Good day folks.
For those who are unaware, I am also a website and graphic designer.
Below is my latest creation, a movie poster; my first.
I do not celebrate culture created holidays. None of them.
I celebrate each day, all 365 of them, and find ways to make them beautiful and special. If I desire to give someone a beautifully wrapped gift on any given day outside of a holiday or birthday, I will do so and have done so.
Why? Because I don’t need society’s prompts to tell me when to enjoy family, or show/express love to someone with a gift. As an example, I abhor Valentine’s Day because it shows me that it requires commercials and advertising and marketing for my loved one to remember me in tangible ways. They need the prompt of a day and millions of people following suite on that day to remember (or show) what i mean to them. I do not care what other women (or men) think about that day. It is an insult to ME and how I want to be loved and remembered.
I want to be loved on random days, when nothing special is happening except my lover remembering his love for me. Give me a gift wrapped present while we sit on the beach in our bathing suits. Or while I’m standing in the shower on any given day. Give me a gift wrapped present while I’m in the kitchen cooking, hands dirty, back tight from the work of mixing and kneading. And when I ask what it is for, tell me, simply, “Because you are beautiful inside.”
Remember me because you need to, not because someone told you to. Allow remembering me to become as natural as breathing.
Don’t buy me a diamond. They are cheap soul gifts. Everyone wants them because they’ve been told they are rare. I am far more rare than a diamond. See my unique worth, my soul worth, the worth without a price tag, but a soul tag. Buy me a Lemurian Seed crystal ring, or an Azurite ring, something no one else would think to do, because you see ME and that I deserve (need) something outside of the cultural norm. Or, even more precious than crystals, invite me for a walk through the park, simply because you want to hold a space with my energy, just us, sharing presence. Don’t follow the crowd, follow my heart. Find the authentic me in the midst of the social construct and reach me there. Why? Because I don’t want to be your Valentine. I want to be the woman you see, soul naked and true, wanting love, not things.
I am not a holiday. I am a person. My needs are not confined to 10 – 20 moments on a calendar, that calendar that so many flock to to find camaraderie and…love…family…connection. Some seek the calendar even to find themselves. I do not live there. Never will.
I am connected everyday, in every moment, and want to live that with people who see that my worth is outside of time; outside the confines of the contrivances of limited humans who believe a day on a calendar is what I’m worth.
So on this day, I will not say happy holidays, or merry anything. I don’t need to. I give love everyday. I show those whom I love their worth everyday. I wish people well 365 days of the year. Today is just another day for me, and like all others, it is a moment for love in all its forms. So today, I say, I love you. I loved you yesterday. I will love you tomorrow. And I hope two weeks from now you wrap a small gift for your lover, your friend or your child. Or spend a day with them, just because they deserve it.
Don’t allow a calendar to trap your love within the confines of a day. Love fiercely each day…and SHOW it.
Strong, sturdy hips receive hungry thrusts.
Authentic sex is not for the weak.
Fainting hearts are not welcome here.
Moans crescendo, vibrating leaves and rippling rivers.
Bodies transform, like werewolves under a hunter’s moon.
Two bodies cast a single shadow upon the leaves,
a single shadow spread eagle under star filled skies.
Animalistic echoes part the clouds and create light,
a bright light that gently cuts the night.
We are one shadow, one soul,
parting only after our sweat has watered the Earth.
Parting only after we have melted into ecstasy and are left there,
like puddles at our own feet.
Writing Prompt: Chaotic
Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.
The world seems to be spinning out of control. Chaotic systems that have us enslaved to ways of living and being that feel unnatural to me surround me daily; they back me into corners in my life and mind.
I see the beauty and potential peace in this world, but those in control of the various systems want to create and control toward chaos.
I am tired of it all. It seems to never end. I am leaving chaos behind, at least in my mind. It is what I can do, for now, to find peace.
If one day you desire to find me, don’t look for me here. Search for me in the quiet space, that place where only you and I can dwell. There will be no more hunger for my body but instead a hunger for my soul. There will be no more pretense, only naked and raw authenticity, our minds and secrets disrobed forever. In that moment I would become you and you would become me, and there would be no more hiding from each other, because we cannot hide from ourselves.
Flesh to mind, mind to flesh. Syncopating, melding into one mind, yet still shapeshifting between the objective and subjective, the singular and the plural; the me, the you, the us. Shapeshifting for survival.
No, don’t look for me here. Search for me in the quiet places, on the planet of my mind where only you and I can breathe and dwell; shapeshifting to exist.
I look back on my days in the United States Army and remember what so many of us women went through during basic training and AIT. Our basic training was during the height of the summer; we carried rucksacks and tall black weapons, wore black leather boots that initially were too heavy and camouflage uniforms too weighty and hot. These things bonded us. We were gassed together, and watched as snot and spit ran from every orifice. We realized in that moment that no matter our race, our bodies reacted the same. We were all sick and ugly that day, red-faced and lungs heavy.
The training made us strong, even when some of us wanted to be weak and retreat into femininity. I made it through and from there became a reservist. After three years I went on active duty, with my first duty station in West Germany. It was a wondrous experience; the people, the food, the culture, the technology, it was all superior to America in my young 21 year old eyes.
I was there when the Wall came down and the country unified. I watched as shoe-sized cars with suitcases stacked taller than most small businesses pass through, heading to meet long lost family, heading to meet almost forgotten friends, and many more heading to meet an unpredictable future and a new unexpected destiny. Some would decide not to leave; they were home, but now free. I witnessed it all in utter amazement; I was there for a world changing historical event.
I wanted to stay, but when my time was up, fear sent me back to America. By this time I had a four-month old baby girl in tow, born on the soil of West Germany.
I look back on my Army days and realize that the memories are bittersweet. I neither gush over the experience nor rail against it. The experience was what it was. I see the world through a different lens now. I am here.
Nineteen Eighty Six seems so long ago.
November, 11 2016
i collect beliefs and put them inside glass jars, rubber sealed and sometimes placed in the sun. i shake them to see if they will blend. some converge, others diverge. all are creations living inside us, changing us, moving us to imagine the seemingly unimaginable. each belief remembers its birth, others remember birthing nations; others remember death. i collect them all. they live in the many corners of my home and mind, atop shelves, inside cabinets, under beds and pillows, between books, beside memories, inside fears, under joys. still others remain in the sun or in dark basements. they wait for us. they remain.
Photo Challenge: Edge
I cannot sit. The edge is too near, too daunting. The cloth is stripped away as surely as my soul is stripped of the bravery to simply sit and let life unfold as it should.
I look over the edge of what would bring me rest and remember that life is in constant motion, never at rest; always wanting for atoms to collide and light to manifest.
I cannot sit. I must collide and birth the second self into existence. I must let the chair remind me of the edge of life, the space between rest and creation. I must not sit. I cannot.
One of my advisors a year ago encouraged me to write a memoir based on a writing prompt during one of our residency workshops. He was so enthralled by what I had written within the ten minutes given, he promptly shared his excitement with my previous advisor, who accosted me at our next workshop.
I have never thought about writing a memoir. Who the hell am I? I never imagined I had anything interesting to share. The writing prompt was meant to draw out a past memory, nothing more. But when he insisted that I consider the memoir after what I wrote, I began to toy with the idea.
Some of you have read the very short opening of my piece. The overall piece is now nearly 100 pages. For both those who have read the opening and those who have not, I’d be interested to know if you read what I’ve shared below (what I wrote during the workshop), would you be curious and want to read more?
Be honest. I have thick skin.
I was born beneath Cuba, across the waters of the West Indies on an island that lives and breathes Bob Marley. It was 1967. While papa, my grandfather, was mending the house he built with his bare hands, civil rights marches were happening in “foreign” the place the locals called America. As King, Jr. lay dead, murdered by the mindset of the majority, I learned to walk on hot stones. The light of a man went out. I was oblivious to this then. I lived in a place where electricity and running water and indoor plumbing didn’t reach us. The outhouse was dark at night. But my uncle would take me there sometimes. At other times the chimmy, as my grandmother called it, would be pulled out from under the bed, squatted over, then slid back filled with yellow waste that reminded us of our simple life.
I was small and grass blade thin but I remember the mangoes and jackfruit and star apples and ackee and ginepes and the flowers I used to make jewelry, little necklaces and bracelets, bright and red and beautiful. I want to remember the name of that flower, but time sends memories away to places we can’t find.
Writing Prompt: Elegant
Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.
The waters are not blue. They are the mirror for the royal skies that look down at an elegant white-blue swan reflecting off the mercurial lakes of a thousand lazy yesterdays. The swan glides across the time engorged waters, filled with stories of ancestral swans, regal, majestic. White feathers tinted to match the coming dusk and darkening waters. It rises above its own elegance. We are spellbound by the quiet and peace it exudes.
i want to tell you something.
i want you to know how sorry i am that i could not save you. maybe it was never my job. i don’t know. all i know is that i wanted to see you flourish in a world filled with people fighting their way toward extinction. i wanted to see you transform this place into the paradise you live inside your dreams.
i want you to know that the god inside you is immortal and waiting for you to see her. you won’t need a mirror when you decide to look her in the eyes. you will be seeing inside self.
i want to tell you something more.
we are one, and all our dreams meld into each other, folding over time and space until they are inseparable. our dreams un-begin and un-end atop and inside a circle. in this place, we are one. always.
My DNA has warned me that if I keep on with this nonsense about growing out my natural hair without locs, there will be hell to pay. I get death threat-like whispers from my cells that I need to restart my locs, or else.
This is a trying time, when the body actively participates in dictating aesthetics. And almost violently invading mind and soul to the point of unrest.
Like elephants, my cells’ memories are keen and strong. They want “their” locs back.
I no longer remember who I am, nor why I am. Inside this foreign skin I breathe. I inhale the world I’ve wished for in far away dreams and exhale the world I exist in, bedeviled by those who swim in blood red ego.
I am wanting yesterday, packed up to take with me into tomorrow. It is in that place ahead where I’ll find what I seek. I am wanting.