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Wednesday, January 21, 2009

No Oscar, Golden Globe, Nor An NAACP Joint, But A Noble Award Nonetheless!



Peep the emblem to the left. The lovely, most kind and mad industrious Miz Write has bestowed this award upon me. It's called The Helping Hand Award. I am very humbled, grateful, surprised and yes, elated to be in receipt of it. Whenever I’m told that something I’ve written or done has ‘inspired’ someone, it brings a smile and a certain peace to my spirit. I think maybe that’s a part of what we’re all here to do in some way or in some act we perform.

I’ve been blogging in various places for nearly five years, and in that time I have forged some incredible relationships and networks of support. It just feels good to know that you’ve touched someone, encouraged someone, reached them in a visceral place, or made them consider something positive and affirming in their own lives.

Since writing is probably what I do best (well, maybe second best) I’ve become proficient at reciting my interior and being that everyman who pretty much feels what everyone else feels, in certain degrees. I’m not a psychiatrist, not a Holy Man, nor a martyr. I’m just a very human being, and my shoulders have grown stronger from helping to lift and uplift others in my path. And you know what? I’m cool with that…so thankyaverrrmuch!


Anyway, the award reads as follows:


You are receiving this Emblem in recognition for your mentoring, support, and encouragement to a fellow blogger is no small fete! It is evidence that you have gone well beyond the call of duty by your continued efforts to "leave the pile higher than you found it"! It is further evidence that your blog(s)has been identified as the epitome of excellence and is certainly admired.

Only FIVE? *sigh* Decisions! Decisions! Aiight! Below are some bloggers who write from the heart and by doing so, they inspire me. This is my small way of saying THANK YOU for your inspiration:



Wandering Caravan

Free Spirit


D-Place


Broken Mannequin


Joaquin Carvel




Receiving the Emblem from a seasoned blogger (such as… ahem… myself!) is a testimony to you that you're on the right track, and that your voice is being heard and FELT. It gives credence that there are those out here in the blogsphere who recognize your potential even if you don't. Keep up the good work, and remember to "Pay it Forward".



As for the vets who have been in the game for longer than a minute and yet consistently provide a steady stream of much-needed inspiration, the award goes to:


Greeneyes


Kate


Carleen


Spice


Faith



A host of mad congrats to you all!!


The Rules:

1. Select 10 bloggers: 5 you consider your blogging Helping Hand then "Pay it Forward" by extending your "Helping Hand" to 5 additional bloggers in support and encouragement for their efforts.

2, In passing on the Emblem, each recipient must provide the name of blog or blog author with a link for others to visit. Each recipient must show the Emblem and put the name and link to the blog that has given it to her or him.

3. Link the Emblem to this post: Helping Hand: Much Obliged and Paying it Forward so that others will know it origin and impetus.

4. If you have not already done so, show your recipients some love by adding them to your blog roll, Technorati Favorite list, or in any other way to further let them know that their blog voice is important to you and being heard.

5. Add your name to The Helping Hand meme and don't forget to leave a comment as a permanent record of all Helping Hand recipients.

6. Display the rules.


Okay? A Warm and hearty congratulations to all the winners of this highly coveted and most prestigious award in blogdom!


Snatch JOY... by inspiring someone!


One.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Barack Becomes President Today... And The Feeling is EBULLIENT!

e·bul·lient ( -b l y nt, -b l -)
adj.
1. Zestfully enthusiastic. A boiling up or over; effervescence.
2. high spirit; exhilaration; exuberance.

Is anyone else feeling strangely hopeful today? There is a feeling of beauty all around on this January 20th. The whole world is witnessing a major zeitgeist, a powerful spirit of change. That we are alive to experience it and to grasp the full and historic significance of it is a truly a-once-in-a-lifetime Blessing.

“Ebullient” (along with exquisite) is one of my all-time favorite words. I like the way it feels on my tongue, how it churns and flows and uplifts my spirit. Today, I am truly ebullient. I believe much of America and the world feels the same way.


“We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal.”

I wonder how many of us truly believed in those words. This was always taught in my home by my parents. Yet when I opened the door and ventured into the world, there were always others determined to make me think and feel that it was all a lie. My skin-color, whether implied, or plainly stated, was something that in THEIR eyes, made me inferior. I was thought to be lesser than, believed to be not as good, not as worthy of honor, not as intelligent, and not as necessary in the world.

Yes, many of us were told that we could become anything; and that whatever we put our minds to, with hard work, determination and the Belief in God, anything was possible. But even when armed with this concept, even if it infiltrated our belief systems, we tended to place limitations upon our own potential. No one, not a soul ever once told ME that I could someday BE President. It was too large to imagine, too impossible to grasp.

Barack has transcended the myth of racial inferiority and brought forth this glorious and exquisitely hopeful new reality.


On Election Day, 2008, Obama, by his singular vision, by his sheer determination, by his character, his will and the will of the American people caused a revolution within the American mindset. He proved that, yes, little black and brown boys can indeed dream bigger, wider and greater, and not only dream but to make those dreams manifest. YES WE CAN!

Perhaps even greater than this, the people of this Country overcame their differences, their ignorances, their prejudices, their taboos, and their fears and they made the decision that HE was the RIGHT man for this awesome responsibility. They, the MAJORITY, chose him! Their hopes and faith and dreams were placed in HIM, Barack Obama, not his skin-tone, not his heritage, but his Manhood, his intellect, his vision, his character, and his 'audacity of hope' was just what this country needed in these turbulent times.

Having known my history in this country as a black man, only to witness just how far we’ve come, yes, today I am indeed ebullient.

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Somewhere I just know that my late father, my grandparents, and my ancestors (once kings and queens, and then American slaves) are equally filled with this radiant and most exquisite ebullience.




May The Creator Bless and watch over Barack Obama! May God Bless America and The World!

One.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Poem For The Marchers~ By L.M. Ross

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I marched
Because
My Freedom was
A bastardized entity.

Because...
A contemptuous America
Made a slaughter of
My dignity.
I marched because
My flesh
Had become
The food of rabid beasts.
I marched because
Men who looked
Like me
Hung on nooses…
Strung from poplar trees.


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I marched because
Injustice had become
The rule…
And I marched because
The Constitution
Had run out of
Excuses.

I marched
Because the klan carried
Crooked crosses,
And this country stood by
As we counted
Our losses.

I marched
Because my weary soul
Ached for the balm of
Righteous. I marched because
The swift boot of
Cruelty kept
Trampling upon
My spirit.

I marched because
A King
Whispered softly…
And my distressed
Humanity could
Hear it.

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I marched because
My worthiness was
Shunned. I marched because
A Change
Had to come.

I marched because
A man named
Martin came to
Realign my spine,
And re-ignited
My flame…
And I marched
For me, and
My ancestors,
In Freedom's name.


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I marched
And my flame
Sustained the jets
Of water hoses.
I marched
Against the fury of
Those voices
Screaming "NO!"

I marched and
I marched, because
The dictates of
Righteousness
Told me so…

Happy Birthday Dr. King... because of YOU, the flame grows Taller!


Snatch JOY with Freedom's Grip!




** It seems that mere days before Barack Obama takes the office of President of United States, a part of the dream for freedom and equality has finally been realized. Somewhere, I just know Martin must be smiling.



One Love.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

A Few "Sacred" Thoughts




One of the most talented and egregiously slept-on artists around is the lovely and profound Ms. Amel Larrieux. I dig most everything this beautiful sister has done over the course of the last decade or so. However, lately, I’ve been revisiting, what is, in my humble opinion, her most brilliant opus, the CD entitled ‘Bravebird.’ In particular, I’ve contemplated the meaning, the thought, the sound and vision in a song she did called “Sacred”.

The thing is, it’s one of those pieces of music that defines ART, because it makes me go all internal. It causes me to question the things I hold Truly Sacred. Here, I mean Sacred with a CAPITAL “S.”

Not to get all gushy-gooey sentimental, yet it occurs to me that some people don’t really hold very much Sacred anymore.

Yet, we've witnessed lives, homes, material possessions so quickly taken away in a blink of an eye, or in a hurricane’s destructive wind. Knowing that nothing is promised, and all things have a shelf-life, it’s best not to place too much emotional investment in something that doesn't contain a pulse, breath or a heartbeat.

But some people and some ideas and some internal qualities remain Sacred to me.


My family and my quirky and closest friends are Sacred to me.

Those who say they LOVE me, and who mean it with every fiber of their being, they are Sacred to me.

My ability to stretch and bend and see beyond my finite limitations... this is Sacred to me.

The memory of those I’ve loved and lost and who have left behind tender moments and lessons in their wake, this is forever Sacred to me.

Waking up each day without some horrible pain or chronic limitation, just waking up and breathing, this is Sacred to me.

The sound of music which uplifts my spirit, calms my rage, possesses the ability to hold my soul tethered to a most excellent note, this is Sacred to me.

The joy inherent within a child’s laughter, the assurance of their well-being, and the sensitivity inside their tears, this is Sacred to me.

The gift of creativity and the ability to muster strength in times of stress, this is Sacred to me.

Love of any kind that is enduring and true, and real and tangible, this is so damn Sacred to me.



Anyway... if you read this entry, and come up empty, vacant of anything you hold Sacred… then, whoever you are, and wherever you are, I’ll feel sorry for you.





One.

Thursday, January 8, 2009

Sometimes I Feel Like a Meaningless Scribe




Dear Diary:

I've decided to name this entry: Sometimes I Feel Like a Meaningless Scribe. Damn, I love that title! It’s loosely based upon the song “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child.” It’s a Jazz classic, covered by so many greats, though, for my money, Jimmy Scott does the most heart-wrenching version of it. But I digress.

Focus! Focus! Focus, damn it!

It’s been another one of THOSE days. You know, the usual shit: editors and agents of indifference, the terse impersonal rejection slips, people not feeling me… yanno, that usual shit.

No. I have no lingering questions inside my soul about whether I was born to be a writer. It’s one of the few things on this planet that I KNOW for sure. But my lingering question so often becomes: have I chosen the right medium?

Diary, I am a very private person, by nature. You know this. I am that quintessential Still Waters Run Deep kinda cat. Feelings come sweeping in like tides, swelling and rolling in massive waves inside me sometimes, and I tend to express them in a Universal way. That’s my style, my thing, I guess.

The other day my close friend K told me that I “don’t write about who I am."

To that, I said: "DAMN LIE!"

Maybe I don’t give a detailed accounting of all my emotional bowel movements, but everything I write is about WHO I am, or what I feel, or what I question. That's REAL! Everything I write is about what makes my heart beat faster, or gives me a chill, or breaks my face, or hurts my spirit, or fundamentally fulfills me. And truthfully, I don’t know any other way to be.


Still, Sometimes I Feel Like a Meaningless Scribe.

Nakedness from me makes some people uncomfortable.

Maybe those people are essentially prudes.

Honesty from me makes some people uneasy.

Maybe those people need to get real with themselves…


Sometimes I feel Like a Meaningless Scribe.


Dear Diary:


Guess what? I’ve been rejected again. It’s okay to mock me. I’ve been mocked before. Perhaps it’s Mocking Season. The thing is, I spend all this time writing, editing, rewriting, reediting, and trying my level best to create something that’s close to perfection. Not perfect. Writing is never perfect… but I aim for as close as I can humanly get. And then… I breeeeeeeathe... because I’m done, and breeeeeeeathing is so damn necessary.


I’ve prayed. I’ve purged. I’ve vented. It’s out of me!

Now, comes that hard part: putting a few choice words on paper in the form of a query letter that some invisible stranger will read and hopefully become intrigued enough to what to read more.

Why? Because a Voice, perhaps the whisper of a muse, or perhaps God’s Voice whispered to me, and I listened and I took these copious notes. I’ve slaved and spent night and day, endless hours upon the lonely stage my creativity, writing down what I see, and what I hear, and what I feel and what I think and what I dream. And I want to, and I need to, and I must share these things with the world. And I think, just maybe the world needs to read these things to better understand its own humanity. That’s it. That’s all.

Diary, today arrived with yet another rejection slip… and it feels as if they’ve flushed me, and my words, my thoughts, my dreams and my meaning down their cyber toilet, like a pile of worthless feces. I mean, WTF? Shame on them!

Diary, you KNOW, I’ll never be FELT in a letter that takes 30 seconds to read. I am not and have never been anyone’s fast-food writer. I’m an ARTIST, damn it! The Creator made me this way: all strange and odd and talented and beautiful and ugly and deep and joyous and sad and real... and human.

Diary, it saddens me that people choose not to spend enough *quality* time to FEEL me and absorb what I bring. They don’t bother to open the museum doors of my mind, or walk through the hallways and down the corridor of my heart. And few who do, they didn’t come to stay, to check the art, to hear the sounds, to read the text, or to smoke my verbal herb.

What is it about these words I write? Do they terrify? Does The Truth terrify? Then just maybe people need to be terrified.

Diary, if writing were cuisine, I offer soul food. Maybe for some, it’s hard to chew. Perhaps, for some, it’s an acquired taste. I’ve no doubt the flavor might leave a symphony on the tongue. But they’ve got to open their damn mouths (or their minds) and savor the shit.


Feel me? Of course, YOU do. That’s never been the prob.


Oh, Diary. Sometimes I feel like a Meaningless Scribe.

Or sometimes it seems people would like to make a scribe feel that way.

You see this rant is about Art and Craft and Time and Care and the Meaning of Writing… of penning something Real, from the soul… and it appears some agents and editors and people will never get it.

That’s sad to me. That’s fucking tragic, in fact. I think I’ll pray for those people.

See, I have no lingering question inside my soul of whether I was born to be a writer.

It’s one of the few things on this planet that I KNOW for sure. But so often my lingering question becomes, whether or not I’ve chosen the right medium. Today, Dear Diary, I find myself wondering if I'm preaching to the wrong choir.

*Ponders*


One.

Saturday, January 3, 2009

The Demise of a Place Called 'Journalspace'



Happy New Year!

I’m not so much into resolutions. Instead, I tend to make key promises to myself. This year I’ve made a vow to take nothing, absolutely NOTHING for granted.

To mirror this very fact, I just discovered the other day that Journalspace, a site I’d been blogging on for close to five years... is suddenly no more. Gone. POOF! Finished. Finis. Kaput.

Back the early days of my netdom, a young friend hipped me to the world of blogging. He sent me to his page on this strange new place, a website called Journalspace. I read his political rants and poetry, and I thought: This is kinda interesting… like keeping a diary, online. I’d always been a cat who narrated my thoughts on paper. This was no different— only I’d record my emotional terrain on a screen. Cool. So, I tried it. This was back in late March of 2004. It was a very freeing concept.

In about a month’s time Journalspace became MY SPOT, my hang, and my joint! Soon I was getting my blog on daily. It was my BOOM, and my BIP, my religion, my habit, my purge place, my safe space, and my literary jones. I’d write early in the morning and post my cries, my moans, my hollas, my groans, confounderations (I made that one up) my ponderations (that one too), my hilarities, and my celebrations on the regular. Mainly, I did this for me, to gain a sense of clarity and self-discipline. I treated it much like a job, a gig with a deadline, and I’ve always been a stickler for the all-mighty deadline. I didn’t write with an eye on entertaining anyone. I didn’t even have an audience, and this suited me fine. Gradually, folks rolled through and read me. This was a slow process, but a gratifying one, as people I didn’t know and had never met related to something I’d written. Such is the human experience. We are all more alike than we are different.


And still, I blogged.

My page was called One Moanman In Time. My tag, my nick, my personna there was "Bluemoaner." He was very much ME, amplified, poeting, prosing, ranting, riffing and such. When readers left a comment, I‘d go to their blogs, read them, see what was going on in their lives, and leave a comment as well. It was akin to meeting a new friend who lived on the other side of my screen. It was fascinating, educational, enlightening, heartwarming, and sometimes even harrowing and depressing.

I ‘met’ some interesting characters, some fantastic writers, some like-souls, some confessional poets, some not-so-desperate housewives, some prime connections and even a precious handful of people whom I now consider friends forever… or as long as forever lasts.

And still, I blogged.

Journalspace became my second crib, and the folks there, a second family. As time passed, I actually DID meet a few. We vibed in a most cool and uncommon way.

And still, I blogged. For nearly five YEARS!

If you think back on your life in the past five years you’re bound to have gone through some major changes emotionally, physically and spiritually. Think about it: people who started out alone are suddenly no longer alone. Some find love, some have their hearts broken, some find God, and some stop believing in Him. Some heal, some get married, some make babies, and some lose babies, some get divorced, and some suffer the demise of loved ones. In that time frame, kids start college and graduate, find new careers, settle down, and people grow in innumerable ways.

Five years. Half a decade. This too shall pass.


And Still, I Blogged.

Five years ago, I was a starving poet/artist/budding novelist with one book published, and a disappointing love life. In the time since, I’ve three books published, a small but loyal following, a promising love life, and have just finished another book, which, to date, has an uncertain future.


About a year-and-a-half ago, Journalspace (which was often problematic) suffered a major snafu and lost priceless entries, and thousands of comments made over the years. Many of those comments read like a story of how I became acquainted with my net-friends there, how those associations grew, prospered and bore new fruit. The loss of those exchanges signaled the beginning of the end for me. All things come to pass. Something changed. If blogging were a kind of marriage, that breakdown in communication would lead to our eventual separation.

Things transitioned. I spent less time reporting and narrating the events of my life. I had books to write, literature to create, and dedicated my energies in that direction. Afterward, when I took time out to write something new on Journalspace, only the most faithful few would stop by to read me. People have short attention spans. There was a lesson in this, too. It signaled that online, much like in real life, only a rare and priceless True Blues will care about you, and really treasure and honor your relationship.

Yet, to this very day, I still blog… and just as I did in the very beginning, I do so for me. I do it for clarity, for emotional purging. I do it to make sense of the world around me. I do it to explain me to ME. If no one reads it, it’s aiight. If no one comments, it’s all Kool and the Gang. Blogging isn’t always necessarily a shared concept.

I’ve lots of stories under my belt, a few life lessons, and load of new knowledge and stuff I didn’t possess before. Everyone’s got a story of how they made it, survived from point A to point B, and the journey of getting there is what makes us all unique.

And so the death of Journalspace feels strange to me.

People who didn’t save their entries have now perhaps lost them for good. Without warning… POOF! Their writing, their stories, their shared joys, their confessions and their cries have all disappeared into an uncaring cyber black hole. Journalspace has died a quick mercy-free death because there were apparently ghosts in the machine (the servers).

If you’re still reading this long-azz entry, there is actually a method to my madness. The lesson is this:

Save your entries! Backup your work! The net is not infallible. Things fall apart. If you’ve made a real connection through blogging, request that person(s) email so you’ll remain connected. Don’t allow your associations to dry up and die, simply because the gods of cyberspace failed you!

If you’re a serious blogger who records your life, your work, your cries, your whispers, your screams to the world, and the moderator of this or any other site loses your stuff, shame on them!

But if you fail to back it up so that you still have viable evidence of it, well then, shame on YOU!

And still, I’ll blog.



Take nothing for granted!

Happy New Year!



One.

Saturday, December 27, 2008

Ethereal Eartha

Some people attract your attention, even from an early age, because they are unique.

Eartha Kitt was a very, very unique presence.

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It could have been her features; a strange blend of African-American and Asian, with those feline eyes spread just a little too far apart. It could have been her lithe and sinewy body which seemed especially carved for the most delicious of sinful pleasures. Or it could have been that voice… a voice unlike any other... a voice like electric velvet with a tickle of French filtered through the throat of a Persian cat.


Early Eartha Memory:

As a child, I recall watching Merv Griffin several times when she was a guest. I wondered then: WHY is Eartha Kitt always crying and whimpering about her past? You’re a star now, woman! Get over it! But I was a kid. I didn’t quite get how the past still lives within us, how it can still infect us, especially when it was full of pain and rejection.

She persevered through an unhappy childhood as a mixed-race daughter of the South. She often spoke of being abused, neglected, unwanted because her 'yella gal' skin tone and because of how different she looked. She even wondered who her real parents were... because it seemed that no one really "wanted" her.

Well Hollywood wanted her, for a time. Hollywood was the perfect place for unique people. And in an era when women of color were relegated to roles of mammies and maids, Eartha Kitt (along with the beauteous Dorothy Dandridge) changed the perception of Black women by showing them to be sensuous, sexy, and yes, beautiful.


For a time she dated filmmaker Orson Welles, and it was he who proclaimed her to be "The World's Most Exciting Woman!"

High praise indeed, for a "Colored" woman... in Ike's America.

Her career would span six decades, from her start as a dancer with the famed Katherine Dunham troupe to cabarets and acting and singing on stage, in movies and on television. She had a hit recording with a sexy rendition of the song "Santa Baby."

She was cast as mysterious women and sizzling exotics in the 1950s. Later, she became a fiercer Catwoman than even the cat-like Julie Newmar in the Batman series. She was a puurrrrrfect choice. This was the role that I, and many from my generation would best associate with the name Eartha Kitt.

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But she was famous before and after wrecking havoc on Gotham City.


And then, being a self-possessed, outspoken woman with her own mind, she made headlines in the 1960s for denouncing the Vietnam War during a visit to the White House. Lady Bird Johnson was NOT amused! For Eartha, speaking the truth amounted to nothing short of career suicide. The Johnson administration saw to it that suddenly Eartha Kitt could find no more employment in this country. Shameful!

Hurt from this blatant blacklisting but still hungry to entertain, she left this country and headed to a more embracing Europe. She would make a spectacle of herself there. To their credit and good taste, those Europeans just loved them some Eartha Kitt!


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Through the years, Kitt remained a picture of vitality and elegance. She attracted fans less than half her age even as she neared 80. She died on Christmas Day at the age of 81.

The Kitt-woman is gone now, like so many legends before her. But the next time you see Halle Berry or Alicia Keyes, Mariah Carey or Faith Evans, Kelis or Jennifer Beals, Rosario Dawson or Victoria Rowell, Sade or Thandie Newton, Tamia or Paula Patton, Nicole Ari Parker or Mya, Corrine Bailey Rae or Leona Lewis emoting on the screen or singing on stages, it would be nice and fitting to remember Eartha Kitt… because without her contribution, the careers of those exotic bi-racial others may not have been possible.

Rest In Peace, Eartha!

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One.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Let Nothing You Dismay... An Urban Christmas Story ~ By L.M. Ross



(Based upon a True Event)
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There was once a young man who lived in a Big Bad City of Rich, Mean and Inconsequential things. This young man had a dream of being different, perhaps to one day even do something epic. This idea of achieving was long ago instilled in him by his grandmother when he was a very young boy. In the summers of his youth, he and his baby brother would stay at her small clapboard home in the south. There they'd share a swing, and the young man would sit for hours with his 'gran' those sunny summer afternoons on that large green swing. It was the most vital piece of furniture on her screened-in porch in Virginia.


It was there, one memorable afternoon, she’d tell him that out of all her many grandchildren (and she had close to 60, by then), out of every single one, this young boy sitting beside her was destined for "Great Things." But she had not told him what that Great Thing would be. Perhaps her eyes were clouded by the cataracts of old dreams and the vision outside them had grown hazy. Or perhaps she already knew and wanted him to realize it fully in his own time, and in his own ambitious skin.


As he grew older, the young man had fulfilled a part of that destiny she'd envisioned for him. When most of his friends were running the streets or rotting from the atrophy of urban youth, he’d somehow excelled in school, and soon became a student in college.


The young man worked very hard and most meticulously. While in a Modern Literature class, it was discovered he possessed a Special Gift. Perhaps this one gift was what his grandmother had long ago prophesied. It seemed he was developing into quite the writer. People, professors, pupils alike, not only enjoyed the things he wrote, they actually FELT the things he wrote. This was a magical gift, indeed.


And so as the years passed, he managed to finish school. Unfortunately, in his senior year, his beloved grandmother passed on.


This saddened him terribly, for now no matter how hard he worked, or what he would become, his grandmother could no longer see it. The young man began to question the time, the work, the effort of becoming someone epic.


Instead of fulfilling the hazy vision his elder loved one foresaw in him, he began to drift and loiter. With his grandmother gone and his college days done, the Country was gripped in the throes of a recession. There were no jobs that fit his particular skill, or held out hope for any real advancement.


The summer became autumn and autumn progressed into winter, and Christmas loomed ahead.


And there was this talented young man without a job, without hope nor the promising prospects of any employment.


He’d moved back into his parent’s home, and that alone became a setback that severely depressed his spirit.


Day after day he’d dress in his one blue suit, the same suit he’d worn to his grandmother’s funeral, and he’d head out on his quest to become one of the gainfully employed. But the doors continued to close and slam in his hopeful black face. The young man was now way beyond the point of utter despondency. More than this, he wondered how he would possibly manage to purchase Christmas gifts for his mother, his father and his younger brother.

The Holidays drew nearer.


Late one afternoon, as he and his one blue suit walked dejectedly down the avenue, he ran into an old friend. His old acquaintance appeared to be doing quite well. Though this friend had never finished high school, never considered college, never was driven or ambitious, he was now driving around town in a very fine car, and wearing the latest in expensive designer sportswear.


They spoke, and they joked, as they once had in their golden days. Being slightly amazed at his old friend’s fortune, the young man asked,


“So, what you been doing for yourself? I mean, look at you! You’re looking mighty successful, my friend.”


And that old friend informed him of his booming business in pharmaceuticals, and how, if he wanted, the young man too could be driving a nice new fly car, and sporting the latest in track suit finery.


This was his fork in that snowy wind-drift road. This could possibly be the answer to all his out-of-money-blues. Drugs and their sale were a thriving commodity within the community. There were other young men like him, who doing big things by dubious means, and he looked around, he had seen the glossy sheen of their notorious success. Now here was this friend from his past, offering him a ticket to the land of fast food urban riches. The young man was so ready to agree, to do what he had to do to finally, finally achieve and succeed.

Still, something like an old voice haunted him slowly.

And so, he told this friend he would THINK about it, and give him his answer the following day.


On this way home that snowy evening, he passed a group of carolers singing an old Christmas hymn:


“God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman,
Let nothing you dismay…
Remember, Christ, Our Savior Was Born on Christmas Day…
To Save Us All From Satan’s Power
When We Were Gone Astray…”



Odd that he would hear that song now. He recalled how that one carol was his grandmother’s favorite of all the Christmas songs. As he walked away and the caroler’s voices faded… another voice singing the very same song became LOUDER inside his ear, inside his head. It was his grandmother’s voice. Lovely and strident, so soulful and strong… and was if she were his own Christmas angel, singing him home.


The feeling of it made him warm inside, even on that frigid December day.


Later that very night, his grandmother revisited him in a dream.


In this dream: they were sitting together on that sunny summer Virginia porch swing. But instead of the usual warmth of memories past, the young man he felt a sense of cold emanating from her. When he looked closer, he could see his beloved ‘gran’ was crying.

“Why? Why are you crying, Gran?” the young man asked of her.

“Because, my grandchild is blocking his blessings,” she said.

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

And she told him, “Son, God has blessed you with everything you’ll ever need… and you keep ignoring those gifts. They are what make you special and rich inside, and you don’t even use them,” she cried.

“But it’s Christmas! I want to bless my family… and I can’t, Gran. Even with this so-called ‘gift’, I can’t!” he said in desperation.


“Oh? Really? Can’t you?” she asked.


And then she turned away from him. The young man held his head in his hands, and when he lifted his eyes, she was gone.


He awakened that Christmas Eve, still unsure of everything, except for one thing. He was going to say NO! The answer was, NO, to his friend’s offer of quick cash through dirty deeds.


And though that friend looked at him as if he were crazy, the young man said it. “No!”


On his way home again, strolling by those same carolers, singing that same song, he happened to look down in the snow, and he saw it. It was a brand new Cross pen. The gold inlay gleamed under the Holiday lights in a way that beckoned him. The gleam of it begged his knees to the ground. He picked up the pen as the carolers sang “Let Nothing You Dismay…”


He headed home with that shiny new utensil. That night, he sat at his desk, and as if by magic, the thoughts and the words and the sentiments began to pour out of that pen. They came out of some sacred place in him, like fresh spring water from a gushing well.


This would be his Christmas present to his family: Poetry. For each of them, a poem composed of the words he felt for them, each special, each uniquely beautiful, each heart-breakingly tender.


In the last lines of the poem he'd penned to his mother, he wrote…

“I wish I could purchase you a fine new mink
I wish I could lay the moon, there, at your feet…
I wish I wouldn’t cry as I write this poem
I wish I could prove how much I love you, mom.”



And so, on Christmas morning, he presented those gifts to his loved ones. Oddly enough, knowing his circumstance, each of them truly FELT the love implicit in his words. But his mother felt hers most especially.

She said through eyes full of tears, “How did you know, son? This is this best gift you could’ve possibly given me.”


He wanted to tell her that he saw it in a dream, about an old woman, sitting on a large green swing.

But instead he embraced his mother very tightly, and simply said, “Merry Christmas.”


* * * * * * * *

One Love.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

How To Succeed In Writing When Spike Lee Doesn't Call...




In the last few years, I’ve found myself answering this one question countless times:

“So, how do I get published?”

Seriously, without exaggeration, I must have answered this same question for 6 or 7 hungry-starving-struggling-artist-writer-poet-type people just within the last week. In each instance, I’d take time out of a busy day to explain it, in detail. Then, it finally dawned on me that maybe I needed write it all down, save it, and simply go back to the file whenever that question was broached again.

So, without further ado…hereitgo:

** First and foremost: Mad, MAD PROPS to YOU for dreaming, for writing, for seeing a world, for penning and winning and sticking to your goal, and most of all: for finishing what you started! That alone dictates an inner fire and a Real Passion for what you do.

You need to know, everyone’s journey will be different and there are no surefire ways, only some tried and true ones from each writer’s personal experience.

My situation dates back to poetry. While in high school, an English teacher first noticed I had a gift for writing. She submitted a poem of mine to a National student magazine, & BAM! There I was, 17, and a published poet. That part was easy.

But, the following years were anything but easy. And maybe they weren’t supposed to be. Each of us gets tested in various ways. Maybe this is to separate the walkers from the talkers. In college, I had published and polished professors tell me that I had "a Voice," and that I should really "get published."

Cool-cool. How lovely. How flattering! But no one, not a soul would volunteer the needed info on HOW I was to get published, where I should go, or what I had to do to make that happen. Was this some State Secret? Would it have killed them if they’d TOLD me how to go about it? Or if they told me, would they then have to kill me?

So, I kept writing, poetry mostly. But sometimes I’d get inspired by some life event and I’d create plays and songs and rambling monologues. I just kept writing, not knowing if any of it would ever see the light of publication. I was doing it for me. I was doing it to purge, to unleash, and to let my soul sing. And like any muscle, the more you work and exercise it, the stronger and more vital it becomes.

A small turning point came when I picked up an Essence Magazine, read the work contained in their poetry section and thought… hmmm… I can do that. So, dammit! I tried, and a month later received a beige business-size envelope from the Poetry Editor. Inside, I found a terse rejection slip.

*Pipe in the BUZZER SOUND: Annnnnnt!*

Oh damn! It hurt my feelings. For real. But I'd grown accustomed to having my feelings hurt. So I just pressed on. I still wanted to get my work inside the glossy pages of Essence Magazine. Folks asked: why… when it only paid $25.00?

Well, it had a circulation of over a million people. If a percentage of those people read my work, I would become known. Maybe the famous person on the cover would read it, and I too would become mad famous, and hip and cool, if by association.

Ok. Foolish! Major mistake in thinking! HUGE, in fact! No one needs to be writing if their only goal is to become famous. That was stupid. But so was I… well, at the very least, ignorant. Again, I had no one telling me, pointing me, advising or guiding me.

So, I issued this challenge to myself: I will BE in Essence Magazine before the year is done. I went so far as to visualize my words, and more importantly my name in the same print and the same font as the other writers they featured. I stared at that page for the longest time until I could actually SEE it.

And then, I sent them four more poems.

One month later, another long business-sized beige envelope arrived. But this one felt different. It was slightly heavier than that previous one. I took a deep breath and I opened it.

A typewritten letter with my name in the heading was followed by the beautiful word: Congratulations!

I’d made it. My work was to appear in the shiny pages of Essence magazine! THANK YOU ANGELA KINAMORE, Poetry Editor!

I was hyped, yo. I was so mad happy. I was high. Dammit! I’d arrived, yo!

Spike Lee and his sister Joie graced the cover of the issue in which my work appeared. I received two copies and a check for 25 beans.

I was beside myself. I told most everyone I knew. It was my calling card. Even to perfect strangers, it became my M.O. to say: “Have you seen this month’s edition of Essence? Well, I’m in it.”

I was living the dream, bay-bay! For a whole month, I was living, gloating and just-a floating on Cloud Nine. Besides, all that… maybe, just maybe SPIKE would see it, read it, and dammit, maybe we’d be like riffin' and dialoguing, spitting and co-hittin' , and maybe even co-writing screenplays for his joints together.

Hey. I mighta been published, but I remained very much an ignorant Brotha.

Spike never called, yo.

Time passed, and Essence would later accept yet another piece. Coolness! Cha-Ching! Another 25! Now I could finally buy that island in Tahiti!

But in between, it was a very dry season. I mean drrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiier than the Gobi desert in my writing life. No one else was biting.

It was with the help of a WRITERS MARKET, and then POETS MARKET, NOVEL & SHORT STORY MARKET reference books that I found other places actively seeking the kind of work I offered. I submitted to those places, and was lucky & Blessed enough to have a lot of it accepted. BUT even though my work has appeared in over 200 places, I must have submitted to over a THOUSAND more places where it was NOT accepted. The lesson there is to never stop at rejection and to just keep plugging. Let rejection FEED you… NOT fade you!

So, if you want to get your name out there, start out small... make baby steps, like poetry and short stories or excerpts from your novels or works-in-progress, simply because publishers like shorter work, as it saves them time and, yes, money.

HOWEVER, if you get yourself a NOVEL/ SHORT STORY MARKET, you'll save so much time and needless frustration. That book is the Bible for any budding novelist. WHY? Well because it lists thousands of people, places, publications, addresses, editors, when and how to submit, and how NOT to submit, what they’re looking for, when to expect a reply, and what they pay. It also has sections for each kind of writing under the sun: childrens, black, feminist, romance, sci-fi, gay, lesbian, mystery, adventure, technical, erotica, comedy, experimental, etc. So you can find a niche and discover the many places that seek exactly what you have to offer. Feel me?

You can find the books at most public libraries. But your best bet would be to invest the 30 bucks, and purchase the mofo, so you'll have it at your reach. It would truly behoove you to check it out, because it’s also full of valuable ideas, help tips on sharpening your ms.... and making it more salable. There are even agents, resources and contests, oh my!

The story of how I got published is simply one of diligence, hard work, and never giving up. I kept submitting EVERYWHERE. Finally, it paid off.

As I mentioned earlier, everyone's journey is different. But the one thing most people have in common is a love for what they do.

So, if YOU have a need to do it, possess a passion that doesn't die with rejection slips, if you’re not doing it to get rich and famous but have a purpose, something REAL and important to say, and if you possess the Balls and Bravery it takes to SUBMIT your work, you WILL eventually get published. It's your fate.

The rest is finding the RIGHT place, the right fit, & the right hands to place your work into.

So, GET the Writers Market Book, whether for POETRY, SCREENWRITING, or NOVELS & SHORT STORIES. Study those mofos! Find your markets, & then dammit submit your work!

That's it.

Unlike so many other selfish, insecure, spirit-poor writers, I actually WANT to see YOU succeed! If writing and getting published is really your dream, your passion, then by all means, go for it! Talent helps, but determination and *support* provides a Giant push forward.

When one of us wins, we ALL win!

Feel me?

I wish you many Blessings in your endeavors.

Keep Writing! Keep Fighting!

One.

Lin

Monday, December 1, 2008

Poem For World AIDS Day




As a teen,
Faces I thought I'd see
Clear into gray senility
Became
Withering shadows
Aged by
Antique memories

The bodies of
Young gods
With vital dreams
In their eyes were
Toppled from their pedestals as
An ill wind blew inside…

This urban wasteland.

And I carry them with me
Like songs inside my chest.
So hard to sing them now
Through these screams of my
Unrest.

Tears fall in silent
Howls
For tens of thousands of
Names forming
A quilt
Stitched
From flesh
Bone
And broken
Hearts turned
Painfully into
Art…

Inside this country's guilty
Wasteland.

And an ocean
In between us
Orphaned
Children will die today
Having seen their
Aching fathers,
Having watched their
African mothers
Quickly fade away.

Seemed no one cared
To warn them of
The terrible price to pay
Inside this global wasteland...


And I think of J,
I think of Jett,
I think of Kim, Cunning and Cliff.
I think of Deb and Mike and Wilson and
The list has grown so long,
I almost lose my breath…

I think of smiles we've lost
And dreams we've tossed
Like old sneakers to the air
Dangling now from power-lines
Above streets everywhere…

Our memories broken
Like needles in the rain
We spray-tag their names into
Physical graffiti
So a part of them
Always remains
Here…

In this urban wasteland.


Today,
On this World
AIDS Awareness Day
I remember,
I reflect,
I ponder,
And I don't quite get it

Nor

Understand
How 33 million
Souls can be
Infected…
How some
New fools
Still refuse to heed
The Lesson:

How needles never
Gave a shit about
Friend or family…
How sex without

Protection

Can easily
Flip the script
On the most beautiful-est
Men, Women
And children,
And turn them
Into:

A reference
A STATISTIC
A half-life
A past-tense
A sad poetry
Of skeletons…

Here, in this HIV wasteland.


One.