned in the three proposals to the shelter director because you thought at least it might help the food budget I realized you were still that little angel that caught your James’ attention. So much negativity you have endured at that shelter and still you put your ideas before the administration if it means some of the women there might not get up from the table still hungry …..

This expansion, God, in my chest; this feeling that now you will bless my efforts to teach because finally I see that it was always about shepherding people on their spiritual paths and that is why I could see so clearly when Iyanla said it; our lives and purposes mesh, and I don’t think I really saw what I was to do until she articulated it as she spelled out her biggest disaster. I am coming out of my biggest disaster and I am only doing so because God willed it.

He saw again the angel He’d created and decided to grant me grace, I hesitate to say favor—that is a strange word for me—I am more comfortable with mercy; He has granted me mercy. I will teach; He will allow me this job on Thursday, and I will use every dime to build the business He wants for me.

I want to help Joseph; I scream to help Joseph, but my wiser self, the self in Iyanla that sees 20/20 after disaster, knows that I must help Joseph second because God wants my allegiance first to the dream He has for me, the work He has for me, and this test, this test was a willingness to build that dream, work that dream despite my fear of insufficient qualifications and no clients beating down my door. That is where faith comes in, faith and obedience.

So yes, you introduce yourself to the new shelter director, and you listen to her possibly genuine modesty, her graceful humility and you know it is not at all about shelters. It is about the work that Iyanla already does, the work you too are slated to do: ushering people along their spiritual paths. Not getting them into the right lives, the lives they’ve dreamed of; no, you didn’t see clearly thus you weren’t phrasing it right. It was always about helping them along their spiritual paths, even those who didn’t want to touch or think about touching the Spirit within themselves. It was always about digging through the glop and pulling out the spiritual essence and showing everyone, those too blind to see, the brilliance within us all, within themselves.

Thank you, Iyanla; you have revealed the last layer perhaps of blindness about my work. I do not seek to replace you, only to emulate, to do as your Spirit guided you; no, to do as my Lord leads me: to guide others down their spiritual paths even if a spiritual walk was or is the last thing they think they want to do. And for those already on a spiritual path, show them the gullies and eddies and caverns they keep avoiding at their peril. Ah, Joseph; that is where you and I will venture; that is where you and I will venture and tussle and I shall need James’ help, I envision, getting you through that one.

But I pray it comes. I pray it comes because you have prayed me into a loosening, into a grace from the Lord that only His priestly poet could conjure up and only his spiritual guide could see the path leading up to and out from.

Thank you, God, for giving both of us, vision.

###

MS. PINKY

2011-02-14T15:08:00.000-08:00

THE QUIET MAN

2011-02-04T15:43:00.000-08:00

Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.

for he who stands by

and watches

he was never on place

on point

he stood by

directed

from afar

in silence

he was consulted

in secret

were he lesser

in significance

power

hidden intelligence

it would have been said

he skulked

he was too important

to those important

for the designation

of skulking

no one knew

he was a warrior

that he took his orders

from yemoya

osiris

damballah

instruction from ways of discerning

the important thought killed

before the blacks landed

got off the ships

ways of discerning

seasoning thought to kill

he wore suits

pretended a pipe

masked the proper, discreet curl of smoke

with never a cell

tempted to cancer

he bargained in secret with the cheyenne

learned how to sidestep the anger

of their gods

learned to respect their gods

without offending his own.

fealty always to his own.

that is why he knew his role

so well.

go between.

maker of deals.

instructor in maker of deals.

they told him

his gods did

when to instruct

when to insist

when to threaten

when to speak softly

when, simply, to murder

without discovery.

no one really knew

all that he was capable of

or had done.

rumors.

only rumors.

and they afraid to let those fly too far

too high

too frequent

the wrong one of them

one of the important

might come up missing

and a new slave

the best stock

on tubman’s train to canada.

they tried

from time to time

to link him to things

but he would simply become

unavailable

and their crops would threaten to fail

or their breeding women would go dry

barren

their other animal stock become unruly

look to dying

they would stop the talk about him

turn to the affairs

on their way to seed

destruction

he would stand off aways

let them consider

they would silence

and he would come forward

negotiating how much to tell them

how much to let them learn.

his suits always pressed

by what women they never knew

he never allowed himself the one he loved

he knew the passion he felt

would crease his collars

sweat his fine hair

soil his shoe leathers

and dignity critical to the balances he weighed

the matters he dealt in and figured

for those too ignorant to understand

the weight of figuring in human currency

only his gods told him

what to do and when

he knew the absoluteness

of their laws

and the price

of winning

of losing

of disobedience

of failure

to deal strategically

with these white people God created

to remind us of our profligance

our disrespect

for the wild, fertile land we were given

the wisdom and access and knowledge and greatness

we descended into squabbles and war

genteel slavery and greed

the lawless, godless piped and we danced

so God created other children

gave them power

and watched them corrupt.

he is a keeper

willing to bide his time

wait patiently for his joys.

that generation he sacrificed love

his own life.

this he gets a woman

filled with power

for whom he does everything

with a swell of pride

a completeness

that fills every hole left by absent passion

the generation before.

patient enough he is

was

to know sacrifice’s reward.

he still wears suits

still masks his power

joys in watching his woman of this lifetime

wield power

control

wisdom

justice

he lets her rule

and keeps the house

the secrets

the sanctity of their love

for private doors

secret passageways.

they are secure in each other

they are a joy to watch

their love quiet

soft

steel.

like the look in his eye

that generation

before every consultation

in which he advised

on a deal

taught whom to trade

whom to sell

how to trade justly

in human currency.

SITUATIONS

2011-01-24T14:03:00.000-08:00

http://bigbluemarblebooks.blogspot.com/2011/01/poetic-profile-dr-niama-l-williams.html

TOP NEWS!!! Check out the Big Blue Marble blog and see what I had to say about the art of poetry and prose as it comes forth from my pen. Great poet and writer herself Ms. Maleka Fruean invited me to answer a few questions and I managed to keep the answers under my usual 5,000 long winding paragraphs. Take a peek and then hie thee to the bookstore and make a purchase. Wouldn't hurt to ask them to order one of my titles while you are there ..... ahem!

Don't forget that we are donating to the Straw Beary family from now until February 28th, 2011. All purchases made from Dr. Ni's Storefront, http://stores.lulu.com/drni, will have $5 funneled to the Beary family so that they don't lose their den. Just make a purchase, and I will take care of the rest. If you'd like more info about the Bearys, go to: http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/event.php?eid=192463410771218

APPEARANCES: Dr. Ni will be TWO places this weekend! On Saturday, January 29th, 2011, from 10 a.m. - 3 p.m. Dr. Ni will be honored by Divine Diamonds Ministries at the national launch of their "Wisdom Speaks! LIVE!"; the event will be held at the Banquet Hall at 3901 Market Street in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. Questions should be addressed to: 866/467-4465. Tickets are $25 or two for $40. Come out, join us, and receive your blessing!!!!

Place number two is THE SUNDAY MIXTAPE at Moonstone Cultural Center near 13th and Sansom in Center City, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. Our panel will be discussing "Art and Activism" as witnessed in the lives of Lena Horne, Teddy Pendergrass and Teena Marie. Join us for a rousing discussion and to chime in with your two cents!!! Be sure to tell them you came to see "Dr. Ni" when you arrive at the door; that will benefit the Blowing Up Barriers Enterprises Mini-Versity for Women; activism in action!!!!

I imagine all of you would like to hear more from those who innovate, who create stories of change, transformation and extraordinary makeovers. My radio show, "Poetry & Prose & Anything Goes with Dr. Ni," is alive with the passionate tales of those who identify with the dragonfly, a symbol of change for many centuries.

We are about to turn the tables on all the stagnant economic forces and breakthrough to a new level with the radio show by taking it to WNWR--New World Radio at 1540 AM. We need your help! If you like extraordinary drive time radio that recalibrates your soul to a higher vibration every Wednesday evening, give to Blowing Up Barriers Enterprises via Fractured Atlas so we can move the show and expose you to innovators who create with words every Wednesday from March to October and beyond!

All profit and funds from the radio show project go to support the Blowing Up Barriers Enterprises Mini-Versity for Women. So participate in innovation by ensuring there is great drive time radio and shifting gears opportunities for women on public assistance and in shelters. Brava!!!!!

And now to this week's story .......

SITUATIONS
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright January 2011

The night is dark and the prison bars firmly in place. I have done nothing other than love a man who did not want to marry me, refuse work that would not satisfy me, adequately compensate me, or would rob me of the night hours for writing time. I am tired of beating my head against the economic dragon for I live a life behind bars simply because I am homeless and unemployed.

This afternoon I wrestled verbally with a prison guard—that is what they have become since Ms. J-----‘s departure—about the taking of my medication.

I have no rights here, few privileges. I am awakened Monday through Friday at 6:30 a.m. and must be out of my room—shared with nine others—by 9 a.m. Breakfast is 7:45 til 8:30, and the med line opens at 8 and closes between 8:30 and 9.

We are to shower every day—EVERY day—dress professionally or business casual, and be out of our rooms til 4 p.m. Saturdays we get to sleep til 7 a.m. and stay in our rooms til 10—for GI—cleaning our rooms top to bottom for ten o’clock inspection. Sunday is the only day we can sleep—unless you are a churchgoer. Sunday we can lounge if we’re willing to diss the Lord.

I have lost interest in dissing the Lord because He is about to deliver me from this place. I did not win the fight about medication; I simply withdrew and didn’t take my meds for a few days. The idea that I have no choices in this environment drives me to drink sometimes, and sometimes I rebel. We are to take meds 7:45 til whenever they decide to close the line after breakfast; noon til whenever they close it after lunch; 4 p.m., 8 p.m. and 10 p.m.

Because I write until late in the evening (after coming in for ten o’clock curfew) or stay up sitting in quiet prayer til wee hours of the morning, I struggle to get up for 8:30 med line. In short, I don’t get up for 8:30 med line. I struggle to wake up between 8 and 8:30, and my objective is to get showered and dressed so that I am safely out of the room by 9 a.m. Most mornings I’m not out until 9:30, sometimes 9:45, thus meds at 8:30 is just not my priority. My nighttime prayer and quiet time is that vital to my sanity, as is the writing I often do, seated in the bathroom in the late hours—when my roommates don’t complain about the bathroom light keeping them too cold because of the sucky non-heating system in the building.

So being pressured to take meds at a restrictive time, instead of ask for them when I am ready to leave the building for the day between 9:30 and ten o’clock as I always had been doing until the new sheriff came to town, was just not going to happen. Instead of arguing further with Ms. C----- I simply retreated and didn’t take meds for a few days. Let them write me up; I’d risk it.

Now, today, I am joyous as I anticipate departure. I have waited, waited patiently for God to move, and now He is granting me such blessings that I have no adequate cup to hold them. I asked Him, repeatedly, Lord, what am I doing wrong? when finances refused to work out for Joseph and I in Norristown. We separated and I continued to not do well, remained unemployed and scraping by on cash assistance and food stamps.

Then God took away the chiropractor who wanted me to ghostwrite her book and introduce me to all of her connections as well as the entrepreneur who wanted me to be her administrative assistant as she built her third company. When those two situations blew up in the very same week, I realized God was clearly communicating I was to hide behind no one else; I must step forward and claim the intuitive counseling practice that He’d given me the talent and inclination for and stop futzing around. I was to take the leap of faith, email my friend Daniel, tell him what I needed in a building, and let him work.

It took me almost three weeks, but I finally followed God’s instructions, holding my breath. I was so afraid of what Daniel would think: me, looking for a building with no clients, no money, nor any visible means of income. Yet he was receptive; remembered how determined I was to help high school students in Norristown and now focused on women in shelters and on public assistance in Philadelphia. He saw right through, via email and phone, to who I was, saw the burning spirit of the Lord deep within me anxious and aching to get out and manifest. The spirit of the Lord determined that North Philadelphia and its residents would not remain unchanged; that we would go in and we would convince people that yes, you can have and do the work of your dreams. Wendy’s does not have to be your future, neither does Walmart.

I emailed him and he accompanied me to my second meeting with the Philadelphia President of SCORE. Poor Mr. C----- was still adjusting to 44 counselors under his purview and had not had time to read the two business plans I had submitted, nor the request for support he had also asked that I compose. Nevertheless, Daniel got in there and proposed a church he knew of with a school attached that was not currently being used. Nervously I texted him the week after the meeting to ask if he’d need two or three weeks to check with the priest in charge. He calls that Saturday and says the priest initially said yes, though he was away at a meeting in Florida and would have to speak with Daniel in detail when he returned to the city.

A week, a week and a half since I began this story of frustration and rebellion and God has already turned all of the tables. Today I asked for my medication, prepared for battle, and received nothing but accommodation. This weekend I shall be honored by a friend’s organization, a group of deeply powerful spiritual women who are religious leaders, for greeting my life of challenges and continuing to let the light of God within me shine and shine brightly. The father has intimated that I may move into the rectory at the church currently not in use, and wants to know what other space I might need for my programs. The wonderful friend who set this up, gorgeous Daniel, may want me to ghostwrite his story of coming up from welfare and struggle in North Philadelphia to heating and air company ranked 4th in the state.

When one finally lets God have control of one’s life, when one truly lets Him have the reins and becomes willing to wait on the Lord to move, ah, be ready when the Holy Father puts the petal to the metal! He will always stun you with what He puts in place if you wait on Him and don’t try to control and manipulate and get involved in machinations. Only the Holy Father knew that deep within my spirit I was wishing I could find a way to live among those within a religious community because I ached for an environment in which I could go into the church and pray at any time, not just for the small window of mass allowed at St. John’s.

Answered prayer. Garth sings about unanswered prayer, but tonight I write about prayer not even uttered that God brings forth into reality. Concrete reality. Glory be, all praise to Him, and hosanna to the highest!!!!!

SPECIAL FORCES

2011-01-17T13:26:00.000-08:00

Before the latest poem for my beloved Joseph, I thought I might update you on a few things. Dr. Ni's News went the way of upheaval after leaving Norristown and four years of domestic bliss. Unfortunately, I discovered belatedly that Aweber does not keep any content or archives beyond 30 days. Consequently, though I loved their templates, I am not renewing with them in case I ever lose my account again. Beautiful service but with an unexpected hazard; writers don't like losing almost two years of content overnight without warning!

Thus Dr. Ni's News goes back to its earlier incarnation, Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles, a far more engaging title. You will receive the latest news and the latest work from Dr. Ni's pen--what she does not post on her new Hubpage, Surviving Sheila Dennis (http://hubpages.com/hub/SURVIVING-SHEILA-DENNIS).

For those of you who faithfully hung on during every week of SWEET FIELDS, the book is now done, as far as the writing; I just need to polish it up, proofread, and select a cover. It should be ready in totality come February, and rest assured those of you who hung on week-to-week will be eligible for quite the discount come February. Stay tuned for more details!

One more note before finding out where you can see me live and in the flesh this month! Straw Beary (http://www.facebook.com/KarenBarnettStanley#!/event.php?eid=192463410771218) and her family need to keep their home, and I've decided to donate $5 from the sale of every book purchased through my Lulu.com storefront (http://stores.lulu.com/drni) until midnight February 28th, 2011. As a person now living in a homeless shelter, I love the opportunity to help someone else stay in their home. Purchase today and give to two charities at the same time! $5 goes to the Stanley family (the Bearys) and the remaining profit goes to Blowing Up Barriers Enterprises Mini-Versity for Women, a one-year program for women on public assistance and living in shelters.

APPEARANCES: Dr. Ni will be appearing at Moonstone Arts Center, 110 S. 13th Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania at 3 p.m. as part of a panel: The Sunday Mixtape: Can Activism & Art Co-exist? Hosted by the inimitable Raymond Tyler, and beginning with a meeting of the Tri-State Writers. There will be vendors, open mic, and intriguing, intellectual conversation. Join us for a lively afternoon!!

This Friday evening, January 21st, 2011, find Dr. Ni once again at Panoramic Poetry, 6353 Greene Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; the new and stunning home of October Gallery. Please come prepared not just to hear some of the best poetry this side of the Mississippi, come prepared to throw down money for some of the most exemplary art on this side of the Mason-Dixon line (if that even runs this direction!). We'll be there poeting from 7:30 p.m. til about 11; join us for lyrics and lines!

and now, this week's poem:

SPECIAL FORCES
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.

for joseph

it is time, Father

for the special cadre of angels

meritorious of being assigned to your children

who carry the beacon of faith

despite badgering

despite torture

despite rape

despite being despised by those

all family magazines and wise psychiatrists say

are supposed to love them

take them in

it is time, Father

for that special cadre of angels

to take out their swords

time, Father, for you to cut the throats

sever the heads

of the forces promulgating poverty.

he has known enough, Father

he has known enough.

he has shown enough faith, Father

his lesson is learned

did you hear me?

his lesson is learned

his wilderness overstayed

call out the special forces angels, Father

and relieve his weary head

he turns against even me, Father

because he is that besieged

he no longer knows

where his friends lie

who is friend

who is foe.

call out the special forces angels, Father

your servant is at his wit’s end

and he does not deserve this, Father

he does not deserve this

even Job is going, enough

he is 79, enough!

listen to your servants, Father,

Job and myself

we are motivated by love, Father

we know only grief when encompassing

this high degree of suffering.

enough, Father—

call out the special forces angels

or Job and i

shall be tempted to bargain

with the competition

we will risk it

to save your priestly poet

your servant who has given all

and still has naught.

keep your promise, Lord

or we shall be moved

to take measures

placing our own souls

in jeopardy.

we love your servant

that much.

You should too.

###

LOVING HIS MOM, LOVING HIM

2009-03-30T12:23:00.000-07:00

A BIRTHDAY SUMMONS
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright March 2009

birthplaces strange things.

i wonder what four walls
if walls they were
if wood they were
or stucco or shack
or hut or hovel
or fine shiny negro hospital
circumlocuted your first screams
this incarnation
this journey from the great beyond.

you sliding from Grandmom Charlotte
already stoic, already silent
already steeled for the hell
at her hand
the slap that would tear asunder
the words that would make you
run silent, run deep.

what hell from which you emerged
that fateful day
to meet the promise of Joseph’s father.

the light you thought
might reside in his playful eye
the salvation you prayed
lay in his arms, his chest,
his soul
the sanctuary of his embrace.

he proved less than what you imagined.
a hurt sprung so deep
so profound
it grew two legs
one eye
frog lips
and sits across from you
pain-filled and angry
this day, your day, knowing
answers will never come his way.

the sperm donor he will never know.

but he deserves to.
he deserves to learn what man
what nature of man
could breed a hate so resilient.

poetry, yes
shelter, yes
food and clothing, yes
college and the faith to try for college,
yes, yes

but no embraces
no warm kisses
no hugs tender and long
to soothe childhood’s broken hearts.

he deserves to know
he grew into the hurt you despised
by despising him.
your year of 98 he says, “i love you, mother”
you sit stoic, silent,
mute.

he deserves to know.
who made you hate the cells
nurtured and grown
nine months into understanding
the sperm donor would not
would never
rescue.

i intercede and ask
because i chose my birthday
my parents
my abuse
a long tale of lovers destined
reuniting
theatre and subtle truths
a roundabout way to my intuitive insights
bolder truths
sources buried
siphoned off
dead at the root.

hurt, hatred
grew legs and walked the earth
after he left you destitute
you in turn
bereft his sire
bereft his son.

answer the summons
of one who hopes to be mother

or deliver last stab of the knife:
tell hurt why no delusion
tell pain he was right on target
you loved in error
lost last gasp of faith
created a pain
to outlive
to provide its own succor.

###

As always, readers of this blog are invited to respond to the literary posts. I would love to know your thoughts on this piece for my beloved's mother on her 99th birthday.

Love and blessings,

Dr. Ni

LOSING WEIGHT: Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles

2009-02-21T12:26:00.000-08:00

LOSING WEIGHT: A Submission for "Readers Write"

I have given up my battle to lose weight. My maternal grandfather was a huge man, and my father is the apt replication of botley. My mother's and her mother's small frame strains but does not get through.

I gave up my battle in stages, once I declared it a war I would never win. A chubby child, I'd been given the one-half of a grapefruit, one boiled egg, one slice of toast diet in grade school. Weighed in and weighed out of Weight Watchers. Eleven years (and counting) in that mysterious fellowship of anonymity.

What I have come to is acceptance of myself, and a pursuit of and belief in, health. What I love most, the most satisfying reward, has been physical presence in my body. I know at all times how my body feels. I know when I am comfortable in it, and I know when I am carrying too much. I know the pleasant exhaustion after a brisk half-hour walk. I know the curling of my G-spot upon extended thought of my lover. Presence in my body is a gift I will relinquish to no one.

My disease was being other-centered.

It was not quite that horrid word "people-pleasing,” though I have developed a healthy disregard for others and their problems. I no longer give my all for causes that do not feed my soul. Only children, for limited amounts of time, deserve such sacrifice.

No, my "people-pleasing" was a self-preservation tactic learned in the battle to keep myself alive. I grew up in a home where attack--physical, sexual or emotional--was always possible. Reading all human situations in which I found myself was necessary as breathing.

With the acquisition of that skill I lost the value of me. I lost—sealed off actually—talents, abilities, enjoyments, diversions. I have never had a lover I wanted. I want the one I am considering now, and he chose me. Miraculous.

Once I decided I was tired of not liking me, I grew tired of not liking my body. I said to myself: this is probably how you're going to look for the rest of your life, love it. I listened when even Dr. Elizabeth Corday (ER) had to do affirmations. I looked at myself in the mirror and said: "I'm gorgeous." I took hard, long, appraising looks at my face and body and began to see the good.

Even now, at my top weight, I have not lost appreciation of my soft café latte skin or the seductive shape of my figure. It currently needs thinning out. Not because anyone else has told me so. Because I can feel it. I am in touch to the degree that I know my weight, my health, by how my body feels; by how laborious, or non-laborious, movement is.

I still look in the mirror and see the good. That is how I know I've trimmed the fat from where it really counts: between my ears, and in that vast empty space that childhood pain once occupied.

DR.NI'S NOTES & NIBBLES--21

2009-01-04T17:09:00.000-08:00

THE TOUCH OF FLESH
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright January 2009
1,024 words

for papa, for whom I have no daughterlike feelings

The touch of flesh heals in ways the psyche cannot fathom, in ways the psychologist only dreams of orchestrating, in ways that only God can reveal to the willing mind, the mind ready to accept all of His gifts without question, doubt, or false lack of pride.

I love my Joseph, but I did not know that the mere action of sleeping with him, and I do mean sleeping, as in we lay there, arms around each other, him snoring in my ear and my snoring in his, would heal nighttime incontinence. Ob/gyns, pay attention.

I had accepted my aunt’s warning that my forties would begin the nights of never sleeping without disturbance, without the soon to be habitual, several times a night, getting up to go pee. I thought her surely wrong at first, but by 45, I knew she spoke Gospel truth. I was a Shepherd woman, and like my mother, was doomed to coming years of treks down the hall to the bathroom in the dark.

I never expected to fall in love at 46, for the first time in my sexually sheltered life. Raped at three by an older brother, the abuse continuing for how many years my psyche still has buried, I turned the sexual logistics off as an adolescent and, safely, only had crushes on teachers (never the lecherous ones) and boys who held me in great disdain. There would be no crossing of my boundaries again. Gaining an extra 250 pounds sealed the deal.

Clearly, then, there was to be no romantic anything in my future. I would have male friends; I would heal their psychological wounds, love them from a distance, and send them on their merry way. I learned this about myself as I reread a memoir filled with men to my beloved and realized that instead of boyfriends, I’d had a lifetime of healing psychological wounds for men who would never consider a therapist.

I didn’t know yet though that I was in love, nor that I was loved back. That would come with the shock of my beloved’s first major illness since we had begun to live together, his having taken me in as a Christian charity when I lost my apartment. We were doing just fine as father and daughter until I realized after Labor Day, with a thunk, that the cold I suspected could kill him had been in fact influenza B, and that I had been absolutely prescient to insist that he go to the hospital and demand more than mere cough medicine and a breathing treatment.

I’d almost lost him and I knew, in that instant, that my feelings were paternal no longer.

It had been a long road of many honest conversations and steady building of trust on both our parts that created an environment in which I put him on punishment for leaving me alone all day and evening one Sunday, his punishment that he had to spend one entire night with me in bed. I was stunned when he asked the next night if he could pay his fine again. A week or more has passed now, I’ve lost count, and he has yet to return to his own bed. When he moved his bedside lamp in I knew it was serious.

The real revelation, however, has been the response of my cells. The way in which I breathe differently when sleeping with him. The fact that I do not get up to go pee the three and four times in a night unless I’ve had major doses of sugar that day; I go once or not at all. I sleep soundly and through the night when in his arms, and we do fall asleep with our arms around each other, face to face. He tells me that even when he knows I am deeply asleep, if he reaches for my hand I mumble something loving and grasp his hand in return. I know that I wake from nights with him never remembering having fallen asleep and far more rested in fewer hours than normal.

Still a child who grew up in a challenging home, I wait for the night we have a big blow up and he returns to his own bed, but I have a sneaking suspicion that we will abide by the never going to bed angry rule and resolve the issue before retiring for the night. I know this because there is a power to our love I had not anticipated, never having been loved back: it is the acceptance with which he decorates my heart.

I woke one night recently and to my horror, my gown was wet as was my side of the bed. He lay snoring contentedly on his side of the bed. Ashamed and terrified that this would be the final rejection, I quietly got up, took a long, hot rinse-off shower (we have the most amazing shower head, forceful and strong spray), rinsed off my nightgown, wrung it out, crept back to the bedroom, turned on his lamplight and sprayed Shout on my side of the bed after pulling back the covers.

He rolled over, mumbled, rolled back over. Closed his eyes.

My face, my soul, burned in shame.

I finished spraying the Shout, very carefully put down a bath sheet, and put the Shout back in its habitual space in my closet. Turned out the light, pulled back my covers.
He helped. Raised the covers, turned to face me, waiting to put his arms around me as I lay back down on my side of now our bed.

I was astounded. He had to know. How could he not know? And yet, he lay there, ready and waiting to embrace me, and did so as though nothing at all were awry.

I hugged up next to him, grateful, stunned, happy. Thanked God for this wonderful man, fell asleep and haven’t wet the bed since.

And the lamp still sits in its new place, by his side of the bed on my chest of drawers.

God be praised, thanked, loved, adored.

Trusted.

###

Okay, readers--do your stuff! Let me know what you think, feel, believe about what has been said above. It's not a dialogue if you aren't speaking!

Love and blessings,

Dr. Ni

DR. NI'S NOTES & NIBBLES--20

2008-12-12T09:32:00.000-08:00

This week we have a guest in the realms of Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles. My beloved has written a poem for me that I feel merits sharing; for those of you who crave love, who wonder what real love feels like, who want to know what a deep understanding of the spirit can yield between two people, take a gander at this poem.

And if you want our whole story, take a peek at my journal on Tim Hooker's SushiTuesday.com. But for the moment, this sacred work:

SACRED IMAGES
Thursday, December 11, 2008

Sacred images,
Do they come with halo careful,
gracing o’er their heads so pure,
and with angel’s wings adorning,
guarding their assignments, sure?

This our view through countless ages,
reigning o’er the wrecks of time,
We have seen and heard from sages,
they confirm thy heights sublime.

Why then, do I see before me,
such an image firm and true,
but no halo, round about her,
there, no wings, yet I construe
everything she does, angelic,
all she is, to God is true.

Proves to us, upon our planet
resting on this earthly sphere,
What we do in Christ, our Jesus,
will confirm his presence here.

Nothing of the pomp and splendor,
garbed in robes, like Pharisees,
can compare with love delivered
to the needy cross the seas.

Hence, my angel though not winged,
while no halo can be shown,
still by deeds, her angel’s spirit,
better yet, than all I’ve known.

Selfless giving, steadfast pressing
toward the goal her Father ‘spired,
never falt'ring, never failing,
never drifting, seldom tired.

Is this not, like God’s bright angels,
hov’ring o’er the wrecks of time,
guarding lives and serving others,
‘till we reach those heights sublime?

Sacred images abiding,
those invisible, or my loving “Dr. Ni,”
show the path we are to follow
On to God’s eternity!

- Pappa Joseph -

As per usual, feel free to comment away. We are ready, willing and able to read your comments and respond!

Love and blessings,

Dr. Ni

Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles--WALKING WITH THE SPIRITS

2008-12-05T03:44:00.000-08:00

In honor of the holiday season, we have this week a piece about spirits and family and God, and all of the ways we may need to make choices about each.

Please feel free to read, comment, and share with friends. Remember: this blog is all about your feedback to the work I post here. Comment away!

And think with a loving heart about your friends, relatives, and relationships this holiday season. It is the time of year when we can all use a little extra kindness.

WALKING WITH THE SPIRITS
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright April 2008
877 words

Dear God:

It is almost 4 a.m., my walking with the spirits time, and I am learning, as God reveals more and more of who I am, as He lays my path before me brick by noble brick, I come to understand that my time with the spirits is to be arranged for, planned for, lesser things moved aside for much as Uncle Rob claims to set aside—purposefully—time for the Ancients, for the silence in his daily life.

How the brilliant and the gifted and the touched lead by gentle example. Even Cousin Wendy amazed at Papa’s room now and his physical presence at home. Not that I want to pat myself too much on the back, but Papa’s happiness to be home, the way he is happy to be here, sleeping, writing, washing dishes, it lets me know a certain level of his misery is over, a certain level of his suffering is gone. And so his contentedness to be at home, at this home he so meticulously keeps now, shines like a beacon reminding me that my life is a spiritual one, my path a walk with one ear always attuned to the other realm.

My mother’s voice came to me the other day and she believes me my father’s child, Lewis’ child, she does not understand Ben’s hold on me, and I do not either. I only know the vision of the trinity, Papa Ben, Larry K., and Uncle Martin, that trinity and that estate in Lydbury. Something there. Something there. An investigation I must not turn away from. Time, I think, to ask Tim Collins for the boxes from Mother’s bedroom, if he’ll let me have them and Mr. Fisher to pay before they can be delivered. We pray Nadine says yes. We pray Nadine says yes and carries our books as part of Soul Purpose and if she does we are jubilant in our thanks to God. The secrets we spill as we work; we write when the spirits are walking, the gates of heaven swinging open.

We focus not, though, on the bills, but on the gifts of a spiritual life. Something as simple as watching a movie. God wastes no portion of His gift. I watched and I did not trust the police officers. I could not put my finger on why, but a Louisiana cop in the midst of a bunch of Southies, how those Afflecks love the Southies, and that Carey is no slouch, I watched Gone Baby Gone and that fine, hardworking Louisiana cop and his bruiser partner—something just wasn’t right.

It tries to become a morality tale, a story of a man forced always into what seems the right, the best decision, but rightful Catholic shame dogging him every step. We feel for him, suffer the shame with him the first one, two times, but then we see that final choice and we see his hard, unyielding Catholic core is not really a deep sense of right and wrong and morality but racism, deep-seated racism raw and smelly and finally disgusting even to himself. We see him finally as a man who justifies his wrong decision to himself even in the face of his gentle, loving wife; she refuses to take part in his blatant, unforgiving bias.

We finally see that he just didn’t want blond curls with rich Black grey hair, curled at the root. Didn’t matter where she was happiest. Didn’t matter where she was safest. He wanted her where she was born: poor white Southie, through and through. Wanted Southie to stand for something worth claiming, a lifestyle worth giving up better for. As the credits roll, though, even he sees the train wreck of his mistake and no lifetime of babysitting, of vigilance will save this child. Her chance, her opportunity ripped to shreds by his need, his racism, his desire for something noble in Southieness.

Do I want to claim Ben, Papa Massey because my own father insufficient? My possible birth father provided gifts yes: the shelter of early protection, safety, sustenance, something no child can repay, but what I find in Papa Massey’s home is an unconditional love L.W. could never grant, his love always came wrapped around an expectation and you’d better know what it was he shouldn’t have to tell you. His life, his youth, his own fortunes and misfortunes and survivals made him perhaps too hard a man to be a gentle father, the gentle loving father I needed, and as I walk away from his persistent demands, spoken and unspoken, it is not with ire or rancor or spite.

No, I understand that life made L.W. a man who must always insist about something, and because I understand this I can part with love and walk into health and understanding and father/daughter as it is supposed to be. I do not hang back with what no longer feeds me. I don’t need undying proof that Southie is good; I have enough sense to go where the love is and make a safe home there among friends unafraid to risk open hands, open hearts, giving with no price attached, trust with no punishment or penalty soon to ensue.

Love and blessings,

Dr. Ni

Okay: your turn. Comment, respond, critique. Let's begin an honest dialogue for all the world to see!

A POET'S SACRIFICE--NOTES & NIBBLES 18

2008-11-27T23:24:00.000-08:00

Welcome to this week's literary walk on the wild side. As always, posts here are open for response and critique. Tell me, have I grabbed your gut this week? Is your solar plexus feeling the grip of my sweaty, feverish palm? Take a gander at this week's submission and let me know.

From an August 2000, letter to the editor:

Dear G.,

As to your question: how much sacrifice does the poet's life entail? Much, and daily. Daily because we live in a society, despite the raving of and about spoken word, despite Larry Jaffe and Poetic License, despite poetry venues from here to Kingdom Come, that does not respect poetry as an art form, and thus does not compensate it adequately. Screenwriters expect to be paid for what they do. Novelists expect to be paid for what they do. Poets do not, and are not.

This needs to change.

And then there is the word, the persistence of the word. I was trying to finish looking through posts to an online workshop, but the words for the latest exercise kept coming, pushing their way, insisting. I finally gave up and reached for my pen. To good, blessed result (in spite of what my fellow poets may think! :)). And that is how I gather strength: when the words fall just right, when I finish a piece and it lands on the tongue like buttered cream, I breathe like I breathe at no other time, and there is a satisfaction: oh there is a satisfaction that novelists and screenwriters will never know.

This is what bolsters my faith.

This and knowing that when I stop and listen (as I was being instructed, forced, to do) God is well-pleased with me because I am doing what He sent me down to the planet to do: listen, then share. Knowing that I am doing what my Maker intended of me gives me a whole 'nother level of peace, and allows me to live on a part-time college professor's salary, instead of the megabucks of a screenwriter.

Could I walk away from it? Of course. Surely. I could ignore that pen, those words, every time they showed up. Could tell God I'm tired of living on no money; sorry, I'm going into computers instead.

But would I be happy? Would I be at peace? I don't think so. I can't really tell you for sure because I haven't tried it. I can tell you that when I wasn't doing my "right work" I was miserable.

So, somebody tell me the name of that prehistoric fish please, so I can properly title my poem. And I hope this helps you G., or whoever you intended opening up this line of questioning for. The sacrifice is always worth it.

Love and blessings,

Dr. Ni

Dr. Ni's Notes and Nibbles--17

2008-11-13T02:21:00.000-08:00

A poem and a prose piece for your literary review and analysis this week.

If you have ever been to Santa Monica, California, you know how sad we L.A. literati are that Midnight Special Bookstore closed its doors. Nothing will ever adequately replace it. I tried to give them this piece as a marketing tool, but the writing was on the wall and my words couldn't save them.

Read on. Enjoy. Comment. All for the literary good!!!

MIDNIGHT SPECIAL BOOKSTORE

I once took the podium here. That far room in the back, wooden floor gleaming pine, reached only by journey past books, floor to ceiling books. My anthology is there. It fits the politically active, unassuming, newsprint-stained doors--even the marquee is that understated rich which hints at money this place doesn't have. Floor to ceiling, journals piled on tables, clerks of every age and persuasion: grizzled old school, the young with punctures everywhere. They yell front to back if no one's manning customer service when you walk up. Not all of them smile; too much commitment in the air. My book is always in stock; my mother's smile does not make me prouder. For I do not come here to drink coffee, chip biscotti; I come to this place, this space spitting distance from the ocean, to drown, to drown myself in words.

And now for the poem:

TOO TIRED TO TITLE
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright November 2008

for papa, who else

we both care more
for pen, page,
strings of words
dancing from His world
through our veins
pouring from our hands
as the blood and water
from the palms of Our Savior
gifts, both
blessings
Repentance
Amelioration

Forgiveness.

we work ourselves to a frazzle
me, loudly chastising
as he says yes to another church engagement
my first thoughts now
of the times we sit quiet
watch tv
talk
share dessert at the little dining table.

i think of our closeness
except when he comes to rub my back
i can think of nothing then
sixth, seventh hour at the computer
his door finally closed
my keyboard clacking rings through his dreams.

i could not ignore
friend’s plaintive plea
for more chapters
edited corrected annotated

her tale a pivotal one
angels and Aristotle
awaiting its publication.

i, bleary-eyed, know no tiredness
as i read of her heavenly escorts
her doubt and fear and trepidation
who would believe me a question
following like bees abuzz
knotting my head
when the pain-filled speak
sotto voce.

he sleeps now
door closed
i face, perhaps, more writing
fired up somehow
Him pleased that i put one child
then another
first.

barbara’s words incorrect.
never me first
except with Jim.
always with Jim.

i will not see Wendy’s house today
God wants my focus clear
2006 Dekalb Pike
all spiritual energies
on christine haycock’s response:
“no, i had not considered a tax write-off”
i doubt again today
have delayed and delayed asking this very question
to counter, reassure,
the Universe whispered tonight:
“What will I not do for you?”

i love the whispering breath of faith
will leave this poem for him to pray over
will sip my oj-ed root beer
contemplate
hope that i do not sleep
through all his awake hours

missing already his arms around my breastbone
his cheek resting on the top of my head.

###

Okay, your turn. Comment away!

Love and blessings,

Dr. Ni

DR. NI'S NOTES & NIBBLES--16

2008-11-08T04:44:00.000-08:00

GIRL WITH AN APPLE

A true story – (sent in by Dr Tony Minervino, drtony@orcon.net.nz, drtony@thehealingbusiness.com; Home: +64 9 846 1789; the Healing Business: +64 9 846 9333; Mobile: +64 21 936 033)

August 1942. Piotrkow, Poland. The sky was gloomy that morning as we waited anxiously. All the men, women and children of Piotrkow's Jewish ghetto had been herded into a square. Word had gotten around that we were being moved.

My father had only recently died from typhus, which had run rampant through the crowded ghetto. My greatest fear was that our family would be separated.

"Whatever you do," Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me, "don't tell them your age.. Say you're sixteen." I was tall for a boy of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might be deemed valuable as a worker. An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the cobblestones. He looked me up and down, then asked my age. "Sixteen," I said. He directed me to the left, where my three brothers and other healthy young men already stood.

My mother was motioned to the right with the other women, children, sick and elderly people. I whispered to Isidore, "Why?" He didn't answer. I ran to Mama's side and said I wanted to stay with her. "No," she said sternly. "Get away. Don't be a nuisance. Go with your brothers." She had never spoken so harshly before. But I understood: She was protecting me. She loved me so much that, just this once, she pretended not to. It was the last I ever saw of her.

My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany. We arrived at the Buchenwald concentration camp one night weeks later and were led into a crowded barrack. The next day, we were issued uniforms and identification numbers.

"Don't call me Herman anymore," I said to my brothers. "Call me 94983."

I was put to work in the camp's crematorium, loading the dead into a hand-cranked elevator. I, too, felt dead. Hardened, I had become a number. Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one of Buchenwald's sub-camps near Berlin.

One morning I thought I heard my mother's voice, "Son," she said softly but clearly, “I am going to send you an angel." Then I woke up.

Just a dream. A beautiful dream. But in this place there could be no angels. There was only work. And hunger. And fear.

A couple of days later, I was walking around the camp, around the barracks, near the barbed-wire fence where the guards could not easily see. I was alone. On the other side of the fence, I spotted someone: a little girl with light, almost luminous curls. She was half-hidden behind a birch tree. I glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called to her softly in German.

"Do you have something to eat?" She didn't understand. I inched closer to the fence and repeated question in Polish. She stepped forward. I was thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my feet, but the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw life. She pulled an apple from her woolen jacket and threw it over the fence. I grabbed the fruit and, as I started to run away, I heard her say faintly, "I'll see you tomorrow."

I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same time every day.

She was always there with something for me to eat - a hunk of bread or, better yet, an apple. We didn't dare speak or linger. To be caught would mean death for us both. I didn't know anything about her, just a kind farm girl, except that she understood Polish. What was her name? Why was she risking her life for me? Hope was in such short supply, and this girl on the other side of the fence gave me some, as nourishing in its way as the bread and apples.

Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were crammed into a coal car and shipped to Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia. "Don't return," I told the girl that day. "We're leaving." I turned toward the barracks and didn't look back, didn't even say good-bye to the little girl whose name I'd never learned, the girl with the apples.

We were in Theresienstadt for three months. The war was winding down and Allied forces were closing in, yet my fate seemed sealed. On May 10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 AM. In the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself. So many times death seemed ready to claim me, but somehow I'd survived. Now, it was over. I thought of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be reunited.

But at 8 A.M there was a commotion. I heard shouts, and saw people running every which way through camp. I caught up with my brothers. Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates swung open. Everyone was running, so I did too.

Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived; I'm not sure how. But I knew that the girl with the apples had been the key to my survival. In a place where evil seemed triumphant, one person's goodness had saved my life, had given me hope in a place where there was none. My mother had promised to send me an angel, and the angel had come.

Eventually I made my way to England where I was sponsored by a Jewish charity, put up in a hostel with other boys who had survived the Holocaust and trained in electronics. Then I came to America, where my brother Sam had already moved. I served in the U. S. Army during the Korean War, and returned to New York City after two years. By August 1957 I'd opened my own electronics repair shop. I was starting to settle in.

One day, my friend Sid who I knew from England called me. "I've got a date. She's got a Polish friend. Let's double date."

A blind date? Nah, that wasn't for me. But Sid kept pestering me, and a few days later we headed up to the Bronx to pick up his date and her friend Roma. I had to admit, for a blind date this wasn't so bad. Roma was a nurse at a Bronx hospital. She was kind and smart. Beautiful, too, with swirling brown curls and green, almond-shaped eyes that sparkled with life.

The four of us drove out to Coney Island. Roma was easy to talk to, easy to be with. Turned out she was wary of blind dates too! We were both just doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the boardwalk, enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and then had dinner by the shore. I couldn't remember having a better time.

We piled back into Sid's car, Roma and I sharing the backseat. As European Jews who had survived the war, we were aware that much had been left unsaid between us. She broached the subject, "Where were you," she asked softly, "during the war?"

"The camps," I said, the terrible memories still vivid, the irreparable loss. I had tried to forget. But you can never forget.

She nodded. "My family was hiding on a farm in Germany, not far from Berlin," she told me. "My father knew a priest, and he got us Aryan papers." I imagined how she must have suffered too, fear, a constant companion. And yet here we were, both survivors, in a new world.

"There was a camp next to the farm." Roma continued. "I saw a boy there and I would throw him apples every day."

What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some other boy. "What did he look like?” I asked. “He was tall, skinny, and hungry. I must have seen him every day for six months."

My heart was racing. I couldn't believe it. This couldn't be. "Did he tell you one day not to come back because he was leaving Schlieben?"

Roma looked at me in amazement. "Yes, that was me!" I was ready to burst with joy and awe, flooded with emotions. I couldn't believe it! My angel.

"I'm not letting you go." I said to Roma. And in the back of the car on that blind date, I proposed to her. I didn't want to wait.
>
"You're crazy!" she said. But she invited me to meet her parents for Shabbat dinner the following week. There was so much I looked forward to learning about Roma, but the most important things I always knew: her steadfastness, her goodness. For many months, in the worst of circumstances, she had come to the fence and given me hope. Now that I'd found her again, I could never let her go.

That day, she said yes. And I kept my word. After nearly 50 years of marriage, two children and three grandchildren I have never let her go.

Herman Rosenblat, Miami Beach, Florida

This is a true story and you can find out more by Googling Herman Rosenblat as he was Bar Mitzvahed at age 75. This story is being made into a movie called The Fence.

STORIES OF LOVE FROM THE MAAFA

It is not a competition, but I issue this challenge from within the morass of denial that is American memory of enslavement. Not slavery, because one is not BORN a slave, one is MADE a slave; one is born a human being; enslavement is a process.

The challenge is a simple one, a powerful one. I want to hear from two groups of people. First, can you tell a story of true love from the Maafa, from the great separation—the imprisonment in a slave castle for a year, the long march toward said castle from a village or city or town, from the spirit-breaking Middle Passage, from the unspeakable life of chains around the ankle, the soul, and the mind on American shores? Can you tell a story of love that engaged these battles and won?

Secondly, can you tell a story of true love across a color line that could have gotten you killed? And I am not talking just the Maafa here. There are Maafas everywhere: the Turkish Genocide, what continues to happen to the Romas (pejorative term: Gypsies), yes, even Iraqis and Iranians and Americans. Can you tell a story of love that cost everything due to battling ethnicities yet survived somehow and thrived?

I issue these challenges because Hollywood has so many stories of World War II, of Jews and Germans and gentiles, and I wish to provide some balance. I have no links to filmmakers or screenwriters; all I can promise is publication in my newsletter, and if enough submissions come in, publication in a book possibly by Lulu.com.

Know that your story, or your grandparents’ story, or your great-grandparents’ story, matters. Someone out there needs to hear it. And so will your children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Do it for them if for no one else.

Email your stories to: drni@blowingupbarriers.com. Use subject line: STORY OF LOVE. Please cut and paste your story into an email OR send as a Microsoft Word attachment. ONLY WORD ATTACHMENTS PLEASE. Looking forward to reading your stories of love despite all, despite challenge, despite necessary, daily battle.

NOTES & NIBBLES--LITERARY FOCUS

2008-10-21T02:50:00.000-07:00

Good morning, Readers. I hope that the sun or moon finds you either sleeping blissfully, or adeptly handling all that the day has placed upon your plate. Maybe you are even rocking your little one or your loved one to sleep, perhaps tickling them awake.

I promised you a new focus for Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles and this is the first post in alignment with our new agenda.

In celebration of President-Elect Obama's masterful win this past week, I post this essay advising us of the spiritual aspects of the Internet. Commentators worldwide remarked upon the Obama campaign's brilliant use of the World Wide Web, and thus I ask you to consider what exactly the Internet is or might be.

In this space I give YOU the opportunity to comment on my work. Tell me what resonates in your gut and why. Tell me what makes you thump the page and shout, "damn, how did she know that?"

Okay, enough blathering. On to the first essay up for your analytical pen. Here 'tis. Enjoy.

THE SPEECH

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement to make." She stood tall before them, her rich Nubian blood pumping nervously, her neck fighting the urge to toss her braids in defiance. She was about to wax poetic to a bunch of computer people and she was justly afraid. They could not hurt her professionally, after all, she was a poet, but they could not listen, and that was her real fear.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have come here to tell you, at your request, that cyberspace does not exist."

There was a low rumble in the crowd of 300. The presidents of America Online, Compuserve, and the World Wide Web organizers frowned and made eye contact with their henchmen. Bill Gates smirked. She feared being removed from the stage. She took a short, deep breath, meditated on her great-grandma Rachel, and pressed on.

"The Information Highway is an illusion. It is no more real than the electricity that powers our homes or the signals that are received by our tv sets."

The rumble quieted.

"What you have created, ladies and gentlemen, and I'm sure there are not enough women among you, is what my father used to call 'white man's magic.'

"It is the particular genius of the Anglo-Saxon to be able to take an idea from a culture it has conquered and make money from it. But when you make money from hopes, dreams, loneliness, desire, sooner or later you are called on the carpet.

"I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, can you see the 'Infobahn'? Can you point out the Internet? Who sews up the tears when it rips?

"No, ladies and gentlemen, you have not created something real. You have created more white man's magic, and like most white man's magic it must be taken on faith. Like the electricity that took us out of darkness.

"What do you charge your users for, people? What are they buying with those monthly fees and per hour charges?

"Faith. Hope. Desire. Community. Your users are satisfying the desire to talk to someone who doesn't interrupt, who can't evaluate and censor; they are trying to meet Mr. or Ms. Right, to publish the great American novel and have it read worldwide in an instant. All of these things happen when we turn on our computers and hear that modem whistle.

"I communicate with a man in Scotland because I believe that's where he is. I have no assurance, no proof that he is really there. But I admire his brogue and am learning it bit by bit.

"I submit to grilling reviews by a supremely talented editor who reads my work with a fine-toothed comb. She could be my neighbor, but she claims to live on Long Island in New York.

"Faith, people. Faith and belief sustain the Internet, email, bulletin boards and websites. We believe the people we write to are really there and we joke with them, write sonnets for them, trade info on Monday night football with them. The very same people who believe in the Internet may balk at the thought of God, or a supreme being, or a higher power.

"But I say if you plug in and believe that Alan's window really looks out on Scottish hills, then you're a believer.

"New converts quickly spend money. Faith always costs something. And I say to you--who are you converting? Who needs faith more--the weary beleaguered professional up til one a.m. surfing the net, or the young black boy of eight who is bored by the ten hours of tv his mother expects him to watch to keep from having to answer his one million questions?

"I ask you--who have you converted today? Where did you donate computer systems last year? Did you donate modems too? How many low-income families received free computers, printers, and modems from your company last year? You charge me, a black female poet, $24.95 a month, but I ask you--is my neighbor in North Philly allowed to surf the net?

"Along with faith in the net must come faith in each other. We believe our netfriends are real. Now we must believe that all of us have a right to the net. The net is not for the elite; it is for the faithful. You have the unlimited power to recruit believers. I ask you to make sure you don't just convert the middle class, the well-to-do. That eight year old boy may need a friend in Scotland--to ask about the aurora borealis he saw in a movie with Burt Lancaster one night late when he was supposed to be sleeping.

“Don't deny that eight year old the right to believe.

"This isn't about social responsibility. This is about faith.

"Asante sana, 74172.1723@compuserve.com."

###

Okay, Readers, comment away. And don't forget to "follow" this blog here on http://www.blogger.com.

Love and blessings,

Dr. Ni

RADICAL CHANGE AFOOT AT NOTES & NIBBLES

2008-10-21T02:34:00.000-07:00

Good wee hours of the morning, Readers! I hope that your morning, or afternoon, or evening, should you be that far away geographically, has the rich patina of the golden love of God that I have been experiencing.

Why am I waxing poetic about God and love this a.m.? Because, once again, without my even asking, my prayers have been answered.

You see, I have been working with the communications expert, Felicia Slattery (www.communicationtransformation.com), and she has revolutionized my world, ladies and gents. One phone call once per week and relatively unlimited emails have propelled me into a whole 'nother level of orchestrating and running my business.

In just three weeks I have:

-----formed an advisory board for the non-profit wing of my company, Blowing Up Barriers Enterprises; our first meeting scheduled for the 31st of October

-----made that long-put-off call to CushCity.com and scheduled my first Media Blast with them for the final week of October

-----totally revamped my website according to Felicia's TWO PAGES OF INVALUABLE FEEDBACK (you must go by for a visit and check out my free offer and free downloads!)

I feel so good! As though I have just washed that man right out of my hair--or those not quite adept business practices.

Now that I have a lean, mean, website machine, I come to Blogger due to Felicia's last suggestion: "you need a blog; you have so much content you would only have to cut and paste; go to BLOGGER right away and get your blog started."

Now why would she say that? It couldn't be the nine books, could it (see "Dr. Ni's Books" under the "PRODUCTS" section of my site: www.blowingupbarriers.com)?

When I asked if I should separate the blog from the newsletter, she said, "yep!"

Consequently, ladies and gents, adults and children, Dr. Ni will now have TWO blogs: Notes and Nibbles, which will present literary works for your review and commentary (I do love talking to readers who have salient and wise comments about my work) and Dr. Ni's News, which will tell you what I'm doing, where, and when. Maybe even how. :-)

I am particularly thrilled that BLOGGER now allows following, so that I can stop worrying about the problem I'm having with aweber.com at the moment (a template glitch) and the fact that I cannot yet capture names and emails on my own website (have to wait on programmers to get that up and running).

So! Dr. Ni's blogs are playing twin and dividing into two. I hope you enjoy the new foci and read, follow, and comment to your hearts' content.

See you in the funny papers!!!!

Love and blessings,

Dr. Ni

Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles--14

2008-07-11T22:40:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles--14, a gathering place of news, notes, words and wisdom bulldozing its way into your workday.

(To read the full backlog of Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles, go to: http://drnisnotesandnibbles.blogspot.com/)

TO MY GOOD AND PATIENT FRIENDS, COLLEAGUES AND ACQUAINTANCES: Please forgive, if you can, the glitches while I prune for the second time my growing email list of approximately 700 – 800. I very carefully went through my Apple Address Book on my eMac and put together pieces of addresses and blended records that needed to be blended …. A three-week effort. I pruned over a thousand contacts down to 680. I was so happy, so proud.

Then I imported that list into Gmail and …. Disaster. Gmail doesn’t let you automatically get rid of duplicates. I was instantly facing another three weeks of exactly the same task I had just finished.

In the middle of getting the Taylor’s events up and running. In the middle of getting a new website (very ably) designed by Steven (yay Steve!!!!) at 1 Choice 4 Your Store (recommended by Yahoo.com). In the middle of trying to get postcards out to venues so that people learn about the Taylor’s events.

I confess to …. delaying the process for a moment while I do my best to boost ticket sales for the Taylor’s events. So if you get announcements several times, or if you have begged off my list for the hundredth time and think I’m not listening—that is not true. Email me again and I will do my absolute best to get you off if that is what you want.

Otherwise, please continue to be patient. The business is just requiring a lot of me right now, and I can’t yet afford to hire office help. As soon as I can, I will, and the list WILL be pruned—all over again. Sigh!!!

I AM FIRMLY CONVINCED THAT THE FOLKS AT LULU HAVE LOST THEIR MINDS …… BUT LET’S TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THEM ANYWAY! :-)

(Straight from a Lulu.com email): For a limited time only, get a FREE Lulu retail distribution package!! With a Published By Lulu Retail Distribution Package you can get your book distributed around the world and available to over 60,000 retailers. Sign up for a free Published By Lulu distribution package.

Just follow the steps below to take advantage of this free offer.
1. Login to your Lulu account
2. Go to the My Projects tab
3. Click on the "Purchase a distribution package" link next to your project

* Your work is now eligible to be sold through online retailers such as Amazon.com

* Lulu-owned ISBN, whereby Lulu is the official publisher to sell and distribute for you
o — You retain the copyright and control
o — A $99 (USD) value, now FREE* for a limited time

* We have also expanded our list of book sizes that qualify for the Published By Lulu Retail Distribution package. See our complete list of sizes.

∑ *This free offer is available for a limited time and is subject to change without notice. Published by Lulu is only valid with eligible trim sizes with Lulu published projects.

LOOK OUT FOR THE NEW WEBSITE!!!!!

Just as the Lulu.com folks seem to have lost their minds, Yahoo is not far behind. Apparently, the folks at Yahoo have decided that offering unlimited bandwidth is a good idea. I am here to tell you that it is a marketing ploy that worked. I wasn’t totally happy at Homestead, but I was doing okay until I saw that offer on the Yahoo site (my roomie has a PC and Yahoo is his homepage) and thought, hmmmm, ….. I want to have mp3 downloads for sale on my new website ……..

Here I am a couple of weeks later in seeming daily contact with a Mighty-Mouse-loving phenomenon known as Steve, the erstwhile website designer. For a mere $149, yep, only $149, he is listening to my every whim and making every dream possible come true. I had to come up with the initial text, but he is doing a huge chunk of the work. 1 Choice 4 Your Store’s system didn’t seem to like my emails at first, but we are working on that problem.

What matters to me is that the site is gorgeous and Steve is a delight to interact with. Site should be published sometime today, Friday, July 11th, so keep your browsers on www.blowingupbarriers.com for something new and interesting!

WARNING: DON’T BUY MY BOOKS FROM ONLINE RETAILERS!!!!!!!

If you want to get the right price, that is. Amazon.com has the wrong cover AND the wrong price for my novel, THE JOURNEY. Don’t buy from Amazon! No way would I ask ANYONE to pay $35 for a PAPERBACK!!!!!

I have been fighting with Lulu about correcting this, and they are taking their own sweet time. Please, if you want to pay the RIGHT PRICE for my books, buy them on my website!!! www.blowingupbarriers.com. Forewarned is forearmed!

AND IF YOU HAVEN’T HEARD, I’M GOING TO BE AT TAYLOR’S …. AND SO ARE SOME FRIENDS!

HAPPENINGS AT TAYLOR'S AT THE OLDE MILL

Greetings! Dr. Niama L. Williams here to inform you of events taking place at the wonderfully cozy fine-dining restaurant Taylor's at the Olde Mill in Norristown, Pennsylvania. Dr. Williams' company, Blowing Up Barriers Enterprises, and Taylor's are co-sponsoring:

1. "Afternoon Tea with Dr. Ni" every second Saturday of the month from August through December of 2008. A complete schedule can be obtained from Dr. Williams; the first tea and accompanying workshop is entitled, "Over 40, Over 400, and Facing the Future Fantastically!" If you are over 40 and struggling with a weight issue, Dr. Ni can help you fantastically face the future and move into functioning fabulously. Tickets are $40 and include an American version of "high tea." This inaugural event takes place Saturday, August 9th, 2008, from 3 - 6 p.m. at Taylor's, located at 200 W. Marshall Street, Norristown, PA. For more information or to purchase tickets, please email Dr. Ni at niamapers@gmail.com or visit her website: www.blowingupbarriers.com.

2. "In the Presence of the Pen: A Literary Dinner Featuring Three Authors" every final Sunday of the month from July through December 2008. The inaugural dinner presents Hugo Award finalist sci-fi author, graduate of the Iowa Writing Workshop and of the widely acclaimed Clarion workshop as well as revolving director of the Fiction Writing Workshop at Swarthmore College Gregory Frost; 2008 Pew Awardee in Playwrighting, Stephen Sondheim and Richard Rogers awardee as well as winner of a Pennsylvania Council on the Arts fellowship in Playwriting Ed Shockley, and former member of the Paul Roberts' Singers, of the City of Philadelphia Probation Department, of the ministerial staff at Zion Baptist Church in Ardmore, and current Associate Minister at Family Worship Center in Philadelphia, PA, poet Rev. Joseph William Massey. Each artist will be introduced by Dr. Ni, will read a selection from their work, entertain a few interview questions and sign books following the dinner. Join us July 27th, 2008, from 6 - 9 p.m. at Taylor's, 200 W. Marshall Street, Norristown, PA; tickets are $40 and may be obtained by email (niamapers@gmail.com) or web: www.blowingupbarriers.com.

JOIN US FOR TEA AND THE LITERARY AT TAYLOR’S!

ITUNES WELCOMES THE HOI POLLOI? POSSIBLY …….

A very helpful person in one of the iTunes help forums responded to my query with this information. I did, in fact, submit an application, and I am waiting to hear from iTunes. Given their massive reach and the ubiquitousness of iPods, I am willing to wait however long it takes.

To submit an application to have your own content added to the iTunes Store, please visit the iTunes Labels & Marketing page at:

http://www.apple.com/itunes/go/application/

Apple evaluates each application individually, so it may take longer than we'd like to get back to you. But don't worry - we will review your application and contact you if we are interested in adding your content to the iTunes Store. Your application will be kept on file for future reference, so there is no need to submit it more than once.

Hope that helps!
George :)

(Thank you for the info, George!)

BILL GATES HITS THE NAIL ON THE HEAD AT A LOCAL HIGH SCHOOL

Bill Gates recently gave a speech at a high school about 11 things they did not and will not learn in school. He talks about how feel-good, politically correct teachings created a generation of kids with no concept of reality and how this concept set them up for failure in the real world.

Rule 1: Life is not fair - get used to it!

Rule 2: The world won't care about your self-esteem. The world will expect you to accomplish something BEFORE you feel good about yourself.

Rule 3: You will NOT make $60,000 a year right out of high school. You won't be a vice-president with a car phone until you earn both.

Rule 4: If you think your teacher is tough, wait till you get a boss.

Rule 5: Flipping burgers is not beneath your dignity. Your grandparents had a different word for burger flipping: they called it opportunity.

Rule 6: If you mess up, it's not your parents' fault, so don't whine about your mistakes, learn from them.

Rule 7: Before you were born, your parents weren't as boring as they are now. They got that way from paying your bills, cleaning your clothes and listening to you talk about how cool you thought you were. So before you save the rain forest from the parasites of your parent's generation, try delousing the closet in your own room.

Rule 8: Your school may have done away with winners and losers, but life HAS NOT. In some schools, they have abolished failing grades and they'll give you as MANY TIMES as you want to get the right answer. This doesn't bear the slightest resemblance to ANYTHING in real life.

Rule 9: Life is not divided into semesters. You don't get summers off and very few employers are interested in helping you FIND YOURSELF. Do that on your own time.

Rule 10: Television is NOT real life. In real life people actually have to leave the coffee shop and go to jobs.

Rule 11: Be nice to nerds. Chances are you'll end up working for one.

If you agree , pass it on.
If you can read this - Thank a teacher!

A VISITATION (anonymously sent to my email …..)

A drunk man in an Oldsmobile
They said had run the light
That caused the six-car pileup
On 109 that night.

When broken bodies lay about
'And blood was everywhere,'
'The sirens screamed out eulogies,'
For death was in the air.

'A mother, trapped inside her car,'
Was heard above the noise;
Her plaintive plea near split the air:
'Oh, God, please spare my boys!'

She fought to loose her pinned hands;
'She struggled to get free,'
But mangled metal held her fast
In grim captivity.

Her frightened eyes then focused
'On where the back seat once had been,'
But all she saw was broken glass and
Two children's seats crushed in.

Her twins were nowhere to be seen;
'She did not hear them cry, '
'And then she prayed they'd been thrown free,
'Oh, God, don't let them die! '

Then firemen came and cut her loose,
'But when they searched the back,'
'They found therein no little boys, '
But the seat belts were intact.

They thought the woman had gone mad
'And was traveling alone,'
'But when they turned to question her, '
They discovered she was gone.

Policemen saw her running wild
And screaming above the noise
'In beseeching supplication,'
Please help me find my boys!
They're four years old and wear blue shirts;
'Their jeans are blue to match.''

'One cop spoke up, ''They're in my car, '
And they don't have a scratch.

They said their daddy put them there
'And gave them each a cone, '
Then told them both to wait for Mom
To come and take them home.

'I've searched the area high and low,'
But I can't find their dad.
'He must have fled the scene,'
'I guess, and that is very bad.'

'The mother hugged the twins and said,'
'While wiping at a tear, ‘
'He could not flee the scene, you see,
'For he's been dead a year.'
'The cop just looked confused and asked,'
'Now, how can that be true? '

'The boys said, ''Mommy, Daddy came'
'And left a kiss for you.'''

He told us not to worry
'And that you would be all right,'
And then he put us in this car with
'The pretty, flashing light.'

'We wanted him to stay with us,'
'Because we miss him so,'
'But Mommy, he just hugged us tight'
And said he had to go.

He said someday we'd understand
'And told us not to fuss,'
'And he said to tell you, Mommy,'
'He's watching over us.'

The mother knew without a doubt
'That what they spoke was true,'
'For she recalled their dad's last words,'
'I will watch over you.'

The firemen's notes could not explain
'The twisted, mangled car, '
And how the three of them escaped
Without a single scar.

'But on the cop's report was scribed,'
'In print so very fine, '
An angel walked the beat tonight on Highway 109.

CABBING
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright June 2008
545 words

What does a man do when love fails him? What makes a man hide in plain sight, devoted to her but invisible, trapped in that nether world of being her “best friend” when love burns in his heart and fires his loins at the mere thought of her? How does a man survive that kind of loss twice?
Rocket Man, Timothy Hooker’s debut collection of short stories, places us almost gently within this world, the heartbreak and heart ache of his main character Archie Legions. The love of Archie’s life has just died, and he knows the regret of a man who lived beside her without the right or will to touch her, nor her permission. They had been lifelong friends, he and his Clara. He loves her, but there is just enough economic distance between their families on the social ladder to prohibit moving forward, or so Archie tells himself. He listens to her love life, her critiques, make-ups and break-ups with all of her boyfriends, and stands by as her family slowly kills any spirit she had left after an unplanned pregnancy.
It is Clara’s death that propels Archie, newly graduated from law school with no passing scores on the bar, into cab driving in the worst part of town. Always the conventional young man, in friendship and in love, Clara’s passing makes him just rash enough to do the most dangerous: drive a cab in the danger zone, potentially risking his life daily with people unfamiliar to him: the urban and countrified poor.
The delicious secret, however, of Hooker’s novel is that his characters are achingly familiar; we recognize wise Deacon, the Black male middle-aged seasoned cabbie who shows him the ropes and remains the moral center of the collection. We writhe in frustration as Archie falls for Belinda, a bar wench who has “bad news” flashing in neon on her forehead. We know that Archie selects her only because he is already in pain, and she provides the requisite further demolition of his spirit that we expect the moment she first appears on the scene.
The gentle surprise of the novel, a novel told in stories actually, is the humanity of each of the downtrodden, including Archie himself, that Hooker brings onstage. There is no one on the pages of Rocket Man who is not real, whom we have not seen ambling down the street, barely getting by, and yet there is no one who appears cardboard, constructed for the moment, a fictive convenience. Hooker’s characters exist as they do because they have no other choices; their lifetimes of bad decisions or no opportunities have created their realities as thoroughly as Prince Charles marrying Princess Diana meant that years later she would die at the hands of the paparazzi.
We struggle with Archie’s fight to survive heartache, his own racist heart, and deep poverty of spirit, and it is fitting that at novel’s end we are closer only to Archie’s uncertainty, newly awakened of course by Deacon, who has demanded of Archie a choice: who are you, boy, and are you going to continue slumming with us or get on about your business? It is a question many should ask and to which few find a lasting, comfortable answer.

AND FINALLY, JUST ONE MORE BOOK REVIEW:

SLATTON
Niama L. Williams
Copyright 2008
508 words

It is a good book, Father Mine, earthly father and Heavenly Originator, that makes one want to knock the author a good one halfway through for delaying the love story almost past this indulgent reader’s patience. And then, when the beloved finally reappears, she is in a state further forbidding consummation of what we as readers have known as a one-sided passion. I nearly summoned my earthly father from the next room to tell him, “Papa, see whom you can find from your days in South Philly. We got to take this Slatton bitch out.”
But I kept reading. I kept reading because even though the seemingly endless stretch of characters kept expanding, some of them famous historical figures, some of them not; even though Slatton delayed and delayed and delayed the bringing onstage of a condition of love I know so well—unrequited—the delaying tactics were nothing this intellectual, this spiritual intellectual, could gloss over.
Buried in Renaissance discussions of sometimes forbidden ideas about God and space; physics and time; alchemy, Cathars and a possibly immortal red-blond people descended from Biblical Adam’s son Seth is a long, rambling tale of a pain-filled life eventually graced by a great love but pockmarked by what our hero, Luca Bastardo, perceives as cosmic jokes perpetrated by a divided God, one good, one evil. What befalls Luca is indeed so relentlessly nefarious I became angry at every mention that without one of many great tragedies he would never have met his great love.
I met my great love on an ordinary afternoon and would have marked it as no extraordinary occurrence if not for my complete inability to speak upon sight of him. Those who know me even slightly know the fluidity of both my pen and tongue, the easygoing grace of my engaging extrovert personality. Speechlessness had never before visited my countenance, not even on Christmas morning as I contemplated an unusually welcome gift.
The future of my great love still hangs in the balance, and it is the mark of Slatton’s skill that as she ends the novel in Bastardo’s ultimate sorrow, two deaths that drive him mad, I am touched from Immortal’s pages by the fiery deep and abiding love he finally feels from God, and understand that in the end we must all be what we are, my important question answered: do your business, girl; focus on that company you’ve built; his arms and financial freedom not long now.
It is an exceptional book that irritates and annoys us, wears us out and angers us, makes us snappish and yet ultimately communicates that to be all of who you are—even amidst danger—is the finest wine, the headiest elixir.
Immortal is a long, exhausting, irritating, ennobling read. I still want to knock Slatton a good one for grieving her character so, but then I want to look deep in her eyes and see what of her soul glistens and shines, indicating wing.

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO WANT MORE, I SUGGEST ……

Several places that you can find Dr. Ni on the web! First off, if you would like to hear me interact with the intelligentsia, give a listen to my radio show at Blogtalkradio.com/drni. Recent guests have included Ms. Stephanie L. Jones, author of The Enemy Between My Legs: I Promised Not To Tell A Soul, a moving revelation and discussion of childhood sexual abuse and Mr. Ed Shockley, the engaging and supremely gifted playwright who will be appearing at Taylor’s at the end of the month. Join us at Taylor’s and pick up a signed copy of Mr. Shockley’s Notes of a Practicing Writer. This coming Monday I will interview Ms. Slatton, author of Immortal, and on the 28th, I will be exchanging words with Mr. Mark Pickering, author of a novel on war veterans—including those who have served in Iraq—entitled Story of Sand. In between special guests, you can always hear Dr. Ni honey-fy her listeners’ ears with her own creative products. Podcasts are always available for free download about an hour after each show airs. Don’t miss out: www.blogtalkradio.com/drni.

SOME AFFIRMATIONS THAT I DISCOVERED ON THE WONDERFUL SELF-GROWTH.COM EXPERT PAGE OF DANIEL ST. JEAN (no jokes this issue—sorry!):

“Grain by grain a loaf; stone by stone a castle.” ----- Yugoslavian Proverb

"You can get everything in life you want if you help enough other people get what they want.” ----- Zig Ziglar

“We will either find a way or make one.” ----- Hannibal

“When facing a difficult task, act as though it is impossible to fail. If you’re going after Moby Dick, take along the tartar sauce.” ----- H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

PARTING NOTES:

While packing your tartar sauce, don’t forget to stop by my new website and purchase tickets to Taylor’s events as well as pick up a few of my books. Check out “Tickets to Events” and “Dr. Ni’s Picks”; there you will find things illuminating and illuminatory! Get your tickets to the literary dinner quick quick—it’s less than two weeks away! Be well til next issue. :-)

Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles--12

2008-06-12T21:06:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles--12, a gathering place of news, notes, words and wisdom bulldozing its way into your workday.

Farewell Letter

Gabriel Garcia Marquez is a famous writer from Columbia. He is a Nobel Peace prizewinner for literature and is undoubtedly a genius. He has retired from public life for reasons of health. He has a form of cancer which is terminal. He has sent a farewell letter to all his friends and it has been circulated around the Internet.

It is recommended reading because it is moving to see how one of the best and most brilliant of writers expresses himself and with sorrow.

HE SAYS:

If God, for a second, forgot what I have become and granted me a little bit more of life, I would use it to the best of my ability. I wouldn't possibly say everything that is in my mind, but I would be more thoughtful of all I say.

I would give merit to things not for what they are worth, but for what they mean to express. I would sleep little, I would dream more, because I know that for every minute that we close our eyes, we waste 60 seconds of light. I would walk while others stop; I would awake while others sleep.

If God would give me a little bit more of life, I would dress in a simple manner. I would place myself in front of the sun, leaving not only my body, but my soul naked at its mercy. To all men I would say how mistaken they are when they think that they stop falling in love when they grow old, without knowing that they grow old when they stop falling in love.

I would give wings to children, but I would leave it to them to learn how to fly by themselves. To old people I would say that death doesn't arrive when they grow old, but with forgetfulness.

I have learned so much with you all, I have learned that everybody wants to live on top of the mountain, without knowing that true happiness is obtained in the journey taken and the form used to reach the top of the hill. I have learned that when a newborn baby holds, with its little hand, his father's finger, it has trapped him for the rest of his life.

I have learned that a man has the right and obligation to look down at another man, only when that man needs help to get up from the ground.

Say always what you feel, not what you think. If I knew that today is the last time that I am going to see you asleep, I would hug you with all my strength and I would pray to the Lord to let me be the guardian angel of your soul. If I knew that these are the last moments to see you, I would say 'I love you'. There is always tomorrow, and life gives us another opportunity to do things right; but in case I am wrong, and today is all that is left to me, I would love to tell you how much I love you and that I will never forget you.

Tomorrow is never guaranteed to anyone, young or old. Today could be the last time to see your loved ones, which is why you mustn't wait; do it today, in case tomorrow never arrives. I am sure you will be sorry you wasted the opportunity today to give a smile, a hug, a kiss, and that you were too busy to grant them their last wish.

Keep your loved ones near you; tell them in their ears and to their faces how much you need them and love them. Love them and treat them well; take your time to tell them 'I am sorry'; 'forgive me', 'please', 'thank you', and all those loving words you know.

Nobody will know you for your secret thought. Ask the Lord for wisdom and strength to express them. Show your friends and loved ones how important they are to you.

Send this letter to those you love. If you don't do it today...tomorrow will be like yesterday; and if you never do it, it doesn't matter, either, the moment to do it is now.

For you, with much love,

Your Friend Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

What I Would Say To Garcia Marquez:

Thank you, Brielito, for the love in your books and your words. Thank you for giving me a way to explain how foreign love relationships are to she of sexual abuse, physical abuse and neglect. The Buendia’s unfamiliarity with ice was the perfect way to say, I do not know what it is to be loved. I wait still for that possibility.

Thank you, Brielito, for insisting that I love despite pain. I have been hurt, badly, and why is it that we know the pain of love before we know its bliss? Why must the pain come first?

I read your words and I want to fling at him the hurt, the wounds he has hefted onto my shoulders, but I read your words and know that I must walk through my own pain and fear and anger and open my wounds once again so he can see that we both are bleeding.

And finally, I must turn to him with love, with forgiveness, with understanding. Because you are right, Brielito, we do not know when we will see our loved ones again. We do not know how long the time we are granted.

Thank you, Rodrigo’s papa, for The Death of Artemio Cruz, though I can never remember if it was you or Carlos Fuentes. It was my first deep dive into Latin American pain, and the lesson so well taught, the pain so enticing, I leapt in and the water was fine, fine. I still remember where I was and how I lived when reading that novel. Days of lost youth, days of past gone, but I have only to think of that novel and they come shooting back, rushing my brain like cool gushes when one is on a water slide.

Thank you for understanding that we would want from you, finally, words of comfort as we face this future without you. I will imagine that you know the only true grace for a writer is the pen, and I pray that your life has been spared much pain. That you have known instead joy, unbelievable, unbounded joy. I pray that your hereafter is white wings and harps and the best Latin American food in heaven.

Oh, and a superior writing desk, so you can fill us in on what it is truly like up there.

Thank you for your son, who seems to understand women with a keen observer’s psychologically empowered eye. I could be any of the women in his very personal films because he draws them with a clarity and sharpness such that none of us can deny having felt her shoes on our feet.

Thank you for the legacy, thank you for the words, thank you even for the parting sorrow, Brielito. May your rest in the realm we all return to be brief, and may you come back to us renewed, refreshed, and ready to sing in another mode the song we will never be able to turn away from.

Love and blessings,

Ni

Life Simplified - 3 Easy Ways to Do It Today

In an age of information overload, ooooooh how you long for simpler days.

In the meantime, you do what you can.

And we (note from Dr. Ni: I don’t remember who the “we” is here; I cut and pasted this from an email but I have been unable to retrace the source!) do what we can to help, too.

So here are three cool tools that may make your days a bit easier.

1. Ready to put the kibosh on mailbox clutter? Catalog Choice is a free online service that lets you cancel unwanted catalogs.

2. Looking for the phone number of a business and don’t want to pay for 411? Then try the free 1-800-GOOG-411. Dial it from any phone, give GOOG the city and state and what business (or business type) you’re looking for, and it connects you at no charge. Calling from a Internet-enabled cell phone? Say “Map it,” and the service sends you a map of the area around the business.

3. On the road and in need of a good cup of coffee, but not sure where to go? If you’re looking for something other than the usual Starbucks, send a text message to Google at 466453 with the subject “coffee” to find out fast. If you’re a Starbucks girl through and through, get the local zip code and dial 800-235-2883. An operator will help you locate the nearest fix.

Don't give up.....

One day I decided to quit … I quit my job, my relationship, my spirituality … I wanted to quit my life. I went to the woods to have one last talk with God.
'God', I asked, 'Can you give me one good reason not to quit?'
His answer surprised me...
'Look around', He said. 'Do you see the fern and the bamboo?'
'Yes', I replied.
'When I planted the fern and the bamboo seeds, I took very good care of them. I gave them light. I gave them water.
The fern quickly grew from the earth. Its brilliant green covered the floor.
Yet nothing came from the bamboo seed. But I did not quit on the bamboo.
In the second year the Fern grew more vibrant and plentiful. And again, nothing came from the bamboo seed. But I did not quit on the bamboo, he said.
'In year three there was still nothing from the bamboo seed, but I would not quit.
In year four, again, there was nothing from the bamboo seed. I would not quit,’ he said.
'Then in the fifth year a tiny sprout emerged from the earth. Compared to the fern it was seemingly small and insignificant … but just 6 months later the bamboo rose to over 100 feet tall.
It had spent the five years growing roots. Those roots made it strong and gave it what it needed to survive.
I would not give any of my creations a challenge it could not handle.'
He asked me. 'Did you know, my child, that all this time you have been struggling, you have actually been growing roots. I would not quit on the bamboo. I will never quit on you.'
'Don't compare yourself to others,’ he said. ‘The bamboo had a different Purpose than the fern, yet they both make the forest beautiful.'
'Your time will come', God said to me. ‘You will rise high'
'How high should I rise?' Iasked.
'How high will the bamboo rise?' He asked in return.
'As high as it can?' I questioned.
'Yes.' He said, 'Give me glory by rising as high as you can.'
I left the forest and brought back this story. I hope these words can help you see that God will never give up on you. Never, never, never give up. For the Christian Prayer is not an option but an opportunity. Don't tell the Lord how big the problem is, tell the problem how Great the Lord is!”

Once upon a time there was a bunch of tiny frogs who arranged a running competition. The goal was to reach the top of a very high tower. A big crowd had gathered around the tower to see the race and cheer on the contestants....
The race began.... and honestly: No one in the crowd really believed that the tiny frogs would reach the top of the tower. You heard statements such as: 'Oh, WAAAAAAAAAYYYY too difficult!!' 'They will NEVER make it to the top.' or: 'Not a chance that they will succeed. The tower is too high!'
The tiny frogs began collapsing. One by one .... Except for those, who in a fresh tempo, were climbing higher and higher...
The crowd continued to yell, 'It is too difficult!!! No one will make it!' More tiny frogs got tired and gave up....
But ONE continued higher and higher and higher .... this one wouldn't give up! At the end everyone else had QUIT climbing the tower. Except for the one tiny frog who, after a big effort, was the only one who reached the top! THEN all of the other tiny frogs naturally wanted to know how this one frog managed to do it?
A contestant asked the tiny frog how he had found the strength to succeed and reach the goal? It turned out.... That this tiny frog....was DEAF!!!!
The wisdom of this story is: Never listen to other people's tendencies to be negative .... because they take your most wonderful dreams and wishes away from you -- the ones you have in your heart (They might be trying to protect you or trying to make themselves feel better - it doesn't matter, do NOT listen!)!!!
Always think of the power words have (There's life and death in the power of the tongue - Proverbs 18:21). Everything you hear and read will affect your actions! Therefore: ALWAYS be .... POSITIVE! For the sake of yourself AND for others! And above all: Be DEAF when people tell YOU that you cannot fulfill your dreams!

INTERVIEW WITH ERIC GREINKE

This interview is worth reading merely for the description of Poet Greinke’s writing space. Rev. and I salivated upon reading Greinke’s description and solidified plans to storm his Bastille and take it over, lock, stock, and barrel. The man’s words about his work are also stunning, enticing, and worth a long luxurious look.

http://www.cervenabarvapress.com/newsletter.htm

Essay for this issue found in sushituesday.com

If you are looking for Dr. Ni on the web, search out the inimitable Tim Hooker’s blogsite www.sushituesday.com. There you will find Tim’s journal and his hilarious The Warrior’s Guide To Romance, which was so laugh out loud funny that I had to have him on my show. In turn, he read my essay, “Now I Understand the Ruby’s Flame,” and invited me to have a column on his site. So there you will see my journal every Friday. Thank you Tim!!!!!

Poem for this issue:

INDESTRUCTIBLE

a coded message for one i love ……..

indestructible, sweetness
bodies made for two
to be split in two by pains
thorough as a whirlwind
with a sharpness meant for scalpels
we help those pains cut away
lies deceptions
palatial mansions constructed by the nile.
we feel the pain
diagnose origins
offer two doors:
health
or condo, mortgage, by that ancient river
before its annual rise.

i wait for your arms, lover,
after this latest toughest bout
expectin real rest there
love that does not nick back
with a pain intended for me.

indestructible, sweetness
to be your strong back
when you need it
and, finally, to collapse within arms, shoulders,
that do not shove me out
leave me by the motel room
amongst the tumbleweeds
discarded pizza boxes.

i want, sweetness,
indoors and treasured
my needs moods wants
anticipated met sated
and in exchange, my desire too,
heaven beneath your bulk each night
overjoyed playing in the background.

i’ve picked myself back up
again
after a bad one this time
and i know now
you will either come
or i will be alone on this journey
settled down with second best
whomever he may become
a particular hole
a particular hunger
never filled, never fed
and your eye
somewhere in my psyche
looking out
chasing me across the cosmos.

Check Dr. Ni out on BlogTalkRadio.com/drni

Shows for the month of June are dedicated to love and acting in honor of the June 30th birthday of Dr. Ni’s favorite unduly un-awarded thespian, Vincent D’Onofrio. The first two shows involve a reading of “Bereft,” Dr. Ni’s one-woman homage to D’Onofrio’s acting skill. Remaining shows will feature Dr. Ni’s creative work mentioning films and actors whose performances she has enjoyed. She also plans to corral a few actors, authors, and intellectuals to comment on their favorite D’Onofrio performances and theorize on the absence of Oscars from the hungry shelf in his home.

Tune in Mondays from 6-7 p.m. EST www.blogtalkradio.com/drni. Podcast available for free download one to two hours after original show airs.

And yes, though Dr. Ni is hardly in the mood, she will never deny her readers their favorite section, the jokes!

UNDERWEAR DUST

One evening a husband, thinking he was being funny, said to his wife 'Perhaps we should start washing your clothes in Slim Fast. Maybe it would take a few inches off of your butt!'

His wife was not amused, and decided that she simply couldn't let such a comment go un-rewarded.

The next morning the husband took a pair of underwear out of his drawer. 'What the Hell is this??' he said to himself as a little 'dust' cloud appeared when he shook them out.
'April,' he hollered into the bathroom, 'why did you put talcum powder in my underwear?'

She replied ...'It's not talcum powder......It's 'Miracle Grow'

THE NUN IN HOOTERS

A nun, badly needing to use the restroom, walked into a local Hooters.

The p lace was hopping with music and loud conversation and every once in a while the lights would turn off. Each time the lights would go out, the place would erupt into cheers. However, when the revelers saw the nun, the room went dead silent.

She walked up to the bartender, and asked, "May I please use the restroom?

The bartender replied, "OK, but I should warn you that there is a statue of a naked man in there wearing only a fig leaf."

"Well, in that case, I'll just look the other way," said the nun.

So the bartender showed the nun to the back of the restaurant.

After a few minutes, she came back out, and the whole place stopped just long enough to give the nun a loud round of applause!

She went to the bartender and said, "Sir, I don't understand. Why did they applaud for me just because I went to the restroom?"

"Well, now they know you're one of us," said the bartender; "Would you like a drink?"

"No thank you, but, I still don't understand," said the puzzled nun.

"You see," laughed the bartender, "every time someone lifts the fig leaf on that statue, the lights go out. Now, how about that drink?"

SHOPPING MATH

A man will pay $20 for a $10 item he needs.

A woman will pay $10 for a $20 item that she doesn't need.
___________________________

HAPPINESS

To be happy with a man, you must understand him a lot and love him a little.

To be happy with a woman, you must love her a lot and not try to understand her at all.
______________________________

LONGEVITY

Married men live longer than single men do, but married men are a lot more willing to die.
______________________________

HOW TO STOP PEOPLE FROM BUGGING YOU ABOUT GETTING MARRIED

Old aunts used to come up to me at weddings, poking me in the ribs and cackling, telling me, "You're next." They stopped after I started doing the same thing to them at funerals.

SEND THIS TO A SMART WOMAN WHO NEEDS A LAUGH AND TO THE SMART GUYS YOU KNOW CAN HANDLE IT.

###

Deepest appreciation to poet Afaa Michael Weaver for facilitating this stunning review .......

2008-04-26T16:15:00.000-07:00

Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene

This blog will consist of reviews, interviews, news, etc...from the world of the Boston area small press and poetry scene and beyond. Regular contributors are reviewers for the "Ibbetson Update," such as: Hugh Fox, Lo Galluccio, Irene Koronas, Mary Buchinger Bodwell, Richard Wilhelm, Steve Glines, Eleanor Goodman, Mike Amado, Pam Rosenblatt. founder Doug Holder: dougholder@post.harvard.edu. * B A S P P S is listed in the New Pages Index of Alternative Literary Blogs.

Friday, April 25, 2008

Famous Faces and Steven by Niama Leslie Williams

Famous Faces
By Niama Leslie Williams
Lulu Publishers
102 pages/$17.95

Steven
By Niama Leslie Williams
Lulu Publishers
84 pages/$17.50

By Thomas Gagnon

As I read Niama Williams’ poetry, I thought of Joan Armatrading’s early ‘70s songs, like the emphatic “Back to the Night” or the melancholy “Save Me.” A lot of Williams’ poetry is, on the one hand, about passion, physicality, and intimacy, and, on the other hand, about sadness, longing, and oppression. She also often writes about the need for safety, thankfully, since nobody (that I’ve met) talks about needing safety outside of group therapy. So, a brave woman and good writer speaks—
First, on safety—In Famous Faces, the poem “Forty Years” begins with “that voice that saved me/in the midst of a mad, mad sea.” (22) Halfway through, Williams writes six lines ending with the word ‘safety’: “my first thought of them…/is of safety/the gift of safety/a dangerous childhood I survived/but in their house/always safety…” The poem concludes, “I know safety/what it feels like/how it sounds/how to bring it/home.” (23) The word ‘safety’ may not thrill the soul, but it is crucial to staying alive, as she demonstrates in a powerful onrush of a poem, “For Vincent D’Onofrio as Bobby Goren,” farther on in the book. This over-riding need for safety appears again in Steven, in the poems “Black Wool Coat” and “Mama’s Washcloth,” in which these small things (coat and washcloth) signify a lasting sense of warmth and health.

Second, on passion, physicality, intimacy—All of them definitely break through in the poem “First Time,” when a black man, “nothing I have ever wanted/parts my legs/crushes my disdain/helps me entertain/for the first time/a black penis/without recoiling.” (18-19 of Famous Faces) So, Williams throws us seven lines of rhythmic, rhyming passion (and an inner shift, away from repulsion). The passion of “First Time” is followed not much later by “The Gaze,” “In the Elevator,” and “For Lisa,” all of which contrast physicality and artificiality: wet palms vs. a song, whamming your gut vs. politeness, warm lips vs. Renaissance studies. In Steven, Williams claims in “The Chain Sestina” that “i once fell in love with a bicycle chain,” but most of the poem is about her love for a Korean, Hun Ku, a name that she repeats rapturously, before her fall into an oxymoron of livable longing. (47-48) The opposite of all this appears in a poem called “There will be no Passion in This House.” Instead, there will be dust, sadness, fatigue, and phantom-existence. Moving right along—

Williams evokes sadness especially beautifully in two poems in Famous Faces: “The Cleaning Lady” and “Jasmine.” The opening lines of “The Cleaning Lady”—“the thin line of hair removed/makes me wonder”—become an over-arching metaphor for the rest of this poem, about a silently long-suffering cleaning lady. This metaphor gets poignantly repeated, in “vague pencil strokes,” “the pencil lines are what remain,” and “eyebrow pencil eyebrows.” (64-65) The cleaning lady’s pain is not a metaphor, after all. “Jasmine” conjures up good memories, like “liqueur of jasmine cooling throat.” Jasmine spells relief, until it fades to “no scent; thirst.” (85) Williams evokes oppression (the oppression of family obligations) in “Bending,” with recurring reference to her knees, knees habitually bending, knees beginning to break, knees getting tired, knees screaming. (My knees empathize.)

In Steven, Williams writes two powerful poems on longing. One is “A Vacant Lot,” once a place in which she ran barefoot, now neglected and overgrown with weeds, so that she tries “to walk barefoot in the city…/the concrete and glass assault my feet…” (66-67) Not being able to run barefoot, as she did then, could be literally painful, now. If only then were now. The other poem on longing is called “Marian C.’s Sestina.” The tension in this poem is summed up in four lines in the third stanza: “no farmboy, even in the abstract/was going to make her stay in arkansas./she’d been born south/but she wasn’t going to stay there and give up her painting.” She longs to leave “the hell that was Arkansas” for the first 36 lines, and then, in the last three lines, she does. (74-75) For Marian, longing leads to fulfillment.

There are many other excellent poems in both Famous Faces and Steven, too many to list here. Also, each poem is excellent for a different reason, for instance, playfulness with diction, or an incantatory style that suddenly shocks. This is not to claim that these poetry collections are flawless. In some poems, less would definitely be more. But, overall, there is a lot to love.

Thomas Gagnon./ Ibbetson Update/ Somerville, Mass./ April 2008

Labels: Gagnon on Williams

Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles--11

2008-04-20T16:21:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles--11, a gathering place of news, notes, words and wisdom bulldozing its way into your workday.

The Fairmount Arts Council is once again holding the Fairmount Arts Crawl on Sunday, April 27th from 2 to 6pm. Rev. Massey and I will be performing our work promptly at 2 p.m. at the Poetry Corner this year.

Rain venue: The London next door: 23rd & Fairmount

The Fairmount Arts Crawl is a community open house – where the entire Fairmount district becomes a showplace for local art and music, displayed and performed on the streets and in restaurants, bars, cafes, and other local businesses--all with an open door policy for the day.

The Arts Crawl is a day of indoor window shopping -- your chance to hear quality local music, to see local poets reading their work, and to appreciate the art that is being made in our neighborhood every day – all the while getting to know the businesses that encourage the arts in our neighborhood.

There is no entrance fee for the Arts Crawl and there's plenty of parking in the neighborhood – So come over and spend the day in the friendliest and most beautiful neighborhood in Philadelphia.

For more information:

Sandi Pierantozzi
Neighborhood Potters
2034 Fairmount Avenue
studio: 215-763-8439
home: 215-763-8439
www.neighborhoodpotters.com

Don't miss my good friend and sci-fi author par excellance Greg Frost:

On Friday April 25th, Philadelphia Fantastic will present author Gregory Frost reading from and signing copies of his latest novel, SHADOWBRIDGE (Del Rey Books).

What the critics are saying: Publisher's Weekly calls it "a sparkling gem of mythic invention and wonder." Booklist in a starred review says, "Leodora's journey is filled with the brilliant details of Frost's masterful world building." In Locus Magazine, Gary K. Wolfe sums it up: "For all its painterly beauty, Shadowbridge is a tough-minded novel that confronts some disturbing issues...Frost could be on his way toward a masterpiece." And Jay Tomio at Fantasy Bookspot says it's "one of the best reads of the year and this is just the beginning." What he means is, the second half of the story, LORD TOPHET, will debut in July.
Come find out what they're all raving about.

Gregory Frost at Philadelphia Fantastic
Friday, April 25th
7:30 p.m.
Barnes & Noble Center City
18th & Walnut Street (Rittenhouse Square)
3rd Floor

Dr. Ni is now in ArtellaLand! Artella is a wonderfully artistic site encouraging those of us who write to draw and those of us who draw to write. The colors are lush and the writing is profound. Dr. Ni has won second place in two poetry contests here and is proud to announce that she now has books in THE SHOPPES OF ARTELLA. Her products can be found using this URL: http://www.artellaland.com/NiamaWilliams.html

I am also listed in the Shoppes Artist Directory: http://www.artellaland.com/shop/index.php?main_page=page&id=83

Thank you Marney, Artella Founder, and all of the hardworking Artella staff, particularly Ms. Lori Minick. My page was up in no time flat, and all of the information was accurately displayed (except for my own mistakes!). If you are even thinking about becoming a budding artist, ArtellaLand is the place for you!

In fact …….

date Wed, Apr 16, 2008 at 8:32 AM
subject Fw: Shoppes Co-Op Program Updates

Dear Dr. Ni ~

Thank you for signing up for the new Artella Shoppes Artist Co-Op Program! As part of the SAMI Program (Shoppes Artist Marketing Initiative) I wanted to let you know about the following dates when you'll be featured in various locations in and around Artella Land:

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 16 - One of your products will be featured in the new "Shoppes Smoothie" section in the "LinkLatte" newsletter, which is sent to Artella Members and also is published in the Artella Daily Muse.

THURSDAY, APRIL 17 - You will be the featured artist in the pages of The Artella Daily Muse (www.artelladailymuse.com)

SATURDAY, APRIL 19 - One of your products will be featured on the Artella Cafe Gallery page

SUNDAY, APRIL 20 - One of your products will be featured on the Artella Cafe Forums page

MONDAY, APRIL 21 - You will be featured on the home page of the Artella Cafe (www.artellacafe.com)

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23 - One of your products will be featured throughout the inner pages of The Artella Daily Muse (www.artelladailymuse.com)

SATURDAY, APRIL 26 - One of your products will be featured on the Artella Cafe Downloads page

MONDAY, APRIL 28 - One of your products will be featured on the Artella Cafe Blog page

We will continue to notify you when we will be featuring you and your work in the future!

If you have any questions about your work in The Shoppes of Artella, please write us at shoppes@artellaland.com.

It's great to have you with us!

Lori Minick
Creativi-tea Connoisseur
shoppes@artellaland.com
http://www.artellaland.com

A word to the wise about Senator John McCain from Eli Pariser of MoveOn.org:

For all the coverage of Senator John McCain's background, there are some important things you won't learn about him from the TV networks. His carefully crafted positive image relies on people not knowing this stuff—and you might be surprised by some of it.

10 things you should know about John McCain (but probably don't):

1. John McCain voted against establishing a national holiday in honor of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Now he says his position has "evolved," yet he's continued to oppose key civil rights laws.1

2. According to Bloomberg News, McCain is more hawkish than Bush on Iraq, Russia and China. Conservative columnist Pat Buchanan says McCain "will make Cheney look like Gandhi."2

3. His reputation is built on his opposition to torture, but McCain voted against a bill to ban waterboarding, and then applauded President Bush for vetoing that ban.3

4. McCain opposes a woman's right to choose. He said, "I do not support Roe versus Wade. It should be overturned."4

5. The Children's Defense Fund rated McCain as the worst senator in Congress for children. He voted against the children's health care bill last year, then defended Bush's veto of the bill.5

6. He's one of the richest people in a Senate filled with millionaires. The Associated Press reports he and his wife own at least eight homes! Yet McCain says the solution to the housing crisis is for people facing foreclosure to get a "second job" and skip their vacations.6

7. Many of McCain's fellow Republican senators say he's too reckless to be commander in chief. One Republican senator said: "The thought of his being president sends a cold chill down my spine. He's erratic. He's hotheaded. He loses his temper and he worries me."7

8. McCain talks a lot about taking on special interests, but his campaign manager and top advisers are actually lobbyists. The government watchdog group Public Citizen says McCain has 59 lobbyists raising money for his campaign, more than any of the other presidential candidates.8

9. McCain has sought closer ties to the extreme religious right in recent years. The pastor McCain calls his "spiritual guide," Rod Parsley, believes America's founding mission is to destroy Islam, which he calls a "false religion." McCain sought the political support of right-wing preacher John Hagee, who believes Hurricane Katrina was God's punishment for gay rights and called the Catholic Church "the Antichrist" and a "false cult."9

10. He positions himself as pro-environment, but he scored a 0—yes, zero—from the League of Conservation Voters last year.10

John McCain is not who the Washington press corps make him out to be. Please help get the word out—forward this email to your personal network. And if you want us to keep you posted on MoveOn's work to get the truth out about John McCain, sign up here:

http://pol.moveon.org/mccaintruth/?id=12407-8955499-myuaKR&t=232

Thank you for all you do.

–Eli, Justin, Noah, Laura, and the MoveOn.org Political Action Team
Saturday, April 5th, 2008

(For the sources of the footnoted references above please go to moveon.org; I did not want the newsletter to be excessively lengthy)

Would that every dictator or totalitarian knew this:

The best way to be more free is to grant more freedom to others. -----Carlo Dossi, author and diplomat (1849-1910)

A video no one voting age should miss, especially if you care about public education: South Brooklyn high school students impressed by Obama: http://my.barackobama.com/yestheycan

Alice Walker on Barack Obama (how wonderful it is to again print something by Auntie Alice, "Auntie" because her writing has made her so near and dear to my heart [all emphases mine]) ……:
TheRoot.com
March 27, 2008

I HAVE COME home from a long stay in Mexico to find – because of the presidential campaign, and especially because of the Obama/Clinton race for the Democratic nomination - a new country existing alongside the old. On any given day we, collectively, become the Goddess of the Three Directions and can look back into the past, look at ourselves just where we are, and take a glance, as well, into the future. It is a space with which I am familiar.

When I was born in 1944 my parents lived on a middle Georgia plantation that was owned by a white distant relative, Miss May Montgomery. (During my childhood it was necessary to address all white girls as "Miss" when they reached the age of twelve.) She would never admit to this relationship, of course, except to mock it. Told by my parents that several of their children would not eat chicken skin she responded that of course they would not. No Montgomerys would.

My parents and older siblings did everything imaginable for Miss May. They planted and raised her cotton and corn, fed and killed and processed her cattle and hogs, painted her house, patched her roof, ran her dairy, and, among countless other duties and responsibilities my father was her chauffeur, taking her anywhere she wanted to go at any hour of the day or night. She lived in a large white house with green shutters and a green, luxuriant lawn: not quite as large as Tara of Gone With the Wind fame, but in the same style.

We lived in a shack without electricity or running water, under a rusty tin roof that let in wind and rain. Miss May went to school as a girl. The school my parents and their neighbors built for us was burned to the ground by local racists who wanted to keep ignorant their competitors in tenant farming. During the Depression, desperate to feed his hardworking family, my father asked for a raise from ten dollars a month to twelve. Miss May responded that she would not pay that amount to a white man and she certainly wouldn't pay it to a nigger. That before she'd pay a nigger that much money she'd milk the dairy cows herself.

When I look back, this is part of what I see. I see the school bus carrying white children, boys and girls, right past me, and my brothers, as we trudge on foot five miles to school. Later, I see my parents struggling to build a school out of discarded army barracks while white students, girls and boys, enjoy a building made of brick. We had no books; we inherited the cast off books that "Jane" and "Dick" had previously used in the all-white school that we were not, as black children, permitted to enter.

The year I turned fifty, one of my relatives told me she had started reading my books for children in the library in my home town. I had had no idea – so kept from black people it had been – that such a place existed. To this day knowing my presence was not wanted in the public library when I was a child I am highly uncomfortable in libraries and will rarely, unless I am there to help build, repair, refurbish or raise money to keep them open, enter their doors.

When I joined the freedom movement in Mississippi in my early twenties it was to come to the aid of sharecroppers, like my parents, who had been thrown off the land they'd always known, the plantations, because they attempted to exercise their "democratic" right to vote. I wish I could say white women treated me and other black people a lot better than the men did, but I cannot. It seemed to me then and it seems to me now that white women have copied, all too often, the behavior of their fathers and their brothers, and in the South, especially in Mississippi, and before that, when I worked to register voters in Georgia, the broken bottles thrown at my head were gender free.

I made my first white women friends in college; they were women who loved me and were loyal to our friendship, but I understood, as they did, that they were white women and that whiteness mattered. That, for instance, at Sarah Lawrence, where I was speedily inducted into the Board of Trustees practically as soon as I graduated, I made my way to the campus for meetings by train, subway and foot, while the other trustees, women and men, all white, made their way by limo. Because, in our country, with its painful history of unspeakable inequality, this is part of what whiteness means. I loved my school for trying to make me feel I mattered to it, but because of my relative poverty I knew I could not.

I am a supporter of Obama because I believe he is the right person to lead the country at this time. He offers a rare opportunity for the country and the world to start over, and to do better. It is a deep sadness to me that many of my feminist white women friends cannot see him. Cannot see what he carries in his being. Cannot hear the fresh choices toward Movement he offers. That they can believe that millions of Americans –black, white, yellow, red and brown - choose Obama over Clinton only because he is a man, and black, feels tragic to me.

When I have supported white people, men and women, it was because I thought them the best possible people to do whatever the job required. Nothing else would have occurred to me. If Obama were in any sense mediocre, he would be forgotten by now. He is, in fact, a remarkable human being, not perfect but humanly stunning, like King was and like Mandela is. We look at him, as we looked at them, and are glad to be of our species. He is the change America has been trying desperately and for centuries to hide, ignore, kill. The change America must have if we are to convince the rest of the world that we care about people other than our (white) selves.

True to my inner Goddess of the Three Directions however, this does not mean I agree with everything Obama stands for. We differ on important points probably because I am older than he is, I am a woman and person of three colors, (African, Native American, European), I was born and raised in the American South, and when I look at the earth's people, after sixty-four years of life, there is not one person I wish to see suffer, no matter what they have done to me or to anyone else; though I understand quite well the place of suffering, often, in human growth.

I want a grown-up attitude toward Cuba, for instance, a country and a people I love; I want an end to the embargo that has harmed my friends and their children, children who, when I visit Cuba, trustingly turn their faces up for me to kiss. I agree with a teacher of mine, Howard Zinn, that war is as objectionable as cannibalism and slavery; it is beyond obsolete as a means of improving life. I want an end to the on-going war immediately and I want the soldiers to be encouraged to destroy their weapons and to drive themselves out of Iraq.

I want the Israeli government to be made accountable for its behavior towards the Palestinians, and I want the people of the United States to cease acting like they don't understand what is going on. All colonization, all occupation, all repression basically looks the same, whoever is doing it. Here our heads cannot remain stuck in the sand; our future depends of our ability to study, to learn, to understand what is in the records and what is before our eyes. But most of all I want someone with the self-confidence to talk to anyone, "enemy" or "friend," and this Obama has shown he can do. It is difficult to understand how one could vote for a person who is afraid to sit and talk to another human being. When you vote you are making someone a proxy for yourself; they are to speak when, and in places, you cannot. But if they find talking to someone else, who looks just like them, human, impossible, then what good is your vote?

It is hard to relate what it feels like to see Mrs. Clinton (I wish she felt self-assured enough to use her own name) referred to as "a woman" while Barack Obama is always referred to as "a black man." One would think she is just any woman, colorless, race-less, past-less, but she is not. She carries all the history of white womanhood in America in her person; it would be a miracle if we, and the world, did not react to this fact. How dishonest it is, to attempt to make her innocent of her racial inheritance.

I can easily imagine Obama sitting down and talking, person to person, with any leader, woman, man, child or common person, in the world, with no baggage of past servitude or race supremacy to mar their talks. I cannot see the same scenario with Mrs. Clinton who would drag into Twenty-First Century American leadership the same image of white privilege and distance from the reality of others' lives that has so marred our country's contacts with the rest of the world.

And yes, I would adore having a woman president of the United States. My choice would be Representative Barbara Lee, who alone voted in Congress five years ago not to make war on Iraq. That to me is leadership, morality, and courage; if she had been white I would have cheered just as hard. But she is not running for the highest office in the land, Mrs. Clinton is. And because Mrs. Clinton is a woman and because she may be very good at what she does, many people, including some younger women in my own family, originally favored her over Obama. I understand this, almost. It is because, in my own nieces' case, there is little memory, apparently, of the foundational inequities that still plague people of color and poor whites in this country. Why, even though our family has been here longer than most North American families – and only partly due to the fact that we have Native American genes – we very recently, in my lifetime, secured the right to vote, and only after numbers of people suffered and died for it.

When I offered the word "Womanism" many years ago, it was to give us a tool to use, as feminist women of color, in times like these. These are the moments we can see clearly, and must honor devotedly, our singular path as women of color in the United States. We are not white women and this truth has been ground into us for centuries, often in brutal ways. But neither are we inclined to follow a black person, man or woman, unless they demonstrate considerable courage, intelligence, compassion and substance. I am delighted that so many women of color support Barack Obama -and genuinely proud of the many young and old white women and men who do.

Imagine, if he wins the presidency we will have not one but three black women in the White House; one tall, two somewhat shorter; none of them carrying the washing in and out of the back door. The bottom line for most of us is: With whom do we have a better chance of surviving the madness and fear we are presently enduring, and with whom do we wish to set off on a journey of new possibility? In other words, as the Hopi elders would say: Who do we want in the boat with us as we head for the rapids? Who is likely to know how best to share the meager garden produce and water? We are advised by the Hopi elders to celebrate this time, whatever its adversities.

We have come a long way, Sisters, and we are up to the challenges of our time. One of which is to build alliances based not on race, ethnicity, color, nationality, sexual preference or gender, but on Truth. Celebrate our journey. Enjoy the miracle we are witnessing. Do not stress over its outcome. Even if Obama becomes president, our country is in such ruin it may well be beyond his power to lead us toward rehabilitation. If he is elected however, we must, individually and collectively, as citizens of the planet, insist on helping him do the best job that can be done; more, we must insist that he demand this of us. It is a blessing that our mothers taught us not to fear hard work. Know, as the Hopi elders declare: The river has its destination. And remember, as poet June Jordan and Sweet Honey in the Rock never tired of telling us: We are the ones we have been waiting for.

Namaste;
And with all my love,
Alice Walker
Cazul
Northern California
First Day of Spring

(From a recent issue of Metamorphosis ezine): Tibet - Support the Dalai Lama

I just signed an urgent petition calling on the Chinese government to respect human rights in Tibet and engage in meaningful dialogue with the Dalai Lama. This is really important, and I thought you might want to participate...

After nearly 50 years of Chinese rule, the Tibetans are sending out a global cry for change. But violence is spreading across Tibet and neighbouring regions, and the Chinese regime is right now considering a choice between increasing brutality or dialogue, that could determine the future of Tibet and China.

China is a sprawling, diverse country with much brutality in its past, so it has good reasons to be concerned about stability - some of Tibet's rioters killed innocent people. But President Hu must recognize that the greatest danger to Chinese stability and development today comes from hardliners who advocate escalating repression, not from those Tibetans seeking dialogue and reform.

We can affect this historic choice. China does care about its international reputation. Its economy is totally dependent on "Made in China" exports that we all buy, and it is keen to make the Olympics in Beijing this summer a celebration of a new China that is a respected world power.

President Hu needs to hear that 'Brand China' and the Olympics can succeed only if he makes the right choice. But it will take an avalanche of global people power to get his attention. Click below to join me and sign a petition to President Hu calling for restraint in Tibet and dialogue with the Dalai Lama -- and tell absolutely everyone you can right away. The petition is organized by Avaaz, and they are urgently aiming to reach 1 million signatures to deliver directly to Chinese officials: Add Your Signature Here

Whether or not you choose to sign the petition, please then visit our Meditation Experience: What is Love? Listen and watch the video in a calm and quiet space, and clearly identify that quality of Love at the core of your being - for it is your essential self, your true nature, in abundance... and then love the people of Tibet and the people of China, unconditionally, and embrace them together warmly in your arms, in your heart...

The Tibetan people have suffered quietly for decades. It is finally their moment to speak--we must help them be heard. Thank you so much for your help!

Peter Shepherd (editor of Metamorphosis)

P.S. Please forward this email to all your friends who you feel may be interested to participate, to help in this small but significant way to make the world a better place for ourselves and children to live in.

P.P.S. Already I have received some criticism for my involvement in this. I know little of the politics involved and who exactly is right and wrong, but I do know that the solution to conflict is dialogue and love - not tanks and torture. Surely the ancient Tibetan culture has a right to exist peacefully. Though I view from far away, this issue is close to my heart because having been interested in Buddhism since childhood and been inspired by several of the Dalai Lamas' books, I want to support his compassionate approach. His message at this time is as much for the Tibetan people as for the Chinese.

Note: Avaaz.org is an independent, not-for-profit global campaigning organization that works to ensure that the views and values of the world's people inform global decision-making. (Avaaz means "voice" in many languages.) Avaaz receives no money from governments or corporations, and is staffed by a global team based in London, Rio de Janeiro, New York, Paris, Washington DC, and Geneva.

Families with children needed in Wisconsin ….

from Jess Moss
date Tue, Apr 15, 2008 at 8:36 PM

Greetings Friends and Relations,

Today I've decided to reach out to pretty much everyone I know, though email, which I haven't done in a long time. For some, this is a regular update, and for others, it's a "Wow, I thought she fell off the planet years ago..." type of update. Where I live, we're searching for a particular group of people, but, an update and explanation is needed first, so here it goes:

The update:
Up here in the Northwoods of Wisconsin, (it's way up there - near the southern tip of Lake Superior) the cozy white blanket of snow over the Earth keeps getting replenished by one after another of these Spring snow storms. I believe I may be in line for a lesson in patience. When the warmth melts the snow and uncovers the wet ground in patches here and there, for a couple of days, another snow cloud repairs the brown holes with new patches of white. The tug-and-pull is fully on.

Under these signs, sugar bush camp (where we go and collect sap, then boil it down to make maple syrup) was set up early during a cold-night, warm-day spell (the only time it will run) which quickly turned to a week of solid storms. Eventually, the sap started flowing in earnest and we boiled down gallons and gallons of sap into roughly two gallons of syrup. Then more storms blew in, which truly bewildered all the newly arrived and emerged creatures, and now the sap is flowing again. Who says our moods and whims are not modeled after Nature herself? I am running around in PAC boots, taking long, long walks.

If you couldn't tell already, I live in the woods. Well, most of the time. I've just spent about 6 months living in a yurt, and I am on the run again, seemingly in harmony with the nomads and migratory creatures of the earth. Since everything is melting and then freezing, I'm reluctant to set up something outside and then wake up in a puddle. So, I'm staying with the families (4 parents, 3 separate ones, 3 kids). Which brings me to the general point of this email:

So, out here where I live is at an Outdoor School. It is a place where we are all focused on living closer to the earth, in a very simple way, reconnecting. We have a number of different programs going on, and my role here is as the editor to the guide/founder/director of the school. He writes a lot. I edit a lot. We're working on 5-7 different full-length books right now and 2 other major projects. I also do a lot of other stuff, as this is an intentional community, including co-parenting of 3 beautiful boys. This leads me closer to the subject at hand...

Right now, we are revving up the energy to bring a couple more families to complement our budding children's culture. We would love to have more families here, more children here, and I personally would love that as well. After being here for a year and a half, and watching our children's culture emerge, I am extremely passionate about it. Children's Culture? Huh? Well, it's a long story, but the basic motto is: kids need other kids. I know that almost none of you have children right now, however, we're all of that age when we're thinking about it, or, some of us are. Or some of us know people who are. Anyway, please take a look at our invitational web page about the children's culture:

http://teachingdrum.org/childrensculture.html

and, I'd be grateful if you would forward it to families with children that might have an interest in checking out the possibility of being here. Of course, for other info about what we're doing here, www.teachindrum.org is where it's at. Or, call me: 715 - 546 - 2944. I know I don't keep in touch very well most of the time, though you are all in my heart. That's what these occasions are for, I suppose.

My Gratitude and rich transition time wishes,

Jess

A snippet from my life or this issue's essay designed to strengthen the soul and embolden the spirit …..

INDIE CHANNELS
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright April 2008
1,492 words

I sat down here, originally, to write a letter of praise and thanks to Archbishop Desmond Tutu, who will be gracing St. Joseph's University this coming Sunday and speaking to a chapel full of a devoted public. Yet when I picked up my pen to prepare words to precede "Schlindler's List," a poem of separation and Maafa and angst, I found things took a different turn and I spoke instead of Africans and those in America committed to helping our brethren, those committed to stopping the pain and amplifying the beauty of our ancestral brothers and sisters.

And so I turn to you, devoted readers of my humble newsletter, whom I hope to encourage with my tales of a life working now because it has been turned whole cloth over to service, to obedience to God. I want most what He wants of and for me; I know that He chooses best when it comes to decisions though, still a frustrated human, I can be testy when our timetables don't mesh!

I am learning that turning one's life over to God means many things, including something T. Harv Eker mentioned in his Wealth File #10 today. He discussed, briefly, the ability to receive. That many times we are not rich because we do not receive well. I realized that he was right because I too am having to learn that turning one's life, sincerely and with no expectation, over to God means that God will give you gifts, will grant you blessings, blessings you have yet to even vocalize simply because He delights in His children.

I am a great lover of cinema, my earliest and most precious memories of my mother are of me lying full length on the couch at home in the living room, my head in her lap, her feet on the coffee table, a cup of black coffee either in her hand or nearby on the side table, both of us devotedly watching one of her favorite films: The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, The Uninvited, Wuthering Heights (the one with Laurence Olivier of course), Jane Eyre (with Orson Welles), Casablanca. Black and white films still have a certain charm for me, and I have avoided TCM and American Movie Channel of late because now that the reality of her death and passing have sunken in, I do not touch my grief with too many things that remind me of her. I fear an afternoon of Casablanca right now might kill me.

My love of cinema has not died however. I stopped going to the movies when ticket prices went up to $10 and Wesley Snipes made a film that was ninety minutes long. My mother and I regularly scoped the L.A. Times for double features and we thought $3 was a lot back then. Two full-length films and popcorn and real characters involved in real human drama--so much to talk about and critique afterwards, over the next few days, weeks, months. So much of our relationship was a common delight in analysis and brain power, using our intellect to derive and discern, to read people, read characters, understand people and characters' real motivations. In later years before her death we did not watch Entertainment Tonight or any of the other gossip shows; we cared about the artistry of celebrities, not their personal lives. Longtime residents of Los Angeles we knew instinctively that what actors really wanted was something they could no longer buy: privacy, time alone in public, in public places. The price of celebrity for some of them too high and too uncomfortable a surprise.

As more and more of what Hollywood produced became vehicles for special effects, we turned to independent films under the guidance of my much more clued-in cousin. She enjoyed adopted daughter status with my mother and idol status with me, younger than her by about seven years. She always seemed to know which new independent film was worth seeing, and which would be suited to our tastes. Thus when I finally consented to paying for TV, an outrage I fought until the year 2000, I wanted the independent film channels more so than the premium ones: Sundance, Flix, Indie and IFC. There was one golden period from about 2004-2006 when I had them all, but then graduation from doctoral institution and then no work for 18 months and then loss of apartment and then homelessness.

A friend took me in, but he was a retiree barely making it himself, and so cable was a minor luxury that we had because the Comcast triple play made the Internet and phone we needed cheaper. We are both writers, he and I, and the web is essential to all that I do as well as what I do for him. I live on the Internet; he lives on the phone. We had basic cable and that was about it though he had invested in a small Philips high definition TV for his mother's delight.

We eventually moved his mother out because she was no longer good for his psyche or his health, and were cruising along quite happily with basic and that was it til I began to think, on the rare occasion when I flipped channels and it was the writers' strike so there were no new episodes of Criminal Intent or SVU or Numb3rs and the free movies offered pretty much sucked or I'd seen them. On rare occasions I began to long, just for a moment, for my indie channels.

One night, as I sleepily tried to watch SVU until bedtime, a Comcast person called and said we had not paid our bill. I was overtired and my tone showed it. "Let me get you the confirmation number," I tersely contested as I rose to find the bills file. I'd just squeezed out payment earlier that Tuesday and I was not about to hear that the payment had not been recorded. There were too many things we hadn't been able to pay; I wasn't going to hear any noise from the cable company.

Halfway to the bedroom I realized I was hearing that special beep that means someone has hung up the line. "No she didn't hang up on me," I swore, outraged double. I hobbled back to the living room to collapse into the recliner and call Comcast one more time. Was I ever going to have a lot to say. Fortunately, honey-voiced baritone Aaron came on the line and assured me that all was right with our account; the payment was indeed on file. I hung up, contented, and turned back to the screen.

Moments later the screen went black. "Not Authorized" it said, please call the company for more info. My blood began to boil. That witch! I thought.

Lucia to the rescue. I was stomp down angry now, and unafraid to show it. Lucia soothed and consoled and I understooded me into a version of calm I did not think possible for an SVU watcher who had worked a full day on two and a half hours of sleep. Turn off the box, she said; wait thirty seconds, turn it back on again.

I cussed; I fussed; it didn't work.

Let me send a signal, she said.

Didn't work.

Let me send a stronger signal, she said.

Didn't work.

Let me get my supervisor to look over your record; he might see something I missed.

I grumbled, grimaced and complied.

Thirty minutes passed with the wonderful Lucia checking in with me every so often. "I've got it," she finally said after the half hour. "The person who called you initially? Well, she tried to upgrade your service, she really tried to do something good, but she used the wrong code and that cut off your basic cable. Now I've got to work with my supervisor to see if we can fix it."

"Uh huh," I said.

"Yeah," she said; "she really did try to do something good."

"Uh, huh. So I should remove that hex from her head then."

Lucia laughed, a bell-like tinkling sound in a deep Black woman's voice.

"Yea," she said; "I think you should."

We both laughed then and she asked if she could call me back when she had straightened it out instead of having me wait forever on the line. I readily agreed, knowing by now that if Israel and Palestine needed a negotiator we should probably send Lucia and her supervisor.

She did call back. She not only solved the problem, but cut $10 off our monthly bill. Oh, and my indie channels? She made sure the new package had all four of them, no extra charge.

I hadn't even prayed out loud. The indie channels just a passing wish, never once vocalized.

My roommate, the imminent Reverend, says God hears the deepest desires of our hearts.

I thought I was a believer before. Now I am for sure.

###

And, of course, you know I would not leave you without levity! The jokes section for this issue begins with …..

On their way to get married a young Catholic couple is involved in a fatal car accident. The couple finds themselves sitting outside the Pearly Gates waiting for St. Peter to return. While waiting, they begin to wonder: Could we possibly get married in Heaven? When St. Peter showed up they asked him. St. Peter says, "I don't know. This is the first time anyone has asked. Let me go find out" and he leaves.

The couple sat and waited and waited. Two months passed and the couple is still waiting. As they waited, they discussed that if they were allowed to get married in Heaven, what was the eternal aspect of it all. "What if it doesn't work?" they wondered, "Are we stuck together FOREVER?"

After yet another month, St. Peter finally returns, looking somewhat bedraggled. "Yes," he informs the couple, "you CAN get married in Heaven."

"Great!" said the couple, "But we were just wondering, what if things don't work out? Could we also get a divorce in Heaven?" St. Peter, red-faced with anger, slams his clipboard onto the ground. What's wrong?" asked the frightened couple.

"OH, COME ON!" St. Peter shouts, "It took me three months to find a priest up here! Do you have ANY idea how long it will take me to find a LAWYER?"

Subject: Today's BRILLIANT 5 minute Management Course

Lesson 1: A man is getting into the shower just as his wife is finishing up her shower, when the doorbell rings. The wife quickly wraps herself in a towel and runs downstairs. When she opens the door, there stands Bob, the next-door neighbour. Before she says a word, Bob says, I'll give you $800 to drop that towel. After thinking for a moment the woman drops her towel and stands naked in front of Bob. After a few seconds, Bob hands her $800 and leaves. The woman wraps back up in the towel and goes back upstairs. When she gets to the bathroom, her husband asks, Who was that? It was Bob the next-door neighbour, she replies. Great, the husband says, did he say anything about the $800 he owes me?

Moral of the story: If you share critical information with your colleagues and stakeholders, you will be better positioned to prevent avoidable exposure.

Lesson 2: A priest offered a Nun a lift. She got in and crossed her legs, forcing her gown to reveal a leg. The priest nearly had an accident. After controlling the car, he stealthily slid his hand up her leg. The nun said, "Father, remember Psalm 129." The priest removed his hand. But, changing gears, he let his hand slide up her leg again. The nun once again said, "Father, remember Psalm 129." The priest apologized, "Sorry sister, but the flesh is weak." Arriving at the convent, the nun sighed heavily and went on her way. On his arrival at the church, the priest rushed to look up Psalm 129. It said, "Go forth and seek, further up, you will find glory."

Moral of the story: Know your job, if you are not well informed in your field, you might miss a great opportunity.

Lesson 3: A sales rep, an administration clerk, and the manager are walking to lunch when they find an antique oil lamp. They rub it and a Genie comes out. The Genie says, I'll give each of you just one wish. Me first, Me first, says the admin clerk. I want to be in the Bahamas, driving a speedboat, without a care in the world. Puff! She's gone. Me next, Me next, says the sales rep. I want to be in Hawaii, relaxing on the beach with my personal masseuse, an endless supply of Pina Coladas and the love of my life. Puff He's gone. OK, you're up, the Genie says to the manager. The manager says, I want those two back in the office after lunch.

Moral of the story: Always let your boss have the first say.

Lesson 4: An eagle was sitting on a tree resting, doing nothing. A small rabbit saw the eagle and asked him, Can I also sit like you and do nothing. The eagle answered Sure, why not. So, the rabbit sat on the ground below the eagle and rested. All of a sudden, a fox appeared, jumped on the rabbit and ate it.

Moral of the story: To be sitting and doing nothing, you must be sitting very, very high up.

For those of you who are sick of getting e-mails that tell you to forward it to at least X number of people in the next 15 minutes so that wonderful things and miracles will happen if you do, or there will be serious consequences if you don't, then you will enjoy this. This is hilarious (and it's ABOUT TIME someone did this!)!!!!

http://info.org.il/irrelevant/may02-smilepop-soapbox4.swf

--
Dr. Niama L. Williams
Norristown, PA
http://www.blowingupbarriers.com

Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles--10

2008-02-26T15:57:00.000-08:00

Not for women only …….

Violence against women is not an issue just for women—it concerns the entire human family. The organizers of V-Day Philadelphia invite you to participate in the all-important work of fighting the pervasiveness of violence in our society by coming out to see Eve Ensler's prize-winning play, The Vagina Monologues, on March 1st, 2008 at The Ethical Society building in Philadelphia, PA.

There are two performances on March 1st, at 2 p.m. and 8 p.m., and each performance will be followed by a raffle. As a local volunteer for V-Day Philadelphia, I, Dr. Niama L. Williams, have raffle tickets for sale. If you would like to purchase tickets, please contact me via email (niamapers@gmail.com) or by phone (484/231-1768).

The tickets are $5 a piece or 3 for $10, and the prize is half (50%) of the money raised from the sale of the tickets, the auction, etc. The other half is going to the beneficiaries of V-Day Philadelphia '08: ISF (Institute for Safe Families), Women in Transition, and the V-Day 2008 Spotlight Campaign down in New Orleans (which has been dubbed, "V to the Tenth").

The drawing will occur on 3/1, during the TVM performances. The winner does not need to be present to claim the prize, so contact me via email or phone to purchase tickets! Thanks again for all of your help!

A correction here: "V to the 10th" is not about V-Day's '08 campaign, "the Women of New Orleans and the Gulf South." "V to the Tenth" is V-Day's 10th anniversary mantra (so to speak) which will culminate in a big celebration in New Orleans.

Dr. Niama L. Williams
Volunteer, V-Day Philadelphia 2008
Norristown, PA
niamapers@gmail.com
484/231-1768
http://www.blowingupbarriers.com

As a thank you for the warm and inviting welcome that Dr. Niama L. Williams has received as a new substitute at Norristown Area High School, she is inviting all Norristown Area School District students, staff, parents, guardians and faculty to her first reading in Mt. Airy at the Big Blue Marble Bookstore (a wonderful environment for parents and kids).

Wednesday, March 5, 7:00pm:
Poetry with Rev. William Massey & Dr. Niama Williams

Rev. William Massey is a newly published author who has compiled volumes of works ranging from descriptions of his experiences in the court system, fanciful imaginations of people he has met, tributes to fallen saints in the vineyard of the Lord, and spiritual perspectives comparing natural settings with our lives. He spent forty-five years as first tenor in the famed Paul Roberts Singers of Philadelphia. For the past fifteen years, Rev. William Massey has been Associate Minister with the Zion Baptist Church of Ardmore, PA, and instructor for the Inter-faith Poetry Project.

Dr. Niama Leslie Williams (http://www.blowingupbarriers.com), a June 2006 Leeway Foundation Art and Social Change Grant recipient, and a 2006 (July) participant in a Sable Literary Magazine/Arvon Foundation residential course in Shropshire, UK, possesses a doctorate in African American literature from Temple University, a master's in fiction from the University of Southern California, and a bachelor's in Latin American literature from Occidental College. Born and raised in Los Angeles, California, she currently resides in Norristown, Pennsylvania.

All events are free and open to everyone.

Maleka Fruean
Outreach/Events Coordinator
Big Blue Marble Bookstore
551 Carpenter Lane
Philadelphia, PA 19119
215-844-1870
www.bigbluemarblebooks.com

And don't miss Dr. Ni this Thursday, February 28th, 2008, as part of the Mad Poets' Society Open Mic at Taylor's at the Olde Mill in Norristown, PA. Our host will be the inestimable Mr. Joseph Dorazio, guest on Dr. Ni's "Poetry & Prose & Anything Goes" this past Friday, February 22nd (podcast available at blogtalkradio.com/drni). The words begin to fly at 7 p.m.

--
Dr. Niama L. Williams
Norristown, PA
http://www.blowingupbarriers.com

Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles

2008-02-16T02:16:00.001-08:00

Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles--9

2008-02-14T14:55:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles--9, a gathering place of news, notes, words and wisdom bulldozing its way into your workday.

Words of wisdom for 2008:

The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience. -----Emily Dickinson, poet (1830-1886)

A bit of news:

Hi Niama :-) I just popped by to let you know your interview is now posted on my Books and Authors blog at http://joyceanthony.tripod.com/blog
Please feel free to pass on the news!!!
Thanks for the wonderful interview--please stay in touch??-----Joyce
Visit: http://joyceanthony.tripod.com to experience the rainbow!!

From author and blogger Rose Marie Wolf:

Just to let you know...your guest blog post is up at rosemariewolf.blogspot.com

If there's anything else I can do for you, please let me know.
--
Much Love Always,
Rose Marie Wolf
www.rosemariewolf.com
rosemariewolf.blogspot.com
The Moon Series--Hunter's Moon, Book 3
Available January 1st

The return of a radio show:

“Poetry & Prose & Anything Goes with Dr. Ni” returns to the airwaves via BlogTalkRadio (www.blogtalkradio.com) this Friday, January 25th, 2008 at 2 p.m. EST. Our first guest? Author Allison Whittenberg who will share with us a short story about an unusual ride on a Greyhound bus. On February 1st, my guest will be the inimitable spoken word artist Marcus Harris. Get your ears ready! :-)

A prizewinner:

date Jan 16, 2008 5:16 PM

Dear Niama -

Congratulations! Your poem, "Sean Ward Housing" won 2nd place in Artella's *MONTH* 2007 PassionPoetry Competition!

We invite you to also enter the next Poetic Idol Competition, which has been extended to February 28, 2008. This contest has great prizes, including a $200 top award. Get information for submitting at:
http://www.artellawordsandart.com/poetry-plaza.html#Quarterly

Finally, you also may be interested in submitting work to be published in Artella's various publications, and you can find submissions information at http://www.artellawordsandart.com/submit.html

Thank you for entering, and congratulations!

Tammy Hensley

Artistic Admin Alchemist
Artella - the waltz of words, art, & spirit
http://www.artellaland.com

Book for sale from a wonderful poet friend, a soft-voiced soul from upstate New York who journeyed to California to present her work to those who were my students at the time ….

Happy New Year to all of my friends. I am back from an astounding trip to India and the holiday season and ready for all of the blessings that 2008 has to offer. I wish you all wonders in this year before us and hope that you all had a wonderful end to 2007.

One of the gifts that 2008 will bring is the release of my second collection of poetry, The Doom Weaver. Thanks to those of you who have already ordered The Doom Weaver after my first announcement! I appreciate your support! Many of you have asked about a release date and that is dependent upon advanced sales on line. Main Street Rag is offering a 35% discount for sales through the on line bookstore between now and February 4th, 2008. This means that the list price is just $9 and the book will go to press once we have 100 copies presold, at which point I will be able to start booking reading and release parties to sign your books and share the words.

Please link to the listing by the following: http://www.mainstreetrag.com/store/ComingSoon.php to order your copy and if you know anyone who would be interested, I would appreciate you spreading the word. Thanks to all of you in the support you have all provided in my work and I look forward to bringing the words to breath once I have the book in hand.

If you have any questions, please let me know and I hope that you are all well and ready for the year.

peace, power, and poetry,
g.

Georgia Popoff
Community Poet
http://home.earthlink.net/~angel_light

A request from my surrogate Dad, a wonderful human being who made bearable my years as a high schooler in far too much emotional pain. Larry and Jeff had been together long before I met them in 1976; now, having lost Larry due to a sudden and shocking choking accident, I pass on Papa Jeff’s request that we all come together for an event that Larry loved ……..

from Jeff Horton

Dear Friends and Family of Larry,

The schedule of films for the Pan African Film and Arts Festival is out! Just go to the website, paff.org, and explore them. (Click on films.) There is a whole long list of films--I haven't even gotten through it all. It promises to be the usual treasure of creativity, humor, beauty, reality, fanatsy, tragedy, and fun. Please go to the site and begin thinking about what movies you'd like to see. That's what Larry would have been doing right now. I'll try to get some copies of the printed program as well and I'll let you know where you can pick them up.

As for TEAM LARRY on the evening of Wed, Feb 6, we need more volunteers. So far we have Larry's festival pal Dorothy, long time friend Margit and her son Owen, and neighbor and median partner Mary S. plus me and the boys. I hope we will also have Derrick (Larry's nephew) and Vicky and her daughters Monique and Brigit. It's never too late to volunteer, so let me know if you can make it.

The work of setting up that Weds night won't begin until the mall closes at 8 or 9 pm, so I thought we could meet at about 7 pm for dinner at the Cafe Creole next to the mall. (It's next to the Sizzler restaurant at the southwest corner of the mall.) This is a lovely little restaurant with really good New Orleans cooking at reasonable prices.

I would also like to look for a film or two that we might all want to see, so as you look through the program please think of things that Larry's friends and family would enjoy. I'll be making some suggestions as well.

For those of you with children or who know children, please take a look at the children's events on the two Saturdays, Feb 9 and 16 at 10 am. We've been to these and they're wonderful free events which include films, story telling, and crafts. We have seen some lovely African children's cartoons at these events.

Other parts of the festival to look for:

Spoken word fest--poetry readings at the festival headquarters next to the mall.

Youth fest--teenage interest films and speakers on week day mornings.

The festival is such a rich and profound cultural resource for all people. It's no wonder that Larry was so committed to it every year. This was one of Larry's priorities that definitely deserves to be carried on. I hope you can join us.

(FYI: Unfortunately I have to be out of town from Sun Feb 10 through Wed Feb 13. Other than that I'll be free to go to movies in the evenings and weekends.)

Jeff

A poem I wrote for Jeff in which I imagined his and Larry’s relationship …….

FOR LARRY
Niama Leslie Williams
Copyright October 2007

for jeff

pillars of fire
rage anger fury
hope despair
how else say
i love you
you love me
if not willing to breathe fire
and then retreat
pull back
cover wings fangs incisors
canines
with lip, tongue, peace.

some of us peep out
from between the pillars of fire
close one eye
the other
fake risk, rage
will you risk it with me
then retreat back to love
softness sanity

will you endure the conflagration
holding my hand spirit essence
fury
and give back to me softness
after the stifling, exhaustive,
hissing splash of water
creating wisp of smoke and silence?

only you, lover, lifetime lover
know why--
why the fury test necessary
only you willingly, knowingly
return peace each time
understand those eyes
fretful
between the pillars.

we
your children
birthed and nonbirthed
know you will wait to die
to join him ..........

know deep in your heart
you will wish to be with him
but you will never tell us
not overtly
you know we will jealously
savagely grasp
what of the love you shared
remains.

partly jealous, me, always
never sharing the halcyon of your home
always outside looking in
wanting, dreaming, safety----
i want his absence
your grief
to draw us closer
as i
terrified
reach for my own destined beloved.

he was yours
at birth.

look for flames, father--
sparks, sparklers, dry twigs combusting
firecrackers multiplying in your presence
firemen avoiding your gaze, company.

he will be in every burst of orange, father,
reminding you spirit surpasseth
all understanding
love barrierless
time no bridge

look for the spark, papa
he will be there
loving you

waiting.

An amazing work from a stunning poet that struck me as I meandered through my daily email ……..

A BRIEF FOR THE DEFENSE
by Jack Gilbert

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

-Jack Gilbert

Gilbert has several books.
One is *Refusing Heaven,* available here: http://tinyurl.com/o8kwn
Another is *The Great Fires,* available here: http://tinyurl.com/38az42

From the only astrologer I pay any attention to because I love the positivity, sagacity, and intense artfulness of his messages (Rob Brezsny in case you are wondering; check out freewillastrology.com ………)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JESUS

Fundamentalist Christians send me hate mail. Religious zealots in ten cities have banned one of my books. Along with meditation, yoga, and sex for fun, the Vatican has declared astrology, one of my occupations, to be dangerous to your spiritual health.

All of these haters would be shocked if they learned that Jesus Christ is one of the Main High Dudes in my pantheon of gods. They seem to believe that people like me -- goddess-worshiping tantric sufi Qabalist Buddhist pagans who hang around with zen trickster witches and espouse a socialist libertarian political philosophy -- couldn't possibly have an intimate relationship with the cosmic hero they claim to own. They must think they have commandeered the trademark of one of the sweetest avatars in history!

But I do have an intimate relationship with Jesus. How could I not? He was a champion of women's rights, a threat to the established political order, and a radical spiritual activist who worked outside religious institutions. The dude owned nothing and was a passionate advocate for the poor and underprivileged. He was uncompromisingly opposed to violence and war. Besides that, he was a master of love and he devoted his life to serving the Divine Intelligence. I want to be like him when I grow up!

"It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle," he said, "than it is for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven." That's a pretty clear statement of his position towards rightwing accumulators of property and wealth.

"Love your enemies," he said, "do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you." How any militarist promoting global arms sales and pre-emptive war could claim an affinity with Jesus is incomprehensible.

Happy Birthday, Jesus!

An announcement from Fractured Atlas, a wonderful organization in New York that allows writers and other artists to share their 501c3 designation so that we gifted people can solicit tax-deductible donations for our projects ……

Introducing Fractured U. - Continuing Education for D.I.Y. Artists
by Adam Forest Huttler

My undergraduate degree is in theatre. For the most part, my time in college was spent rolling around on the floor and exhaling on a hum. This did a lovely job of teaching me how to "project" to the rafters, but it taught me virtually nothing about how to actually make a living in the theatre industry. The closest we came was a mini-semester on auditioning. Nothing on how to start a theatre company, nothing about fundraising or marketing or budgeting or any of the myriad other skills that real working artists need to have these days.

The truth is that this experience is far more common than not. Unless you specifically pursue a degree in arts administration (or do what I eventually did and get an MBA) it is assumed that craft and aesthetics are enough. The arts industry today is sadly full of artists who are running businesses - either by choice or by default - but have essentially zero training in how to do that.

With this mammoth need in mind, I am pleased to announce the launch of Fractured U. For the last year we've been quietly putting together an online curriculum in arts management aimed squarely at artists who are working outside the mainstream establishment and trying to make things happen on their own terms. The initial roster of classes provides introductions to fundraising, marketing, and professional identity. The course list is short for the moment, but we'll be expanding it steadily over time.

Fractured U. is free and open to the public, although you'll need to be a Fractured Atlas member to participate in discussion forums or take quizzes.

Since this is a brand new service - and one that I hope will someday be a big part of what we do - I'm eager for any and all feedback. So give it a whirl and tell us what you think!

An event that no one, of any nationality, ethnicity, or political, social or cultural persuasion should miss:

Greetings!

Thank you for supporting the Sankofa Literary Society in hosting the 2008 Black History Month Online Book Fair. This event will take place totally on the Internet and over the phones. Save the date for the virtual release party too. To date, we have 45 confirmed bestselling authors for the event!

From February 1-29, 2008, authors, literary leaders, spoken word artists, poets, and bookstore owners will discuss the State of African-American literacy and the importance of Black History being celebrated 365 days per year. The nightly events will be broadcast to 10,000 listeners! This event will be promoted nation wide by an AP wire service and by local radio stations in DC/MD/VA.

Participation in the BHM Book Fair is FREE FOR EVERYONE; however promotional packages are available for interested authors. Choose from the 4 packages available; release party info included

http://sankofaliterarysociety.homestead.com/payments244343mojorj3443jporuj343n3.html. Password Protected for your shopping safety: peace1unity2bhm3

Speak with Ella via email or telephone:
Email: ella@edc-creations.com
Phone: 301-422-1730

Ella D. Curry, President and CEO of EDC Creations
Need more info: ella@edc-creations.com
Visit Us Online: www.edc-creations.com
SLS Homepage: www.sankofaliterarysociety.org

Finally, as always, a ruminatory essay providing a window in on my spiritual life and progression down the path God seems to be laying out before me …..

THE WORKS OF HE WHO SENT ME
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright January 2008

Jesus said, I must work the works of He who sent me ….

Dear God,

It is fitting that I sit here, in Melanie’s home, first in a doorway, then in a passageway between two rooms about to write of the beginning of my life of service.

I often tell those I am close to or those I am about to become close to of the beginning of my knowledge that God had made me exceptional. My father had left our home the night before amidst tears, punishing silence, anguish and grief. I had been inconsolable on his lap that night before, a flood, a river of tears, but when he asked me to hush up now I did as he asked, ever the obedient Daddy’s girl. The next morning I rose, a happy five-year-old, resigned to the fact that my daddy was gone. I bounced, a little bit less lifeless, to my bedroom door to see what my day held.

I heard the sobbing. I looked west, down the hall, and there my brothers stood, the oldest’s head on one of Mama’s shoulders, the second oldest’s head on the other shoulder, both crying their guts out. I watched that tsunami of tears and rightly calculated that my mother would never be able to carry the weight of so much sadness, so much ripped open pain.

I said nothing to anyone, but that moment I observed and made a decision: I would take whatever, I would absorb whatever because these people would never make it without me.

Forty years have passed since that morning, and I have no grand plans to celebrate my 46th. I dream now of a mate, a life partner, and if there was anything I were to ask of this God I love, worship, happily joyfully thankfully prayerfully give my life over to in service, it is that He hasten this man’s steps toward me.

The road so long, so long away from the lies and secrets and half-truths my family’s anger and rage implanted. “On Fire” one of my favorite Criminal Intents because Glenn’s cry, “I’m nothin’,” rings so deeply in my consciousness. My family’s need had me convinced I was nothing, a person who had no right to a life of her own or to her own wishes, wants, desires, choices. I had to be kept near and I had to be kept down or I might find out the whole truth and turn the entire apple cart. I was Papa Ben’s last precious gift, and my Mama meant—selfishly—to have me near at all times and forever. She couldn’t have, possibly, the love of her life, the one man with whom she had been completely sexually free and satisfied, the one thing stand-in father simply could not abide, and I was not to go away from her, especially not after he died. That I was still psychically connected to him during his passing probably ripped her up; it made the stand-in insane. He threatened my life and I had to flee.

But I do not fault my parents for this. If Jim Richards told my mother to go ahead, try it, you deserve to experiment, find out; and if my mother finally gave in to her young Black Southern girl’s curiosity and slept with an older white man who loved shirtless and shoeless and the sea; if she let her guard and all those Black Southern prohibitions down, letting him take her to new heights of pleasure she’d never imagined, how go back to high school sweetheart once she’d tasted nirvana? The secret nobody tells is that she broke the stand-in’s heart and he ruined her life in return.

The fiction I tell myself is that Papa Ben and my Mama talked about the reality of being together and knew it couldn’t be, or maybe he wasn’t brave enough or committed enough to settling down with Lessie B. Maybe they thought it would be too hard for me, a cute little Black girl in Hollywood (Papa Ben was a screenwriter). God, I must muster the courage to find the truth, to search Mama’s boxes and piece together what really happened; they could go together to the other side if I would go ahead and bust it loose. They don’t just want me in Jim’s arms, they want me to know and announce who I am and what frightens me, Father, is the massive amount of disbelief and incredulity waiting for me on the other side of that announcement. I want nothing more than to go in there and lay down and snore and sleep and rest my soul in “God’s room” as Melanie’s stepson calls it, but Papa Massey be in there and I can’t lay down in the same room with him. Now that I’ve healed him (shorthand God; you guided me in that work), we both feel the over-abundance of sexual energy we both toss out as a matter of our everyday living breathing existence.

And I’m tired, God, I’m tired of dreaming of Jim, I want his real arms around me but I can only force myself to wait, you’ve told me to wait, that he keeps running and sexual attractiveness so obvious now after the basil tea bath and the olive oil cream in my hair and the cocoa butter lotion on my skin sealing in the basil tea cleansing. I smelled of it all, basil and olive oil and cocoa butter, and the young girl of the writing program lost her mind and said “can we just go make out somewhere?” I had to tell her no, I belong to someone else and to myself I said, someone whose arms I haven’t even felt yet.

But I wait.

The compliment a nice one though and I treated her with special kindness after that. Always be delicate with those who love you whom you can’t love back. And I, wet between the legs ever since Papa Massey’s healing, ever since sitting and listening and hearing what he thought unspeakable unbearable; what he thought made him pariah outcast a horror, and I greet him with love, understanding, insights that showed him why he behaved the way he did and not in a way that would have put him first. Oh how the abused recognize each other! How grateful I am for the years of therapy and medication and truth telling and audiences and the 12-step rooms that gave me wisdom to share with him that will help him save himself!

I sat and listened and gave wise counsel, and all with Your lips tongue and breath, Father. It was You speaking and acting through me. He was rid of those three powerful dark and poisonous secrets, Father; I pulled them toward me, accepted them from his breath, cut the cords so he could be free and the secrets tumbled down my intestinal elevator shaft and at 6:30 a.m. I was awake and coughing and nauseous waving my last $10 and saying “24 hour pharmacy, Ipecac!” Knew I had to call Nana-Essi before doing anything. Called and she was going to be out, so laid down to rest and sleep as body was telling me to do. Don’t often listen to body, but with healing work it’s about taking it slow and the client.

Big Sis, when she got in, said absolutely not to the Ipecac; basil tea bath cleansing and then herb mint tea to drink. My silent inner voice rebelled: Mama wants to have a say, an input, and she recommends Ipecac. I all for Mama’s solution til I slowly pour that hot basil tea over my head, down my arms, down my chest, my back, and all over again. A gallon of tea so three times. I’d plugged the tub so ran new hot water over the collected basil tea at the bottom of the tub and sat down in it and oh my God healing yes cleansing yes soothing. I let the basil encircle, surround, de-pollute me with its secret medicinal curative powers. I listened to my inner self and knew it was time to get out when the water started to itch. Heard Nana-Essi’s voice just as clear telling me how long to boil the tea. Intuition can save your life if you let it!

And last, Father, I must tell of the Miracle of Norristown High School, the Miracle of Hallway 300. I had put in my application to substitute teach and realized months later as I continued to wait for clearances that this application was the one I was most excited about and why Niama when you’ve sworn up and down your whole life that you would never do K-12? That Parmeleee nearly killed your mother, certainly advanced her Alzheimer’s, and you’d seen your LAUSD friends buried in impossible loads of paperwork; how on earth could you be excited by K-12?

Yet you were. You thought those clearances would NEVER materialize. And when the second one did and you could finally set your foot in a classroom, oh my there you were, Thursday, 7 something a.m., walking down a hallway in a high school looking for your room. And suddenly it swept over you, this was high school and this, this was where you wanted and needed to be. The sweat the fear the tension the false bravado petty hatreds minor cliques and various fiefdoms, teacher and student. You belong here, every day, building hope self-esteem courage brilliance. You have to convince them that they have it all, have it all within, so they will risk trying and not quit before they begin, full of disdain, disregard and disrespect.

By day two you are hurting so bad for them you are at Mr. Krause’s door asking what do I do? How do I reach them? I don’t want to be known as the sub who can’t manage a classroom; what’s my shtick? What will keep them quiet and working and caring? It is not that I want, simply, to become She Who Must Be Obeyed; I want to ask for quiet and get it immediately. I want cooperation and compliance without argument.

Answer? They have to know I care. They have to know I am there for them. How do I do that in one day? Bring Louie Jones to play on CD player!

And lastly I must make room for this Scorpio of Papa Ben’s birthday. I must make room for her clutter and lateness and disregard for her guests’ needs. I must miss subbing Tuesday for the Monday night staff meeting. Given the birth date, I choose to make space for Ms. Melanie Warm Earth Mother Clutter Mistress for Rev. Massey clutters too and I know this all preparation for Dr. Jim Clutter, the 6’1” love of my life.

Sleep, girl; sleep, Rev. Massey gone now. Okay to go to bed. Okay to spread your wings of spirit and prepare the runway so all can fly …….

###

Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles--8

2008-02-14T14:51:00.000-08:00

Dr. Ni’s Notes & Nibbles--8

It is the New Year, and you are already worrying about the Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, holiday travel bills. Or perhaps you are again in your favorite chair, staring at a blank boob tube, wondering where you will be and with whom—if anyone—on the quintessential date night of the year: New Year’s Eve. Perhaps you have just thrown a dart at the picture of the new ex—girlfriend, boyfriend, spouse, life partner, soul mate—picture of said person placed on wall specifically for target practice.

Perhaps you are laying in the arms of the one you love, looking up into his or her eyes, and thanking your lucky stars that five years ago, you went on that blind date. Maybe your significant other is sleeping, and you are watching them breathe, one ear tuned toward the children’s room, or a parent’s room, and you are sending a prayer of thanks to whatever entity you believe in for protecting all currently under your roof.

Perhaps you have just buried the one you love, or lost them earlier this year, and you are wondering about the cruelties of that entity in which you believe, how they could take your loved one, where in heaven or hell is the justice in that. Perhaps this one moment is the only free one you have away from concerned relatives, friends, children who want to soothe you into feeling better when all you want to do is rage, rage at the loss, the absence, the hole permanently carved in your heart.

Whatever you are doing, know that the sun will rise tomorrow and 2008 will begin. First the sky will be inky dark, then somehow a lighter shade of thickest royal blue, then the slow transition to periwinkle, then turquoise, then aqua and then, then the glorious sun will peek across the horizon to see if you are up waiting for it. It hopes you welcome it with a smile; it likes to be received with warmth and expectation.

Some days you will not want to greet the sun. Some days you will hate that job for the umpteenth time and throw the clock across the room in disgust. Some days you will look at your life partner sleeping and think, what the hell am I doing here? Some days the children will come rushing down the hall to your bedroom and you will think how am I doing God? Did I screw them up irreparably yesterday? Will I do so today? You think this because you love them, and that kind of deep love always knows its companion, fear.

The video you are about to see is for those days, the days when you’d just rather not. Rather not live, rather not do, rather not see, rather not participate, thank you. This video is for that moment after you’ve screamed and the hits just keep right on coming and you’ve already sworn that was it, no more.

As you watch, think about these dancers, and the million and one ways in which they’ve been told no, it is impossible, you simply can’t.

And then watch. And believe.

Love and blessings of the season,
Dr. Ni

URL for the video: zehniyat.wmv

Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles--7

2008-02-14T14:46:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles--7, a gathering place of news, notes, words and wisdom bulldozing its way into your workday.

Where in the world is Dr. Ni tonight??? Join host Janet Elaine Smith of PIVTR and Star Publish with her special guest Dr. Niama Leslie Williams, author of seven books in seventeen months!

Ms. Smith is a marketing powerhouse whose skills in that arena include getting Borders and Barnes & Nobles to stock her self-published books at a time when both chains refused to support self-publishers.

"Dr. Ni," as she is fondly known, completed her doctorate in African American literature at Temple University in May 2006 and almost immediately found herself out of work. For the next 17 months she job hunted and wrote, completing 7 books, including three novels, three collections of poetry, her dissertation, and a forthcoming collection of essays, "Don't Keep No Secrets: A Black Woman Speaks Her Mind."

Tune in tonight, Monday, December 10th, at 8 p.m. via the PIVTR website: www.internetvoicesradio.com. Listen live and call in!

You may have asked “where in the world is Dr. Ni tonight?” because you realized, perhaps upon emailing her recently, that she has a new web home! Yes, gone are the days of CityMax and trying to figure things out with no phone support. Dr. Ni’s former website designer, the illustrious Cassendre Xavier, turned her on to Homestead.com, a wonderful group of people who understand that some techies have a phone jones. Homestead is this level of cool: when you call, a recording by the CEO OF THE COMPANY answers your call and AGREES WITH YOU ABOUT THE HORROR OF TELEPHONE TREES. You just can’t get any cooler than that.

The Help Center folks, especially Carlos, Chris and Jon, have been working constantly the past three weeks to make Dr. Ni happy, and you know an Aries woman likes nothing better than three different men catering to her every expressed desire. We are in the midst of moving the site from a Gold Package to a Storefront so that it will be easier to build on a Mac, and because Dr. Ni wants to be able to do audio and podcasts and have Paypal buttons (cause yall need to buy her books and participate in her workshops and such!). For those of you interested in link exchanges, hang tight; as soon as we work that out, Dr. Ni will be in touch.

For those of you creating your own ezines, take a gander at the ListInferno.com box on the homepage and on the “Contact Me” page; I’m trying ListInferno out to see how well and how fast it builds a list for me. It’s free and quite intriguing ……

Oh, and the URL for the new home? http://www.blowingupbarriers.com. Stop by and stay a spell!

Jumoke Dada, realtor and marketing specialist extraordinaire, sent me an announcement several weeks ago about the opening of his friend Flory Morisset’s art gallery in Olde City. Vivant Art Collection will be the only African American female-owned African/Haitian art gallery there. The gallery is located on 2nd Street between Market and Arch Streets. Please stop by if you can.

Florcy Morisset Jumoke Dada
Vivant Art Collection Realtor and Marketing Specialist
vivantartcollection@gmail.com jumokedada@hotmail.com

Next up we have Don McCauley’s severely wise words on self-publishing. I have been WAITING for SOMEONE to say this ……..

Re: Article on self-publishing ........
Sun Nov 25, 2007 6:26 am (PST)

I am getting ready to go on a rant now . . .

The downfall to self-publishing success (assuming you have written a book that is indeed marketable) is nearly always in the area of marketing skills (or the lack thereof).

In my previous life I worked in the field of corporate marketing and sales training. Our training program was considered to be one of the top sales and marketing training programs on the planet. We interviewed prospective salespeople somewhere around 7 times before the hire and then put them through an exhaustive 2-year (in the field and classroom) training program. Even with all of that due diligence and training, only about 5% of these trainees achieved success as we defined success.

The untrained and inexperienced self-published author is really up against it. BUT . . .

The advent of the Internet and electronic marketing has changed the entire ball game.

There are many really great American novels out there that no one will ever read. There are also tons of poorly written pieces of you-know-what that experience great sales success. Why is this?

It is, in a word, marketing. Period.

It is an unfortunate fact that the success or failure of a book does not stand upon great writing alone. Marketing skills are the key to the success (or failure) of any book. Again, period.

I know a person who makes 10's of thousands of dollars a month selling a book through Internet resources alone. The book is exactly 28 pages long. 28 pages! It is, in my opinion, poorly written. Yet, he sells thousands upon thousands of copies because he has something most of us do not have:

Marketing skills.

This person also enjoys first and second page placement on BOTH Google and Yahoo. How did he accomplish this?

Marketing skill.

How much does he spend on marketing to rake in 10's of thousands of dollars per month selling a 28-page book?

Exactly zero.

Can we learn something from this person? Indeed we can.

I learned long ago that there are many FREE and EFFECTIVE techniques one can use to build a massive publicity campaign for little or no money. Finding those effective resources takes times and a great deal of patience. But it can be done.

Learn to market effectively and it will matter not at all WHAT publishing methods you use. Pete you are absolutely correct - there is far too much hype out there. Cutting through it all can take years and a great deal of money. The purveyors of this garbage know this and are quite willing to take your money. The horror stories I've heard and experienced COULD fill a book and I just might write it someday.

If you have no capital you must work very hard. If you DO have capital you must still work very hard. If you learn to work SMART, capital does not matter.
You may pen anything you like and publish using whatever method you prefer. It will not matter unless you can convince others to buy and read your work. It can be 28 pages or 2800 pages. What DOES matter is learning to create that all-important buzz. No one is going to create that buzz for you. You must learn to do it yourself.

You will never sell a zillion books by being a great writer. You WILL sell a zillion books by being a great marketer. If you can somehow manage to combine the two, you will experience the success you seek.

There. I'm done ranting now.

Don McCauley ICM, MTC, CH
Top Ten Secrets To Getting Free Publicity
For Your Book
Free Publicity Focus Group
www.freepublicitygroup.com

I found this rather humorous quote—if one’s sense of humor bends toward the internal—as part of Wednesday, December 5th’s A Word A Day. I chuckled, knowing how extremely judgmental I can be, and passed it on to a few writing friends. Imagine my surprise when good friend and Aussie physician (I’m trying to get him to retire and write full-time) Dr. Ross Bills responded with these brilliantly wise words ….

date Dec 5, 2007 12:31 PM
subject Wednesday afternoon chuckle from A Word A Day .......

There are few things more disturbing than to find, in somebody we detest, a moral quality which seems to us demonstrably superior to anything we ourselves possess. It augurs not merely an unfairness on the part of creation, but a lack of artistic judgment. Sainthood is acceptable only in saints.
-----Pamela Hansford Johnson, poet and novelist (1912-1981)

date Dec 5, 2007 7:34 PM
subject Re: Wednesday afternoon chuckle from A Word A Day .......

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...

When we find sainthood other than in a saint I question the actions of the self-publicist firstly, but then my own prejudices. It is all too often often the latter at fault however, and we are too blind to realise that, or the good that sometimes resides in people.

Even the worst villains I have found to have admirable qualities of loyalty and kindness. (Sometimes camouflaged with inconsistency.)

In Freemasonry it is taught to "Judge with candour and admonish with friendship," in the Bible to "Judge not lest ye be judged," from popular lore, "People in glass houses should not throw stones," and from Indian lore "if you would know me first walk a mile in my moccasins."

All our cultures teach us not to seek the worst in people, indeed not to "Judge." I would observe that if you seek for evil, that you will surely find. Amongst the early Christians we find Saint Augustine of Hippo, who by all accounts was in his early days a womaniser and lecher before finding his way. There are many others among the Saints we might argue were less than saintly.

So I suggest that the disturbance felt and described by Ms. Johnson is a disturbance of our own souls, when confronted with the unanticipated need to judge ourselves and our own judgment of others. In short, we are disturbed because we suddenly found ourselves wanting in those qualities we ascribe to saints.

Far from being unfair, creation is demonstrating to us just how wonderful it truly is, in so far as it is able to compensate for the worst with judicious doses of the best.

True saintliness is enshrined in the act of conquering the basest of our natures to bring forth the goodness in ourselves. To say that there is no badness in a saint is like saying a hero feels no fear. Heroism too lies in conquering our fears, rising above them, not in ignoring them or accepting them. Dealing with PTSD as I do almost daily, I have found that the ability to be brave is a limited and finite strength, as perhaps is saintliness.

Ross

And without further ado, two pieces on two saints in my life …….

LOVE IN CHRIST JESUS, YOUR DAD, WILLIAM MASSEY
Niama Leslie Williams
Copyright March 2007

It is, in the end, always about fathering, isn’t it? That lap you were never allowed to sit on long enough, those tears you held back—at his request—the night of his leaving because you both knew two hearts were being flung against the wall to shatter and splinter, not just one.

You accepted his leaving, an obedient child, and you did not allow yourself to wonder why until middle-age threatened with its higher awarenesses and deeper sensitivities. Not even he understood the pain and shock and pure evil that would suck up the empty space his leaving created. He had no choice about leaving, at 45 you finally know that, but the abuse that took up residence, the abuse and the manipulation born of everyone’s, your brothers’, your mother’s horror at his leaving and staying gone; somehow he knew when he met the right woman she’d have to meet you and then for sure he’d know. He did. She did. The one fight they had as newlyweds when you were ten consisted of your new stepmother, with her own two daughters, yelling that he did not spend enough time with his youngest when she came over. You stare into middle-age and you know that was the instant she became your second, alternate mother.

And this is not about everyone’s grief becoming a horror, a weight because he and your mother had once been the talk of the town, the talk of their circle, the funniest and loudest, most enjoyable parties of their clan of friends always had the two of them at the center, each couple present happily trading off being the foci of attention. My brothers’ grief and anger, rage and sorrow over your leaving turned the balance of my formative years into a living minefield of a horror movie because my brothers old enough to remember those parties, remember you two in love.

Having no such memories, not one, I have looked in picture windows all of my life for unconditional love from a strong man. Because, first father, you were and remain, a strong man. I find strong men enticing appealing sexy. Neighbor Jim is a strong man. Vincent a strong man. The jury still out on Jim P., the psychiatrist. Larry K. a strong man. Dimino. Enrique. Ramzi.

There have been many and not a one has shared my bed. I have wanted and wished, but been unable to claim. They have wanted to be friends--loving, intense friends--but never lovers. A particular door within me I now realize was shut, cemented, with honey in the lock to make sure nothing got through or if it did, it would be messy!

Well, my consciousness reached in and adjusted the hinges on that door and now it swings to and fro, freely, widely, inviting. But this spiritual advisor, this living breathing asthmatic God Can (I can’t, God can) has walked into my life to sustain me with the appropriate foods until the right one, he whom God intended, finds me.

It is tough, grueling work, this spiritual advising. I often call at 2 a.m., often need him to drive miles upon miles to pick me up and take me marketing, and somehow he does all this asking nothing, accepting only the small gift in return, the shared meal (sometimes he pays), conversation. He says my words feed him; they percolate within me but I have no clue as to the list of ingredients or to the chemistry set that is his Biblical digestive system.

I only know that it was time to let him know who he was, who he is to me. I read, “Love in Christ Jesus, Your Dad” and I knew him instantly, knew where this piece was to begin.

He is my own personal John Travolta, my own archangel Michael, without wings or potbelly. He is neither slovenly nor slow; he moves with a speed, agility, and anxious relentlessness that frequently cranks his asthma up and sends him to bed. Yet underneath his clothing, surreptitiously wedded to his skin is an outfit, his Mighty Mouse uniform with membership certificate, card-sized, indicating his thorough study of how and when and why to save the day.

And you do, Rev. William Massey, you do. May God bless you and keep you til we are both back in our other realm, seated to the right of the throne, eatin’ peanuts, tossin’ the shells and doin’ some of everythin’, includin’ talkin’ out of turn, to God’s humorous delight.
Love and blessings,
Dr. Ni

THIS IS NOT HERO WORSHIP
809 words

It was that she smiled at me, and the way she smiled at me. A Mother Goose, it’s all right the bandage is on your knee now, you are such a beautiful young woman; it was a Sutter’s Formula Peanut Chews’ smile in the way that food can comfort you; it was a chocolate smile without the kiss of death this diabetic has learned to fear.

It was a good parent smile, wholesome and benevolent and good. June Cleaver didn’t give those types of smiles; neither did Donna Reed or Mrs. Brady. I think perhaps Florida could give this type of smile; yes, Florida, beaming at her son Michael, astonished and surprised and pleased at something unexpected he’d done. One of those full-teeth, only Esther Rolle could do them smiles.

The beauty, the power of the smile, its urgent energy, what makes it pack a wallop, is that I did something bad to earn it.

I bugged her. Called her incessantly three/four days out of a weekend, our weekend, Wednesday to the following Thursday. Called her with problems, with good news, with instructions. Called her so much I was convinced that I was bugging the shit out of her, that she wasn’t going to want to see my ass on Thursday at 2:30, our new time, that she had a lecture prepared about my abuse of phone privileges. When I was in the middle of the last message—number five? six?—and the machine cut me off, saying “memory full,” I knew the motherfucking jig was up. She was going to be gunnin for my ass but good.

So I was unprepared. For the smile. It rained on me like soap on Calvin when he’s seized the day, like ink on the most willing paper, like … like a mother should always look at a daughter.

I had to turn forty before I earned smiles like that, and even then I couldn’t enjoy them, didn’t remember them. The one smile I do remember was close, one of pure joy. I’d told her I was returning to finish my degree, and the smile was a potent one, full of peace, a moment of clarity amidst Alzheimer’s grip. She knew deeply and profoundly in that moment what my returning meant, and she was happy for me, relieved and happy.

But this, this was more powerful, perhaps because she is gone now and the bearer of this smile has replaced her as the eminent emotional woman in my life, at 66 and counting. She says, I am 66, loose and free. I’m easy. My mother, though 71, was never loose and free.

And I don’t know that this is about privilege: Black single mother of three, divorced, and married Jewish mother psychiatrist. I suspect married Jewish psychiatrist experienced hells of her own, multiple levels, as a female med student in the late ‘50s, early sixties. What did The Feminine Mystique mean to her, I wonder. Was it freedom, or did she come from an immigrant family in which all were expected to strive and work, even the girls?

The stories are so different: 1932 Black illegitimate daughter evil stepfather abuse began at six and med school in the fifties … I wonder what accounts for the peace I noticed right away, the air of solitude, serenity, comfort that pressed my shoulders down in relief?

The smile. 66. Free and easy. “It is alright if you call me,” she says; “it is perfectly alright. I see people during the day, but in the evenings I have my calls forwarded so I can be reached. So that I am available. You can call me anytime, as much as you like. People do.”

Carefully she says this, as though instructing a terrified child, and I am, I was in my way, terrified; not terrified exactly, but prepped for a blow.

Yet she says this, after the smile. That sunray, I was a three year old raised in darkness and now this, now this smile. She seems to know everything; she described that three year old so clearly I for the first time felt someone with me in that dark, someone I could trust.

I am a little embarrassed that a smile could mean so much.

But when you’ve spent your life believing/knowing somewhere inside that you were bad, wrong, about to be, deserved to be, in trouble (it was his idea, he was seven years older, but you know, you know you are bad); when you have lived your life in fear of the annihilation getting yelled at is, someone prefacing all that with a smile white and bright and blinding in its beneficence; well, such a smile causes one to think, to rethink, and for the first time, be gentle with one’s self. Causes one, hesitantly, to look in the mirror and smile back.
###
(Note: This piece also appears in the “Intervention” section of Dr. Ni’s first novel told in stories, THE JOURNEY. Check it out at http://stores.lulu.com/drni)

The funnies preceded by a tear-jerker this week, at least what I found to be the happiest tear-jerker I’ve run across in a long time. I will let the YouTube video speak for itself:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ek1iIOTsiRo&feature=related

Jason McElway--Basketball player--Rochester, NY

And on Comedy Central this week? Well let’s see ….. Major disappointment—they haven’t changed the rotation; it’s still the flute guy, the racist animals and the funny as hell ventriloquist. Heavy sigh ….. They’re still worth checking out though, til next time!

Love and blessings,

Dr. Ni
niamapers@gmail.com
http://www.blowingupbarriers.com